Page 97 of Poison Wood
“Do either of you know if any girls were pregnant while we were at Poison Wood?”
“Oh my God,” Kat’s voice sounds truly surprised. “No way.”
I set my coffee mug on the table. “I think it’s a possibility.”
Summer says, “Anything is a possibility when it comes to that school.”
I push my chair back and stand. “Do you know something, Summer?”
There’s a short silence; then she says, “Maybe.”
“What?” Kat says as I walk to the kitchen sink. “You know someone who was pregnant?”
“I said maybe,” Summer says.
I pour the rest of my coffee down the sink. “Who?”
“Lisbeth Warrington.”
“Are you kidding me?” Kat says. “Who would have sex withher?”
My coffee threatens to come back up.
“Oh my God, Kat.”
“How do you know that, Summer?” I say.
Summer’s voice is so low I can barely hear her response. “I overheard her crying right before Halloween, saying she had to get rid of it. That if her parents found out, they’d kill her. I assumed that’s why, you know, she jumped.”
I run my hand through my hair. “Did you tell the police this back then?”
“No,” Summer says. “I didn’t even tell y’all. I didn’t tell anyone. I was ... freaked out about the whole thing.”
I rinse my coffee mug in the sink and set it aside. This day is starting with a bang.
“Do you know anything about what happened to Heather in Florida?” Kat says, bringing us back to the present.
“It’s being called a homicide,” I say. “That’s all I know.”
My phone buzzes with another call, but I ignore it.
“I don’t like Johnny being out,” Summer says. “He still feels dangerous to me.”
“He looks dangerous.”
Kat’s not wrong. I think about him coming close to hitting me with that SUV. “Yes, he does.”
“But Johnny didn’t kill Heather,” Summer says. “He was still in prison.”
“He could have had someone kill her,” Kat says.
“Maybe.” I study the sheets of rain falling on the front driveway. “But I’ve seen a lot of crimes over the years, and statistics say it’s someone Laura ... Heather knew. Usually a boyfriend or husband.”
The wordhusbandbrings an image of Marshall Sanders and his daughter to mind, and with that visual comes the one of the letter in Johnny’s mailbox with the P.O. Box and the Miami postmark. GWC. Grey Wolf Capital. Why hadn’t that clicked sooner?
“Hang on,” I say. I open my browser and search for the Grey Wolf website. It’s glossy and pretentious and screams money. I click the portfolio tab and don’t see anything that indicates they have holdings in Louisiana.
“Rita?” Kat says.
