If you’re reading this, I must be dead. I wonder if he killed me.
(Haha, I always wanted to type that.)
So I’m either dead, or my dad’s hacked my account. Either way, I have to ask for a favor because I’m in no position to keep going. Can you help me out?
I pause, touching the screen, because this is so Morgan. The humor and arrogance don’t conceal the warmth she was capable of. Though people didn’t always understand her, nobody ever had a more loyal friend. I remember the time she staged a one-person protest because I was accused of cheating on a science test; the crib sheet belonged to someone else but the teacher found it on the floor near my desk. She picketed outside the principal’s office until they called her dad, and when that didn’t work, she went after the jerk who was letting me take the fall.
“Absolutely,” I tell the message from beyond, and keep reading.
So, at this point, I’m assuming you said yes. If it’s Liv, you definitely did. (I hope it’s Liv.) Unless it’s my dad reading this. In which case, sorry for disappointing you, but I guess you need to know that your buddy Jack is a pervert. I kinda hope I’m not around to deal with the fallout, is that wrong? Anyway. Here’s some background in case it’s not my dad because you don’t know the deal, random stranger. Or Liv.
Actually, I’ll just go forward with the belief it’s you. Somehow I’m sure it will be; you’re the only person who never let me down.
Oh, God. Tears spill over because I never knew she felt that way, and now I can’t say that she was that person for me, too. It’s too late; the door between us has closed, and Morgan’s gone where I can’t follow.
There are a lot of things I couldn’t tell you, and I’m sorry about that. I didn’t think you’d understand; I suspected you’d try to stop me. Even now, I can hear you saying, “What the hell are you thinking? Life isn’t a Scooby Doo episode where teenagers catch villains who go to jail whimpering, ‘And I would’ve gotten away with it if not for you meddling kids.’ You’re going to get hurt.”
She’s not wrong. The tears fall faster and I bow my head. She knew me so well.
But some things are worth the pain. You don’t know this about me, but I dream sometimes. About my mother.
I’m getting ahead of myself, though.
My mother’s name was Lucy Ellis. In high school and college, she worked as a model. There are old pictures in the document, examples of how pretty Lucy Ellis-Frost was, not that I need the illustration. I’ve seen their old family albums. Morgan gets her looks mostly from her mom, as Creepy Jack observed earlier. I’m sure you didn’t know this, but … she dated Jack Patterson first. There’s even a shot of them together, dressed in ’80s formal wear.
“Wait, what?” I gape at the computer.
That adds another layer of awful to what he’s doing with Morgan, gives it the flavor of obsession. Suddenly, the room is heavy with perfume, though I haven’t sprayed anything. It’s a bright smell, but a little cloying, too, citrus and flowers. Glancing around, I see the door is still shut. Why…? After a minute, the scent fades, leaving me mystified.
She broke up with him her sophomore year of college, and within six months, she was engaged to my dad, who wasn’t rich or well-known, then. But Jack kept hanging around. He made friends with Randall Frost. Don’t you think that’s weird?
“More than a little,” I mutter.
Most people are eager to put a failed relationship behind them. Seeing the person who broke your heart all the time … how can you get over it?
I keep reading.
Me, too. And when I was little, I didn’t question what happened. But the older I got, the more I wondered. I mean, it was a sunny day. There was no traffic. She had no drugs or alcohol in her system. So why the hell did my mother drive her car into a tree? Dad said she must’ve swerved to avoid an animal in the road because that’s just how Mom was. She couldn’t even kill spiders, so of course she wouldn’t squish an adorable squirrel. Right?
But relatives whispered “she had a history of depression, so maybe…” and then my dad would rush them out of the room. I was old enough to realize they wondered if it was suicide. My dad got so angry. “It was just bad timing. An accident.”
Nothing about it makes sense. So I started digging. I know for a fact that on the day my mother died, she met Jack Patterson. After so long, the restaurant owner barely remembered their faces, so I don’t know what they talked about … and I’m aware that this isn’t proof. But I know in my gut that he killed her. If he didn’t, he’s the reason she died.
But now my progress is halted. Or I’ve been stopped, I don’t know. You’ll say I should’ve left this job to people more qualified, right? But they’ll just think I’m crazy, unable to accept that sometimes people just die and there’s no good reason.
I can’t stop crying, because Morgan is more on point than she could’ve imagined. She wanted answers about her mother’s death, and there’s an eerie sort of parallel here. Maybe I need to solve Morgan’s mystery in order to understand why I got to live when she died.
Anyway, I’m begging you to complete my work. In the folder marked JP, you’ll find everything I’ve uncovered about Jack Patterson. Please don’t let him get away with it. (I swear to God, Liv, I will haunt you if you refuse. Every chill on your spine, every shadow in the corner of your eye, that’ll be me.)
I laugh shakily because this situation is far beyond what Morgan could’ve predicted and she’s trying to pressure me from beyond the grave. Sighing, I skim the last part:
You can trust Clay. Don’t tell anyone else. Good luck, I’m counting on you.
That’s it. Morgan seriously thinks that Creepy Jack murdered her mother? Or had her killed, maybe. And what did she mean by “You can trust Clay”? Maybe with this message, but … that would be in the case it’s Liv reading this message. It doesn’t make sense to go to Clay with a message I allegedly wrote. Picturing that conversation gives me a headache.
So Clay, I found this on my Cloud Drive. Odd, right? I know it seems like I wrote it but let me lay a little more difficult shit on you. I’m not Morgan.
My mind is whirling; there’s no way I can process anything else tonight. Like a zombie I trudge to the en-suite bathroom and wash off my makeup. Sleep seems impossible but my body has other ideas.
In the morning I face another exciting round of Let’s Pretend to be Morgan. Mr. Frost is long gone when I go downstairs and Flint is waiting to drive me to school. This is getting old. It makes me angry to be delegated like this, and he’s not even my dad, so how did Morgan feel?
Flint is too polite to show impatience, but I’ve kept him waiting for fifteen minutes by the time I come outside. I’m starting to understand why Morgan liked being a pain in the ass. It feels like I’m the one in charge, even if I’m not. I mean, I’m not allowed to drive but I can decide when we leave.
“Morning,” Flint says.
I look out the window. Intellectually I know my bad mood isn’t his fault but shit just keeps piling up. How am I supposed to prove that something went terribly wrong ten years ago when the cops didn’t detect foul play? Plus, today, I’ll see Nathan at school, and I know him well enough to understand that it’ll be awful at best. He now thinks I’m the kind of girl who’d cheat on her boyfriend with his own brother.
Flint doesn’t speak again until I’m leaving. “Have a nice day.”
“You too,” I mumble because my actual mother is stirring in my conscience, waving a wooden spoon and intoning, I didn’t raise you to act this way, Olivia.
On my way to Morgan’s locker, I spot three different girls rocking some variation of the outfit I had on yesterday. I’ve changed gears, so today I have on a poppy print sundress and red sandals. I pretend not to notice the whispers.
“Look, she doesn’t even seem upset.”
“She’s so cold,” the other girl agrees. “I’m glad you’re my best friend.”
I’m bulletproof glass, I tell myself. The words bounce off. These assholes never knew Morgan, so they don’t realize that when she cries, she does it alone. Poise is her armor, impenetrable as steel. And now I have to be the same.