In Case I Go Missing

Chapter 1
The Engagement Party
DEPOSITION DRAFT 1: Allen v. the State of South Dakota
I, Fenris Jane Allen, swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me ­God . . .
Oh, who am I kidding? There’s no point in writing it this way. I don’t know the legal jargon and all I’m going to do is confuse myself more.
The truth is, there are three things you need to know. The first is that the shared brownie in third grade created an inseparable bond between Sarah, Sam, and me. The second is that our investigation into Manny Mason unleashed our astonishing capacity for trouble, which grew with each passing year. And the ­third . . . The third is that I should have been with Sarah that night. If I had, maybe I wouldn’t be writing these words now.
The story contained in these pages is honest, complex, and, ultimately, tragic. It involves several bottles of orange spray paint, a missing girl, and a church that time forgot. It brings together eight people accused of the same murder, a town conspiracy, and a ­decades-​­old unsolved mystery.
This is not a happy story. It will not have a happy ending. This is my first and only warning.
My name is Fenny Allen, and this is my confession.
It was four thirty on a Sunday afternoon, and I was completely and utterly over it. It wasn’t because it was my fifth shift at Rivera’s Bakery that week. Or because I had poured half a bag of flour down my shirt. Or even because I had to remake over two hundred cupcakes for a ­two-​­year-​­old’s birthday party because they were “the wrong shade of pink.”
No. It was because Sam didn’t know how to let things go.
“Fenny, I’m serious,” Sam said to the back of my head as I boxed up the last cupcakes. “You can’t keep avoiding me! You promised you would come to this party weeks ago. C’mon, you know what tonight means to me!”
I slapped a piece of tape on the side of the cupcake box and glared when the cardboard edge popped up.
“I’ll do the project for both of you if that’s what it takes. Just tell me what book it’s on and I’ll write the report.”
I ripped off another, longer piece of tape and wrapped it around the bottom. The side popped up again less than two seconds later.
“Do you need me to beg? Because I’ll do it. I’ll get down on my hands and knees right now if that means you’ll pick up the phone and call her! You two are best friends!”
That was it. I ripped off a piece of tape as long as my arm and ­bear-​­hugged the box as I looped it around the cardboard, over and over, until the tape covered most of the purple surface. I took a step back, waiting, but it held. Then I blew a lock of hair out of my face and turned to Sam.
Little Sammy from room 3B had grown up since our elementary school days. He’d hit a growth spurt when he turned sixteen last year and now hovered at least a head taller than me. Between his height, the gangly limbs that he still hadn’t adjusted to, and his uncontrolled mess of hair, he looked like one of those inflatable tube men outside of car washes.
“Sam, if I call Sarah, the only thing I’m telling her is where to shove it. And if you don’t get out of here, I’m going to tell you the same thing.” I wiped my hands on my apron. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the apple strudel is burning.”
“But—” The rest of his sentence was cut short by the swinging door as I walked into the break room. I immediately twisted to my left, narrowly avoiding the poorly placed staircase that led to the upper level where my boss, Roberta Rivera, lived.
Most of the bakery had these odd additions: Our ovens were built into the remnants of an old fireplace, there were no less than three “front doors” that had been boarded up (including one that led into the refrigerator), and I was fairly sure our tables had been made from ­torn-​­down walls. Perks of a small town: You worked with what you had.
Roberta was sitting at the table beside the stairs and raised her eyebrows as she marked something on her bills. She didn’t mention my unsanctioned break, but considering I had worked at Rivera’s Bakery for over a year, she was used to my rather erratic job performance.
“I didn’t know we started selling apple strudel.”
I pulled out a Coke from the mini fridge, popped the top, and slumped down at the table beside her. “I’m hoping if I’m back here long enough, he’ll just leave. He sent me over eighty texts today alone. He doesn’t get that I’m not calling Sarah this time.” Roberta hummed noncommittally.
“I mean it,” I continued. “This is the fourth time she’s bailed on me, and our English project still isn’t done. I’m not killing myself to do all the work three days before it’s due.”
These days, it felt like we were always fighting. About how Sarah skipped out on plans, like our annual New Year’s Eve party, or didn’t return my texts, or kept in touch with her shitty ex‑boyfriend. We would argue and I would end up apologizing instead of her. Not this time. I was done.
Sam didn’t get that our fight wasn’t about the project. It was about the message Sarah was sending. We weren’t her priorities anymore.
Roberta finally looked up from her bills. Bright purple glasses clung to the tip of her nose, threatening to slip free. Her dark skin was just starting to crease, and she constantly fiddled with her hands when she was distracted. It meant her pen kept a steady, tapping rhythm, even though she had stopped writing.
“Fenny,” she said in that tone I hated. Not even my mother could make me feel so much guilt in a single word. “Sam isn’t at fault here. So why are you punishing him?”
“Because he always has to play peacemaker and I’m sick of making peace when I’m not wrong.” I took another sip of my Coke. “Believe me, he’ll be just as pissed when she doesn’t show up to his brother’s engagement party tonight.”
“You don’t know she won’t. Besides, is it so wrong to want your best friends to get along?” She glanced over at the door. Through the glass window, I saw Sam’s lengthy shadow pacing across the bakery floor. “You’re not the only one Sarah is hurting.”
Her dark eyes were gentle, but they made me squirm. She was right. I wasn’t the only one that Sarah had been avoiding, and with Sam’s brother back in town, could I really blame Sam for pushing us to get along?
I left my Coke sitting on the table, ignoring the way Roberta smiled to herself as I walked back into the bakery.
Sam was still pacing, his long limbs flexing like a nervous colt with every step, but he raised an eyebrow when he saw me. “How’s the apple strudel?”
I leaned my elbows across the counter, as close to Sam as I could get without crossing the glass. “I’m not calling Sarah. You know why. So please, please, let it go.” Sam glanced down, sufficiently cowed. Before I knew what I was doing, I pulled out a brownie from the display case and tucked it into his hand.
“On the house.” I exhaled. “I’ll see you tonight, okay? If Sarah doesn’t show ­up . . . we’ll deal with it then.”
Sam held the brownie in his hand like a tiny, precious thing. To him, it was. Brownies had always been a reminder of our friendship, so he knew what it meant. An apology. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased. “Till tonight, then.”
The doorbell jangled as he left. I slumped across the counter and wished I could blame the churning feeling in my gut on too much Coke.
Behind me, the cupcake box popped open again.
Sam’s family had always been complicated. His ­great-​­great-​­grandfather, Daniel Kelly, was an old money banker from the East Coast and the original founder of Richmand. As the story goes, a New York City psychic told Daniel Kelly that the empty, barren plot of land that would one day become Richmand was richer in gold than California. So Daniel packed up his wife, his two sons, and four dozen miners, before setting off to find a fortune.
Spoiler alert: There was no gold. Just a few flecks in the river and a healthy helping of disappointment. By the time Daniel came to terms with his failure, he had lived in Richmand for a decade and most of his money had dried up. He couldn’t afford to leave. Over the years, more settlers moved to the area, and Richmand became a tiny blot on the map.
The town was named after him. According to our ­half-​­broken welcome sign and the rarely used historical society informational packets, the miners used to call Daniel “Rich Man D.” That nickname later blurred together to create Richmand.
A decade after “Rich Man D” died, both of his sons married wealthy girls from out of state, and then their sons married wealthy girls, and, well, it turned out there was more truth to the “gold digger” narrative than Daniel Kelly liked to believe.
I smelled cigar smoke long before I saw the house. Crackling music cut through the air, and wisps of smoke trailed from the back patio, leaving a gray haze that would take at least three washes to get out of my clothes.
Dozens of cars flooded the driveway, the vehicles ranging from beat‑up trucks to Mayor Cho’s Porsche. It looked like the entire town had turned up for the engagement party of Richmand’s former golden boy, Brian Kelly.
Except for Sarah. Her old white Jeep wasn’t in the driveway. She had abandoned Sam and me without a word, again. On the one night we needed her most, she couldn’t be bothered to show up.
I swallowed my anger as I walked up to the front door. I only had to knock once before Mrs. Kelly pulled it open, her smile tight at the corners.
“Fenny.” She wrinkled her nose at a speck of flour on my shoulder. “We weren’t sure you would make it.”
“My shift ran late.” I shuffled awkwardly before holding an ­oil-​­stained bag between us. “Cookies? I mean, I brought cookies. From Roberta’s. Engagement cookies. For Brian ­and . . .” I trailed off when I realized I didn’t remember the name of Brian’s fiancée.
“Carolyne,” Mrs. Kelly offered. She took the bag out of my hands, holding it with two fingers like it held a dead animal. “Come in, of course. May I take your jacket?” I knew refusing would be an affront to Mrs. Kelly’s affinity for propriety, so I let her have it.
Inside, the music was even louder: some sort of upbeat jazz designed to keep cups and conversation flowing. Twinkling fairy lights twirled around the aged wooden ceiling. Bouquets of exotic flowers clung to every ­surface—​­imported from out‑­of‑state since the chilly South Dakota spring would have strangled the blooms.
But it was the lounge where things truly became excessive. Richmand, like all small towns, had a habit of turning every event into a potluck. Casseroles, homemade pies, brownies, cornbread, and a dozen different ­mayo-​­based “salads” had been placed on a mahogany table in the corner, like a sacrificial altar for the Kelly family. Blown‑up photographs hung over it, highlighting every year of Brian Kelly’s life from birth to his high school graduation five years ­ago—​­the last time he had been in town.
And, sitting beside the snack table like an overstuffed goose, was Sam. Someone, likely his mother, had forced him into a maroon ­button-​­down with a collar so tight it could have choked him dead. The look on his face was so comically miserable that I wanted to laugh, but I sobered quickly. There was nothing funny about tonight.
“How’s the party?”
Sam’s eyes shot up. “Where have you been?”
“There was a mix‑up with one of the sourdough starters ­and . . . It doesn’t matter. Sorry.” I pulled up a chair and lowered my voice. “Has he said anything?”
“No, but that’s not saying much. Brian’s so busy with wedding planning that he hasn’t spared me a second glance.”
I exhaled. “Good. That’s . . . good.”
“Any word from Sarah?” The expression on my face must have said everything because he muttered a curse. “Of course not. It’s not like she knew we needed her here or that she’s ditching us just like Winter Formal when she swore she wouldn’t . . .” He cut himself off. “You know, a year ago, I would have said she’d never do anything like this. But ­now . . . You’re right. I really don’t know her anymore.”
Before I could offer a word of comfort, Mr. Kelly’s booming voice rang behind me. “Fenny!” I turned to greet him, but the words died in my throat. Because beside him was Brian.
Panic seized my chest, and instinctively, I took a defensive step in front of Sam. Memories flashed before me: Brian smashing our ­second-​­grade project the day of the science fair. Brian wrecking my first laptop in a fit of rage when my bike scratched his car. Brian pushing Sam around and leaving bruises that lingered for days.
And Brian, the last night I had seen him, draped over a girl who wasn’t his girlfriend in a parking lot. My knees, bloody and bruised when he knocked me to the ground. And ­Sam . . . tiny, ­twelve-​­year-​­old Sam, who stepped between his brother and Sarah when he tried to hit her.
Brian broke Sam’s leg that night. Sarah and I held Sam’s hand through all thirteen stitches in his knee. And when we tried to tell someone, anyone, what Brian did, Sam’s parents stopped us. It wasn’t the first time they had covered up Brian’s actions, but after that night, Sarah and I made sure it was the last.
Mr. Kelly pulled me into a crushing hug, cigar smoke clinging to him like a second skin. “Enjoying the party, my girl?”
“Immensely.”
“Wonderful, wonderful!” He looped an arm around Brian’s shoulders and pulled him forward. “Brian, I’m sure you remember Fenny, though she’s grown quite a bit since you’ve seen her last!”
Something flickered in Brian’s eyes, but it passed quickly. “Of course. Good to see you again.” He tilted his head. “No Sarah tonight?”
My fists tightened into my church skirt, the satin slippery against my fingertips. Behind me, Sam tensed. Let him try something, I thought. We weren’t ­twelve-​­year-​­old kids anymore. “She had somewhere more important to be.”
“Can’t imagine where.” Mr. Kelly shook his head. “This is the event of the year!”
Brian cleared his throat. “Is your dad here, Fenny? I haven’t seen him since he finished coaching my ­cross-​­country team.” The air sucked from the room. The clinking glasses and ­far-​­away laughter were suddenly too loud, and my face was too hot.
“Shut up, Brian,” Sam snapped. The conversations closest to us faltered. Brian’s lips parted.
“Behave, Sammy,” Mr. Kelly hissed, but even he looked uncomfortable at the mention of my dad. “Brian, we should meet your mother for the speech.”
“Of course,” Brian said. Without glancing at me, he stepped closer to Sam. “I know how I left things. But it’s been five years, and if you’ll let me, I want to put the past behind us. We’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other.”
I scoffed, and Brian’s face twitched, like I was worth no more notice than moldy blueberries at the supermarket. “Seriously? You think an apology is going ­to—”
“Fenny,” Mr. Kelly said in a tone I didn’t dare argue with. And, with a final glance back at us, Brian disappeared into the crowd, leaving Sam and me standing by the snack table. Belatedly, I realized my nails were digging crescent moons into my palms, and I pulled them out with a grimace.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “He caught me ­off ​­guard. What did he mean that we’d be seeing a lot more of him?”
“No clue.” He muttered, so low I could barely hear it, “Asshole.”
As soon as Brian and Mr. Kelly vacated their spots, neighbors and ­well-​­wishers took it as an invitation to swoop in. Sam shrank under the attention of teachers and family friends who all wanted to talk about the wedding and his grades, and whether Sam would follow Brian to South Dakota State.
Meanwhile, I was backed into the corner by members of Richmand’s book club, otherwise known as the Gossip Squad, who peppered me with increasingly personal questions about my dad and my mother’s running tab at Marco’s Bar.
It was almost a relief when Mrs. Kelly clinked her glass to start a toast. The room hushed like the start of a sermon. “Thank you all for coming,” Mrs. Kelly said. “We are so grateful for Brian’s return and pleased you were able to join us to celebrate his engagement! I hope you are having a wonderful ­evening—”
I tuned out most of Mrs. Kelly’s long, rambling speech about “family” and “legacy” and “community” and only turned my attention back when Brian and his fiancée, Carolyne, were called to the front.
It was my first glimpse of her all night, and my first thought was: She is way too good for ­him—​­long, shiny blond hair, a conservative but stylish dress, and huge blue eyes so bright I could see them halfway across the room. The massive engagement ring on her finger caught the light: a collection of white diamonds and blue sapphires that matched her eyes, and I thought uncharitably, Ah. That explains the attraction.
A roar of applause followed Mrs. Kelly’s speech, and Brian and Carolyne stepped forward, glasses of champagne clutched in their hands.
“All right, all right!” Brian laughed. “I won’t bore you to death with a speech of my own. ­But . . . I missed this place so much. I can’t imagine a better place to start my future. And nothing, and no one, is going to stop me.”
Something about the way he said it made the hackles rise on my neck. He turned to Carolyne. “Care to do the honors, sweetheart?”
Carolyne raised her champagne glass. “We are so excited to announce that Brian and I are moving to Richmand!”
The crowd exploded into calls of celebration, even as shock numbed my fingers and toes. Beside me, Sam’s face drained of color.
“Did you know?” I whispered, but Sam shook his head.
Across the room, I swore Brian turned to look at me, Sam, and the empty space between us. And, not for the first time, I cursed Sarah’s name.
Shattered glass crunched under my feet as Sam and I followed the last stragglers outside. The lacrosse team had made a game out of breaking champagne flutes against the concrete, and more than a few people were drunk and stumbling.
Sam’s hands balled into fists as he walked me to my car. “How is he moving back? We did everything to prevent this!”
I shut my eyes as I thought back to five years ago. It hadn’t been a hard decision to force Brian to leave town. All we had to do was reveal that we caught Brian beating up Sam on ­video—​­and threaten to send it to his university, the police, and all of Richmand.
But Brian had graduated now. And it seemed our leverage had expired.
I kicked at a shard of glass, and it skittered across the concrete. “We’ll figure something out.” I didn’t say that I had no idea how we were going to do that, considering Sarah had the video and we weren’t on speaking terms.
We weren’t far from the house when a young blond woman called after us. It took a moment to recognize Carolyne. “Sam! Glad I caught you. I feel awful, I barely said hello to you or your friends all night!” She pulled her future brother-in-law into a hug and clasped my hand. “I’m Carolyne Smythe, soon‑to‑be Kelly.”
“Fenny Allen.”
She smiled. “You go to Richmand High with Sam, right?” I nodded and she beamed. “I was just talking to your principal, and he mentioned your guidance counselor is on maternity leave. I just got my bachelor’s in psychology, so I’ll be your temporary counselor until she gets back!”
I stared blankly at her. Mrs. Welling had had six children over the past seven years, and we had spent more time without a counselor than with one. In all that time, we’d never had a replacement. This had the Kellys’ influence written all over it.
“If you need a ride tomorrow, I’d be happy to drive you with Sam,” Carolyne continued.
“No thanks,” I said, more coldly than I intended.
Carolyne’s smile faded. “Right. Well, anyway, it was lovely meeting you, Fenny.”
She walked back toward the house, waving and smiling at everyone she came across like she already owned it.
Sam ran a hand over his face. “I’m not going to escape either of them, am I? He’ll be visiting her at school.”
There was nothing I could say to make him feel better. I might have hated Brian, but he was Sam’s childhood boogeyman. “Want to come to my place?”
He shook his head. “My mom will expect me back.”
“Tomorrow, then? I’ll make popcorn.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “Extra butter?”
“Three pumps,” I promised. He walked me to my car, and I pretended not to notice the slump in his shoulders as I left.
The TV crackled as I walked through my front door. My mom was asleep on the couch with our old tomcat, Bells, curled on her chest. One stiletto stuck stubbornly to her foot while the other sat, forgotten, in the middle of the floor. She shifted in her sleep at the noise, pulling her ­low-​­cut shirt tighter around herself.
She was home early. Too early. The sharp scent of alcohol permeated the air every time she exhaled, and I knew tonight must have been worse than usual.
I flicked off the TV, pulled off her other shoe, and tucked the blanket around her shoulders. Beside her was a stack of bills as thick as my finger and a receipt for six whiskey sours at Marco’s Bar. Scribbled on the bottom was the number of some guy named Alex.
Suddenly exhausted, I went upstairs, changed, and crawled into bed. But before I drifted off, I scrolled through Sarah’s texts. I wanted to see an apology. An excuse. Something other than a blank screen.
I can’t believe you, I found myself texting. Tonight, Sarah? Really? Sam needed you, and you weren’t there. Oh, and by the way, Brian’s moving to town. So you better figure out how to fix this and hope Sam forgives you, because I won’t. Tonight, you crossed a line.
Finally satisfied, I clicked off my phone and went to sleep.
She never replied.