The Night Olivia Fell. Christina McDonald

for myself.

      I nodded. ‘Yeah, okay.’

      I leaned over his shoulder and typed in my log-in details, aware of how close we were. He smelled just faintly of pine trees and the clean, soapy smell of shaving cream.

      Kendall Montgomery’s page popped up right away. In her profile picture she was pouting, her eyes creased as if she was about to smile. I didn’t want to know her. And yet I did.

      ‘Holy shit.’ Derek’s eyes popped open wide. ‘She does look just like you.’

      ‘I know. It’s creepy. What should I do?’

      ‘What do you want to do?’

      I was surprised. People never asked me what I wanted. I usually just went along for the ride.

      I looked into Derek’s midnight-blue eyes. Something in them made me feel safe enough to find out things I should probably leave alone.

      I leaned over him and pressed Add Friend.

      ‘I want to talk to her,’ I said.

8

       ABI

      october

      The sound of Tyler’s feet thumping down the front steps jolted me out of my stunned trance.

      ‘Wait!’ I flung myself out the open front door and into the rain, crashing into the driver’s door of his Jeep as the engine vroomed to life.

      A flash went off from my front yard, but I ignored it.

      ‘Wait!’ I smacked my open palm against Tyler’s door.

      Tyler rolled the window down, his eyebrows drawn together. His eyes flicked up to the reporters watching our exchange.

      ‘What do you mean?’ I hissed so only he could hear. ‘Saved her from everything?’

      He glared at me, but kept his voice down also. ‘You had all these rules. You controlled her. She said you were writing the script for her life and she was sick of it. If you weren’t trying to run her life, maybe she wouldn’t have done stupid things.’

      My fingers slipped off the edge of the window, and I stumbled backward, propelled by the vitriol of his words. Tyler reversed out of the driveway quickly, his wheels skidding in the gravel.

      Another flash went off near me. I turned my face to my shoulder and raised my hand as if I could ward it off.

      God only knew what the reporters would write about this. I looked like a lunatic, my blonde hair a nest of damp tangles sticking up in every direction, the scent of alcohol on my breath.

      I looked up as I heard the crunch of tires on the gravel. Two police detectives, badges clipped to their belts, got out of the car.

      ‘All right, guys, get out of here. You know the rules. Get off her property now,’ the male detective said.

      He was squarely built with short legs and a squat body. Dark circles were etched beneath watery blue eyes that appraised me from under thick eyebrows. His wrinkled black suit covered an equally wrinkled blue shirt and tie. His thinning hair was a mess, as if he’d only just woken.

      Just behind him, the female detective waved a reporter edging closer to my house back to the road. She was a complete contrast to him: crisp black business suit, starched white collar. She was tall as an Amazon with cropped, pale blonde hair, a chiseled jaw, and ice-blue eyes. Her face was completely blank: the picture of professional detachment.

      Once the reporters were a safe distance away, they crossed the grass to me.

      ‘Abigail Knight?’ the man said, extending his hand to shake mine.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘I’m Detective Phillip McNally, and this is Detective Jane Samson.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Samson gave me a brief, firm handshake. Her hands were warm and large, making mine feel small and childish in comparison.

      ‘We’d like to speak with you about your daughter’s accident. Can we come inside?’ McNally asked.

      I stared at them, blinking. Accident? Why did they think they were here if it was an accident?

      ‘Yes . . . come in.’

      I led them inside and shut the door, then stood awkwardly in the living room for a minute. I couldn’t immediately recall what I was supposed to do.

      ‘Would you like a drink?’ I finally asked.

      ‘No, we’re good,’ Detective McNally said. ‘Can we sit?’

      ‘Of course.’ I showed them to the couch and sank onto the recliner.

      ‘We’re very sorry for what’s happened to your daughter,’ Detective McNally said. He blinked slowly, as if trying to wake himself up. ‘Also for the delay. We’ve only just been alerted to what happened by a’ – he glanced down at his notepad – ‘Dr Griffith. I know this must be a difficult time for you, but we’d like to take an official statement. Is now okay?’

      ‘Yes. Of course.’

      He pulled a pen from a pocket on the inside of his coat.

      ‘Let’s start with that last night you saw Olivia. Can you tell me what happened?’

      My eyes flicked to Detective Samson’s face, but she didn’t say a word.

      My hands shook, and I pressed them under my thighs. I wanted my daughter. I missed her so much it was physical, like scraping cotton wool over an acid burn.

      I started at the beginning, telling them about our Saturday: work, homework, the barbecue.

      ‘Did everything seem normal?’ Detective McNally asked.

      ‘Yes. I mean, except – well, she got a haircut.’

      ‘A haircut?’ McNally echoed. I could see he thought grief had driven me a little bit crazy.

      ‘Yes. It was unusual.’

      ‘Unusual how?’

      ‘Olivia’s sensible. She doesn’t drink, she’s on the swim team, and she gets straight As. She never does stupid teenager stuff like walk home alone in the dark or sneak out at night to go drinking. It was just weird that she suddenly cut all her hair off. But teenagers do these things, right?’

      ‘Sometimes.’ He didn’t look at me, just kept staring at his notepad. ‘Is there anybody who didn’t like her or had a grudge against her?’

      ‘No,’ I said, shocked. ‘Everybody likes Olivia. I’m not just saying that. Last year at school, she was voted ‘most likable.’ She was homecoming queen. She’s happy and popular and, and –’ My voice broke, and for a second I couldn’t continue.

      Both detectives nodded, their heads moving up and down like bobble-head dolls.

      ‘Do you think –?’

      ‘We don’t think anything yet,’ Detective Samson cut me off. It was the first time she’d spoken, and it startled me. ‘We’re just building a picture, gathering evidence.’

      ‘Something happened! She has bruises!’

      ‘Do you have any reason to think anybody would hurt Olivia?’ McNally asked, his eyebrows raised.

      I stared at him, dismayed. They’d been here ten minutes, and already they didn’t believe me.

      McNally continued asking me questions: Who were her friends? Her boyfriend? Had they had any problems? Had she ever tried to harm herself? Had anybody ever tried to hurt her? Had she been having problems at home? At school?

      Occasionally he’d jot something down. The longer we sat there, the more unsettled I felt. Samson barely