I pulled out my phone and opened my Instagram account, typed in Vera’s profile, then searched for Blythe under Vera’s followers. Hello, @blythesampson4ever. But I needed more. Another flick of the finger and I popped over to Blythe’s profile and checked her followers, searching for anyone with the last name Sampson. Most of her followers only used a first name—which I had in fact insisted Vera do to protect her identity—a security measure that was now biting me in the ass. Without a last name, I had no idea if any of Blythe’s followers was a mother or aunt or distant relative.

I considered going through every single post to see who liked each one, then searching each name, cross-checking the profiles for pictures of Blythe and any information I could gather. But there were hundreds of posts, hundreds of likes, hundreds of possibilities. And it still wouldn’t guarantee that I’d find her parents. Scrolling through her feed feeling defeated before I’d even begun, I searched under the date for Mother’s Day. Score! I found a post of Blythe as a young girl hugging what appeared to be her mother. A name was tagged in the post: @mamabeartoblythe

Well then. Not so defeated after all.

I clicked on the profile and instantly saw an older version of Blythe. Raven-black hair. Bright blue eyes. Beautiful but dark. Tattoos covered every inch of skin beneath her black tank top, dragons climbing up one arm, skulls glaring from the other. A weeping rose circled her neck like it wanted to choke her. Two teardrops were inked beneath the corner of her eye. Did this mean she had murdered two people? What the heck kind of family had Vera gotten herself involved in? I could see where Blythe found her moody fashion inspiration. The name associated with the account was simply Chandra.

I returned to my county search records and typed in Chandra Sampson. In a few minutes I retrieved a name and address for the not-so-elusive-after-all BS—Blythe Sampson. Best friend turned worst enemy. It was time to find out what happened that led to their rift and exhume the secrets the girls had buried.

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Felicity

I did some digging into my great-great-grandmother’s life today. I wish I had half the courage Alvera had. Once she was mugged while transporting fundraising money raised for women’s suffrage and was left for dead on the street. You’d think that would scare her to stop her activism, right? Not her. Instead she posted on every newspaper in the area a reward for whoever brought in her attacker so that she could face him in person. Guess who ended up getting caught and put in jail? Alvera Fields is my hero.