I’m relieved to see Betsy rush upstairs, already dressed, sort of, in very short shorts and a crop top. She shoots me a death stare as she heads to the kitchen even though I haven’t done anything. Her dad is the one yelling and she’s blaming me. David is on her heels, so I follow them, bringing the note with me.

I watch her back as she makes coffee. David leans against the kitchen island. I pull out a bar stool and take a seat. This should be fun.

She turns slowly and stares at us, first David and then me. She notices the letter on the island and grabs it. “What the fuck?”

David yells, “That’s what we want to know. What’s going on, Betsy?”

“I have no idea who is writing these. It’s some sort of crazy person. This is a sick joke. What am I supposed to tell you? Why the rocks slid out from under her? Why the current carried her away? What do you want from me?” Tears slide down Betsy’s cheeks.

“Whoever is doing this, writing these letters, they know you.” David’s arms are crossed, he looks tired, maybe as tired as I am. “They think you know something you haven’t told us.”

“Unbelievable. I wish I was the one who died.” Betsy rips the letter in half. “This is all insane. You two are both crazy. I hate it. I can’t wait to get out of here.”

I stand up, my legs shaky. “Think. Is there anything you haven’t told us about that day, anything at all? We love you no matter what. Maybe you’ve blocked something out? Denial is a strong emotion.” I’ve read that happens when you witness a tragedy, or think you might have caused it. Guilt can make you forget.

Betsy stares at me and then walks away.

“Get back here,” David demands as we hear the front door open and Betsy is gone.

David stares at me. I see it in his eyes. He has finally had the realization: What if Betsy had something to do with Mary’s death?

“What do we do?” David’s voice is hushed. He locks eyes with me. He is thinking perhaps that he doesn’t know his daughter like he thought he did. “I guess we could call Detective Branson? Have him talk to her? Show him the notes.”

My hand flies to my mouth. “What? No. We can’t turn in our own daughter. Besides, he told me the case is closed. Period.” I rub my eyes with my hands. I’m so tired. I’m also covering the satisfied look I can’t quite get off my face. He believes me now.

David looks at the ceiling. “When did you speak with him last?”

Oops. I guess I’m busted. “Yesterday. I took him the first note.”