I sent out a group text message the day after my talk with Miles, and to my surprise, Ashley and Eden responded almost immediately. They had a few questions, but they both agreed to write letters for my project. I didn’t tell them what I’d told Denny and Miles. It wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to deliver over text. I just explained that, with the boys and me graduating, it felt like this was our last chance to really tell our stories.

Denny responded, too, and told me I could use his scholarship letter for whatever I decided on doing. And Miles, of course, didn’t answer my text at all. I’d known he wouldn’t. He was taking time to think about what he wanted to do, and I wasn’t going to push him. Not just yet, at least.

Now the only thing remaining was to find Kellie Gaynor.

I’d spent hours searching for her online. She didn’t seem to have any social media presence—at least not under the name Kellie Gaynor—and no phone listings anywhere. I did find her mom on Facebook, but the friend request I’d sent had been ignored. Not that I blamed her. I tried sending a message anyway, explaining that I was one of the other survivors and I wanted to get in touch with Kellie, but as far as I could tell, it hadn’t even been read.

Most of the things that came up when I searched Kellie’s name online were old Tumblr and forum posts from the usual VCHS true crime spots. A lot of the time, she was just listed among those who had been injured, along with Ashley and Denny, but there was some more disturbing stuff out there, too. Including an old piece of “fan fiction” in which Kellie is the girlfriend of the shooter and helped him plan the whole thing. Only then she betrays him by calling the cops from the bathroom and shooting herself in the shoulder to make herself look like a victim.

Of course, like in a lot of the weird fandom around the shooting, the mass murderer is glorified, portrayed as misunderstood and sympathetic, and the rest of us were just bullies.

The story was disturbing, but not even close to the worst I’ve read.

And diving that deep into the mass shooter fandom side of the internet had brought me no closer to getting in touch with Kellie Gaynor.

“Why bother looking for her, anyway?” Ashley asked.

I was at her house about a week after I’d asked her to write the letter. She’d just put her daughter down for a nap, and we were sitting at her kitchen table dyeing Easter eggs. As always, being in her house felt like being wrapped in a favorite quilt, warm and familiar. Before the shooting, I honestly hadn’t liked Ashley very much. She had always come across as self-righteous and judgmental. But now it was hard to imagine a life where I didn’t have her texting me almost daily, either with a cute picture of Miriam or just checking in to make sure I was doing all right.

When I mentioned Kellie Gaynor, however, her normally sweet expression instantly turned sour.

I shrugged, then dipped one of my eggs into the pink dye. “She’s one of us, too. I’m sure she has a story to tell.”

Ashley scoffed. “I’m sure she does. One full of lies.”

I started to tell her the truth right then. I swear I did. Ashley, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry I didn’t go ahead and just say it. But my eyes flitted to a photo stuck on the refrigerator door. In the picture, Ashley is wearing her wedding dress, her veil pushed back as she smiles at the camera. Her wheelchair is positioned in front of a church and Logan, wearing his tux, is kneeling beside her. A group of smiling people stand around them, looking proud. Among the crowd are Ruth and Chad McHale. And the church in the background is Virgil County Baptist.

Ashley has gone to church with Sarah’s family since she was little. She’d known Sarah for most of her life. As much as I’d wanted to just tell her the truth right then, I was scared I’d have a repeat of my night with the McHales. I didn’t want to be kicked out of Ashley’s house. I didn’t want to lose that warm-blanket feeling I had when I was with her.

Yes, I was being selfish. But I resolved that I’d tell her once all the letters were written. I could use them to explain everything. Until then, though, I’d stay silent. And safe.

“I’m sorry,” Ashley said as she lifted an egg from the blue dye. “I know I’m being harsh. I just really hate her. I try not to say the h word often, but with Kellie Gaynor … who makes up the kind of lies she did? Who does that?”

“We don’t have to talk about her,” I said. “In fact, let’s just change the subject.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “Oh, but I did write that letter for you.”

“Already?” I asked, surprised.

“I felt inspired,” she said. “I was going to email it to you, but our internet’s been acting up. So I put it on a USB drive. Will that work?”

“That’d be great. Thank you.”

“Hold on. I’ll go grab it.” She wiped her dye-smudged fingers on a clean paper towel, then wheeled back from the table, carefully maneuvering her chair through the kitchen doorway. She returned a minute later and handed me a small blue thumb drive. “I hope I did it right,” she said.

“I don’t really think there’s a wrong way to tell your own story.”

She laughed. “Hopefully you feel that way after you’ve read it.”

We took all of the eggs out of their dye and laid them on paper towels. “Is this how you’re supposed to let them dry?” Ashley asked me. “I actually have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t think I’ve dyed Easter eggs in fifteen years.”

“I’m not sure, either, but it seems right?”

Ashley laughed. “Having a kid makes you realize how very little you know about being an adult.”

“I think you’re doing a pretty great job.”

She beamed at me. “Thank you. I know this sounds weird considering our very minor age gap, but I feel like I got a little bit of practice with you and Miles and Denny. Eden a little, too. Not that I’m comparing you to my six-month-old, but … I don’t know. I felt very protective of you guys. I still do sometimes.”

“You have kind of been our mother hen,” I said. “But I think we all appreciate it. Especially in that first year. We were all such a mess.”

And I still am, I added mentally. That was part of why I spent so many Saturday afternoons at Ashley’s house. When my world felt like it was spinning too fast, I knew Ashley would be there to hold me still. She didn’t get as emotional as my own mother. Instead, she was just this calm, nurturing presence that never seemed too shaken.

“Well, speaking of being a mother hen,” she said. “I have to ask. Do you want anything to eat or drink?”

I shook my head. “I’m fine. Thanks.” It was the third time she’d asked me that afternoon.

“You sure? We have lemonade and chocolate milk and sweet tea.”

“I’m okay.”

“And water, of course.”

“Really. I’m fine.”

Ashley shook her head. “Sorry. I can’t help it. My mother always told me that if your guests don’t have a cup in their hands, you’re being a bad hostess.”

“Does this tiny cup of Easter egg dye count?” I asked, pointing at the pink.

“Hmm. For now? Sure. But if you’re here much longer, I’m forcing some chocolate milk on you.”

I left before she could make good on that promise. I wanted to get home and read the letter she’d written. I was eager to see if it would hold the kind of revelations Denny’s had. If it would make me see the shooting or our lives afterward in a new light.

And it definitely did that.