I Killed Zoe Spanos

by Kit Frick

  “I don’t think so,” Aster says. “They probably should.”

  “Mrs. Spanos is something else,” Martina adds. “She had kind of major shoulder surgery last fall, and she took like one day off work.”

  “Not even that,” Aster says. “She was working from her hospital bed.”

  “Your parents sound like the Bellamys. Aside from the Fourth, I haven’t seen them take a day off all summer.”

  Martina shrugs. “That’s how it is out here. When people hear ‘Hamptons,’ they think bougie vacation spot. But everyone’s a workaholic.”

  I slip out of my damp cutoffs and T-shirt and hang them on the back of the chair, not that they have much hope of drying out with the humidity in here. As the sun fades out and rain streams in silver rivulets down the outsides of the glass walls, it hits that for the first time this summer, I don’t have to worry about sunscreen.

  Martina and Aster start chatting about some kids in their class, and I take a sip of my mocktail. The bite of the lemonade and fizz of the seltzer taste familiar too, somehow, like a memory on my tongue. Before I know it, I’ve drained the whole cup.

  “They’re good, right?” Aster asks, drawing me into their conversation. “The Lemon Spritz is a George Spanos specialty.”

  “Did I hear my name?” We all turn our heads to look back to the sliding glass doors, where a bearded, thick-waisted man in his late forties now stands. He’s wearing plaid golf shorts and a lime green polo shirt. Julia Child lets out a series of excited yaps and scrambles from beneath Aster’s lounger. While he leans down to scoop her up, I hurry to twist my hair behind my head and loop it into a messy bun with the elastic on my wrist. There’s no need for sunglasses, but I slip on the pair from my bag anyway. This is Zoe’s dad. The last thing he needs is to find a ghost in his backyard.

  “Hey, Dad.” Aster pushes up from her lounge chair and walks back to the snack table. “This is Martina’s friend, Anna,” she says, motioning toward me with her chin and filling a bowl with rosemary and parmesan popcorn.

  Mr. Spanos squints at me. Despite my efforts to minimize the Zoe-factor, I know the resemblance is still there, that he’s registering it now. I start to ramble, my usual spiel about nannying for Paisley, and how much I’m enjoying Herron Mills, and where I’m going to college in the fall. His face relaxes a little. I’m sure my verbal deluge has done wonders to set me apart from his star student daughter.

  When he retreats into the living room to watch a movie with his wife, I keep my sunglasses on. A few minutes later, we’re treated to a check-in from Mrs. Spanos, who I definitely recognize from somewhere. I’ve probably seen her around town. The thought that her hair looks different pops into my head. Not that I have any idea what it looked like before. Then at nine, Mr. Spanos peeks in again.

  “They’re extra hovery tonight,” Martina observes. “Not that they’re not always a bit …”

  “Overprotective?” Aster laughs. “Always were on the helicopter side, but it’s gotten a lot worse since … January.” Her voice drops.

  “It’s me,” I blurt out. “I know it’s weird how we look alike.” I tell them about Paisley, and how Emilia let her pick her summer nanny.

  Martina snorts. “That’s hilarious.”

  “And totally fitting,” Aster adds. “Paisley adored Zoe. Adores.”

  We’re all quiet for a moment, letting Aster’s slip of the tongue linger on the air. It’s morbid to think about, but Aster’s put a voice to the question no one seems to want to ask: After nearly seven months, could Zoe really, possibly still be alive?

  “I miss her every minute,” Aster says after a beat. “I thought it would fade eventually. But I don’t think it ever will.”

  Martina reaches out from her lounger and slips her hand into her friend’s. Feeling like a third wheel, I get up to refill my Lemon Spritz. In a minute, Aster clears her throat.

  “I should have warned them about the doppelgänger effect,” she says. “It’s my bad.” I can feel her eyes lingering on the back of my head.

  “It’s less pronounced with her hair up,” Martina observes.

  “Do you think I should cut it?”

  “Because of Zoe?” Aster asks. “Definitely not. That’s like … letting the weirdness win.”

  “I think it looks good long,” Martina agrees.

  “Me too,” I sigh. “I’m just ready for all the weirdness to go away.”

  While Martina calls her mom to request a pickup at a few minutes before the appointed time, I slip back into my still-damp shorts and top and Aster points me toward the hall bathroom so I can pee before we go. Halfway there, I sense a pair of eyes on me.

  “Anna.”

  I spin around. Out of the shadows of what must be their living room, Mr. Spanos steps into the brightness of the hall. He’s taller than I realized, and his beard needs a trim. Something feral and hungry dances in his eyes, which fix on me like steel clamps for a moment that stretches on for days. I’m an animal, snared.

  “I just wanted to say what a pleasure it was to meet you,” he says finally, but his friendly words hold a challenge, something quivering beneath the surface. I’m frozen in my tracks, but my whole body is shaking. He doesn’t seem to notice. His gaze is still trained squarely on my face. “What did you say your last name was?”

  “I didn’t,” I say quickly, my voice a thin rasp. “It’s Cicconi.”

  His shoulders drop then, like those of a marionette whose strings have been clipped, and he leans heavily to the side, full weight pressed against a closed closet door. “You should leave.” His voice is soft, but there’s no kindness in the words. His grief is right there, shimmering.

  “I’m sorry.” I’m not even sure what I’m apologizing for. A father’s suffering? Or my resemblance to his missing daughter? “We’re waiting for Martina’s mom. I was just …” I gesture weakly toward the bathroom, arm trembling.

  “Of course,” he says, recovering himself.

  I feel his eyes on me the whole way down the hall.

  Inside the bathroom, I slump on the edge of the tub and try to stop shaking. His daughter is gone, and here I am, standing in his house, breathing Zoe’s air. So thoughtless. I wrap my arms tight around my waist. There was something more than grief in the way he looked at me. Blame or pure, unfiltered rage. I have the itchy feeling that if I had just looked closer, I might have seen what’s bottled up inside his chest.

  I press my fists into my eyes, trying to force my brain into submission. It refuses. Then I lean over and hang my head between my knees, hair spilling out of its topknot and dusting the floor in a thick black curtain. I can’t stop seeing the hard outline of his face.

  Deep breath in, deep breath out. Maybe I’m reading him wrong. Maybe it was only grief, after all, bubbling to the surface in all its ugly trappings—grief like a gaping wound for a daughter who is gone and likely not coming home again. I feel immediately guilty for making something sinister out of this man’s pain.

  I let myself wonder what it would be like to have parents who were so present. Helicopter parents, Aster called them. My mind wanders briefly to the second episode of Martina’s podcast, to her conversation with Aster’s friend from swim team. How she’d been disgusted with people on Reddit for criticizing the Spanoses’ parenting skills, accusing them of a lack of vigilance. Now that I’ve met them, it’s clear they’re the opposite of inattentive. I can’t even get a geographical region for my dad, let alone an email or phone number. And much as Mom complained about me going away this summer, it’s not like we’d actually see much of each other if I was home. Not with her two jobs and irregular schedule. I can’t even imagine having parents hanging out at home, supervising on a Friday night.

  It’s kind of nice how much they care. That’s the important thing.

  I make myself get up and actually pee and get ready to leave. By the time Martina’s mom texts that she’s out front, I’m calm again, convinced Mr. Spanos wasn’t actually as scary as he seemed. The cree
ped-out feeling has been replaced by a new kind of nostalgia, something distinct from the flashes of memory I’ve been experiencing all summer. This is more like a longing for a childhood different from my own. Zoe’s childhood, maybe, or Martina’s. A childhood with money and two parents who won’t let you borrow the car because they’re worried about you. Who won’t let you out of their sight because they love you that much.

  But Zoe vanished anyway, I remind myself, and my stomach coils into a tight knot.

  24 NOW

  September

  Herron Mills, NY

  MARTINA REFRESHES HER screen every two minutes, but no new updates have posted since early afternoon. This is all she’s going to get. Tiana Percy coming forward was a hot story for an hour this morning, but it’s already faded into the background. Martina should be solving the SAT practice problems she promised Dad she’d do tonight, or struggling through the Spanish homework that might come a bit easier if Mami had ever spoken Spanish with her growing up. Instead Martina presses play on the video clip one more time. The words BREAKING NEWS fill the screen in silver block letters.

  “New information has emerged today in the ongoing Zoe Spanos homicide investigation,” a too perky newscaster says from behind the desk. “Yale University senior Tiana Percy has come forward as an alibi witness for Caden Talbot, boyfriend of slain Herron Mills teen Zoe Spanos. Miss Spanos disappeared from Herron Mills on her way to a house party last New Year’s Eve, and her body was recovered from nearby Parrish Lake in August. Mr. Talbot was previously identified as a person of interest in the investigation and has been cooperating with police.”

  Photos of Zoe, Caden, and Tiana fill the screen as the newscaster continues.

  “Ms. Percy spoke voluntarily with the Herron Mills PD this morning after a high school friend posted a series of photos online, placing her with Caden Talbot at a New Year’s Eve party in Westchester during the window police have identified for Zoe’s death. Ms. Percy was unwilling to comment on the nature of her relationship with classmate Caden Talbot, but says she was aware of Mr. Talbot’s relationship with Miss Spanos.”

  Martina slumps back in her desk chair. She has to admit, she never “liked” Caden for Zoe’s killer, to borrow a term from police-speak. But until now, those hours after 10:30 p.m. had remained unaccounted for. With Tiana proving Caden’s whereabouts, at her side in her Westchester hometown, Caden’s innocence has been verified. Tiana was able to pull up tons of photos from the party, all of which she’d been saving on her phone. They hadn’t been shared anywhere online, at Caden’s request. But Tiana’s photos can be matched to others from that same party, posted online by Tiana’s friends, placing Caden in Rye, NY, between the hours of 11:45 p.m. and 3:00 a.m.

  It’s a two-hour drive from Rye to Herron Mills under the best of circumstances. Caden definitely wasn’t with Zoe at the White Sand Marina when the last GPS activity registered on her phone. He couldn’t have had anything to do with the purchase of the Greyhound ticket, at least not in person. He couldn’t have made it out to Herron Mills and back to the Upper West Side by six thirty, when he was seen by Doreen Winn-Carey on her living room couch.

  Neither Caden Talbot nor Tiana Percy were responsible for Zoe’s death.

  Martina pulls up Aster’s number, fires off a text.

  Hi. I’m around, if you want to talk? Miss you.

  Martina doesn’t expect a reply.

  * * *

  “I hear you got Caden to talk.” Anna sounds excited today. Energized. Martina hates to be the one to burst her bubble.

  “Yes and no,” she says, exhaustion evident in her voice. It’s Friday, the day after Tiana came forward, the end of a long week. Martina’s in Miss Fox-Rigg’s chemistry lab again, staring out the window into sheets of driving rain. The storm’s going to mess up the tape, but it doesn’t matter. She’s not planning to air this interview; this is just a chance for them to talk.

  Episode Six went live on Tuesday to thirty thousand downloads and counting. She’d been right; people wanted to hear Caden speak. Even if what she ultimately aired was all about Anna and a two-month-old, unsolved stable fire. It had been too much to hope Caden would actually open up about his relationship with Zoe—or Tiana.

  “Yes and no?” Anna repeats Martina’s words back to her. “What does that mean?”

  “I got my interview,” Martina says. “But he wouldn’t go on the record about the night of Zoe’s disappearance. Not that I expected he would.”

  Anna sighs. “Thanks for getting me that address, by the way.”

  “No problem. Any response?”

  “Not yet. I’m not giving up, though.”

  “I hope you hear back,” Martina says. “Keep me posted?”

  Anna steers the conversation back to Caden. “Did you ask him about the empties in the stable? Did he say anything privately?” Her voice is so eager. Martina gets it. Caden may have a solid alibi now, but it doesn’t change the fact that he knows something. And now that he’s been cleared in the investigation, it’s unlikely the police will talk to him again.

  Martina scrubs her hand across her eyes. She is slowly beginning to fit the pieces together, understand how this all led to the charges against Anna. When Zoe’s body was found in August, Caden was brought back in to speak with the Herron Mills PD. They reinterviewed everyone they’d previously talked to regarding Zoe’s case. He felt guilty or scared; something compelled him to tell the police about the bottles he’d found. She can visualize how the conversation went down. Tell us every detail about the afternoon of January first, even if it didn’t seem important at the time. That’s what police always say.

  So Caden told them about the empties, how he figured some local kids had broken onto the property while he and his mom were away, how he tossed them. How he’d never tied them to Zoe because she didn’t drink.

  When the police interviewed Anna, she said she was drinking with Zoe at Windermere that night. She probably mentioned Caden’s Glenlivet, and they got her to say they were also drinking beer. The police made sure Anna’s story fit Caden’s. Match point.

  “I did ask,” Martina says. “He told me the same thing he told police, as far as I can tell.”

  Anna groans, the sound reverberating through the phone line. “I don’t believe him,” she says. “Caden knows who was drinking in the stable that night—he has to. How many people knew he kept whiskey hidden there? They made me think it was me … but it wasn’t. I’m sure of that now.”

  Martina wishes she could be that certain. She wants to believe Anna unequivocally. But Zoe’s killer wasn’t Tiana. It wasn’t Caden. The suspect pool is getting smaller and smaller, and no one’s coming forward to provide an alibi witness for Anna Cicconi.

  25 THEN

  July

  Herron Mills, NY

  THE WEEKEND ROLLS into the new week with nonstop rain, a new baking project with Paisley (peppermint brownies this time), a Disney movie marathon, and finally sunshine and back to the beach on Tuesday. Martina still hasn’t heard from Tiana Percy, and at this point, we’re both starting to give up hope. Maybe she figured out who Martina was. Maybe I should have been the one to email her. Maybe she doesn’t check her university account over the summer.

  With the Zoe-Caden-Tiana triangle still a mystery, and all my little memory fragments of Herron Mills and Zoe still refusing to coalesce into a real, tangible piece of my very recent past that I can grasp onto, July in Herron Mills barrels on. On Wednesday, Emilia gives me permission to take Paisley into the city on a day trip, something Paisley has been asking for nearly since I arrived. Second to the Zoe-factor, clearly the New York City appeal was my other big draw.

  We take the train back Wednesday evening, exhausted and stuffed with pierogi from Veselka and way too much fro-yo from 16 Handles (Green Tea Vanilla for me and something called Cake Cake Cake Batter with about ten toppings for Paisley). The instant we clamber into Emilia’s car at Bridgehampton, she says she wants “a moment of my time” when we
get home, which can’t be good. I spend the ten-minute ride sweating, racking my brain for ways I might have messed up with Paisley, then wondering if, after all this time, the Bellamys checked my references and didn’t like what they found.

  Fortunately, Paisley fills the air in the car with a detailed rendition of the day’s events: late morning picnic in Central Park with bagels and lox from Zabar’s, followed by the Let’s Dance! and Art, Artists, and You exhibits at the Children’s Museum of Manhattan, then downtown for a Meet the Residents tour at the LES Tenement Museum, which I’d worried might appeal more to me than Paisley, but was the runaway hit of the day, second only to dessert.

  When we step through the front door at Clovelly Cottage, the first thing I see is flowers. Lots and lots of flowers—four huge bouquets on the white marble table in the entry hall, bursting with purple irises, red poppies, bright yellow sunflowers, and a whole host of blooms I don’t recognize by name. It looks like someone got married in here today and the happy couple left all the floral arrangements behind.

  “Wow,” Paisley says.

  “These are beautiful, Emilia. Are you hosting another event?”

  “Actually, Anna,” she replies, voice tight, “these are for you.”

  Emilia sends Paisley upstairs to get ready for bed, to a chorus of protests. I promise to run up to say good night once I’m done talking to Emilia, a rarity since it’s far past the regular Clovelly Cottage dinnertime—and Paisley’s bedtime. She vanishes up the stairs.

  “A young man named Max Adler stopped by while you were out today,” Emilia says. “You know you’re perfectly welcome to go out or have guests over outside work hours, but he arrived with two other friends, who he seemed to have recruited to carry floral arrangements, right in the middle of a client call. It was disruptive.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, heat flooding my cheeks. “I had no idea he was coming over. I barely know the guy, and I haven’t heard from him in weeks. I don’t know how he even found me here.”