by Kit Frick
Emilia’s face softens. “Men will go to great lengths in their pursuit of a beautiful woman.” She gives me a small smile.
“I’m really sorry,” I repeat. “Honestly, after the way we left things, I never thought I’d hear from him again. I’ll let him know he can’t show up here unannounced like that.”
“I overreacted,” Emilia says, eyes drifting up the stairs after Paisley. She lowers her voice. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. Things have been … difficult … with Tom this summer. The flowers touched a nerve.”
I swallow, mind retracing Tom’s sometimes furtive behavior over the past few weeks. I’ve been so focused on other things, I haven’t given Tom a lot of thought, but looking at Emilia’s pained face, it hits me that maybe something is going on between him and Joan Spanos. Emilia has acted a little strange every time the topic of Zoe’s mom has come up. Maybe I should have told her about seeing Tom’s car when he said he was at the office late that first week, and about the person who called looking for him the other night.
“Is something going on with Mrs. Spanos?” I ask, heat crawling up my neck.
“With Tom and Joan?” Emilia bursts out laughing. I slip my foot out of my sandal and scratch my big toe against my ankle. I’m not sure what’s so funny. “No, honey,” Emilia says, recovering herself. “When I was just a couple years older than you—this was years before I met Tom—I had my first graphic design internship at Joan’s magazine. She and I were involved for a bit. I guess you could say Joan was my first love. She was separated from her husband at the time, but they got back together, and Joan and I fell out of touch.”
“Oh!” My mind flashes to the photo I found in the back of Emilia’s desk when I was rooting around for flash drives. Emilia was young; she had her arm wrapped around an older woman with dark, waist-length hair. Joan Spanos—that’s why she looked so familiar the other night.
“Anyway, that’s ancient history,” Emilia says after a minute. “Tom’s not … it’s not an affair. At first, I thought he was seeing someone else. We fought about it over the Fourth. But it’s not that. Work has been hard; the company’s struggling. The partners reduced his client load by half at the start of the summer. He was too embarrassed to tell me.” She sighs and runs a hand along the marble tabletop.
“I didn’t realize,” I say after a minute. So that’s why Tom’s been avoiding the office. “You thought the flowers were from him?”
She straightens back up. “It was silly of me to get upset. As I’m sure you’re already figuring out, relationships are rarely easy.”
“Can I ask you something?” I say after a minute. “Did you recognize that guy Max today?”
Emilia frowns. “I don’t think so. Not that I can recall, anyway. Why?”
“We met him at the aquarium; he works there. Paisley seemed to know him from somewhere, so I was just curious.”
Emilia shakes her head back and forth, brown bob swishing. “He didn’t seem familiar, but Paisley has sharp eyes.” She smiles. “Now, do you want help carrying these to the pool house?”
I stare at the lavish bouquets, but all I can see is Max’s face twisted into an ugly scowl when I shoved him off me on Montauk. “They look so beautiful in the entryway,” I say. “Would you mind if we left them here?”
“Of course not.” Emilia plucks a small white card from the center bouquet. “But you should have this.”
I take a peek at the card, which reads simply: Anna, I’m so sorry. Max. Then I shove it in my pocket and excuse myself to go say a quick good night to Paisley, so Emilia can get on with the bedtime routine. On my way up the stairs, I text Max.
That was quite a gesture, but you can’t just show up at my employers’ house. Please don’t do that again.
His reply comes right away.
Sorry about that. I only wanted to apologize. One bouquet for each week I should have called you. I hope you’ll forgive me, Anna.
Typical. He doesn’t call for nearly four weeks, then makes some expensive, clichéd gesture. Even if I’d been into him in the first place, I’d never go for that. Four weeks is about three and a half weeks too long. Besides, he’s an ass. Before I can write back, he texts again.
Not just for not calling. But also for how I acted on the Fourth. It was unacceptable, and I’m sorry.
Consider your apology accepted, but I don’t think we’re a good fit. Night, Max.
I press send to get him off my back, then switch my phone to silent. I make my way to Paisley’s bedroom, a pretty peach room at the end of the second-floor hallway, on the side of Clovelly Cottage facing Windermere. We’ve played in here a few times, but I haven’t spent a lot of time on the second floor. It’s a few minutes before nine, and Paisley is changed into a nightgown. On a regular night, Emilia would already have her tucked into bed. I find her seated on a little stool at the room’s south-facing window, peering at the night sky through a telescope.
“I forgot you were into astronomy.”
She turns and shrugs. “We only hang out during the day. But now you can take a turn.”
I survey the several astronomy guides for kids spread open on a round play table near the window. Tacked to a cork board on the wall behind it is a big checklist of constellations, planets, moon stages, and their corresponding observation dates.
“It’s really clear tonight,” she says. “You can see Virgo. She’s the maiden. And Leo, the lion.”
Paisley stands up to let me take a look. After a quick, fruitless search for the stars she’s describing, I tilt the telescope gently down, toward Windermere. At first, I can’t tell what I’m seeing. The estate itself is too far toward the road to get a good look from this vantage point, but as I adjust the lens, my view focuses in on the riding pen—and a clear shot of the charred patch of earth where the stable used to be.
I return the telescope to its skyward-facing position.
“Do you ever look next door?” I ask Paisley. “At Windermere?”
She scrunches her nose at me. “That would be snooping.”
I shrug. “I’d be curious, that’s all.”
“I have to brush my teeth,” she says, hurrying suddenly into the hall and toward the bathroom. Clearly this conversation is a nonstarter.
I’m left alone in her bedroom. Maybe Paisley’s a better person than I am. But if I were an eight-year-old with a clear view of the neighbors’ backyard, I’d never be able to tear my eyes away.
* * *
Back in the pool house, I lie on top of the sheets and stare at the ceiling. I click my phone on out of habit, not even sure what I want. Information. Validation. Something real. In Messenger, I avoid my one-sided exchange with Starr and scroll instead through old conversations with Kaylee, Mike, some girls from school I haven’t thought about since graduation. There’s no one I want to talk to. Bored, I click over to Requests to see if anyone new has found me lately.
My heart freezes in my chest.
Buried beneath a string of hi’s and sup’s and hey beautiful’s from guys I don’t know are two requests dated 12/10 and 12/28.
The messages are from Zoe Spanos.
PART IV: A Body
You’re a story, but that doesn’t make you any less true.
—Melissa Albert, The Hazel Wood
26 NOW
September
Herron Mills, NY
“IT’S CALLED A pretrial motion to dismiss. They filed it yesterday on the grounds of police misconduct. I shouldn’t have been interrogated for hours without a recording, or before my mother arrived. And of course my confession was inconsistent with the autopsy results, which should help my case.” Anna’s voice is alive today; there’s none of the dull flatness Martina has become used to.
“So what happens now?” It’s almost five on Saturday afternoon. Martina is positioned in her bedroom closet again, talking to Anna when she should be doing about five other things. She’s supposed to take the SATs next weekend, but Mami and Dad don’t know she’s alre
ady rescheduled for the November exam date. This is more important than some test she’s going to bomb anyway.
“We hope the judge agrees to dismiss the case. But a lot can still happen.”
“Such as?”
“Well, the prosecution will probably file a response contesting our motion. My lawyers said it’s almost guaranteed that will happen, so I’m ready for it. Then the judge sets a date for both sides to appear in court and argue our positions.”
“And then she decides whether or not to grant the motion?”
“Right. If she denies it, we’re back to where we started. Either I agree to a plea, or we go to trial. But if she grants it, the charges against me will be dismissed. I get to go home.” Martina’s not sure, but she thinks the strain she hears in Anna’s voice might be tears.
“How long will you have to wait?” she asks softly.
“I’m not sure. I think the prosecution has to respond pretty fast, but then it depends on the judge’s schedule and what date gets set.”
Martina exhales slowly through her teeth. Zoe’s family is going to be livid. She can already envision the holes Aster’s eyes will bore into her skull at school on Monday. But if Anna is innocent, this is good news. The best she could have hoped for. Martina decides to focus on that.
And she has some news for Anna—news she’s pretty sure hasn’t gotten to Anna’s legal team yet. She’s been debating whether or not to say anything since the second they got on the phone, but in this moment, it seems right. She has to tell her.
“Want to hear something potentially exciting?”
“Always,” Anna says.
“This morning, I was working at the shop, and Emilia brought Paisley in around the end of my shift.”
“Okay … ,” Anna says slowly, and it strikes Martina that the mention of Anna’s former employers must not be easy. While it’s hardly the worst part of all of this, Anna lost her summer job along with everything else.
“Bear with me,” she says. “While they were eating their ice cream, Emilia got a call. It sounded like she was talking to her husband.”
“Tom?”
“Right, Tom. So she tells him that they’re at Jenkins’, and that she took Paisley here as a reward for—get this—speaking with the detectives this morning.”
“About what?” Anna’s voice pitches up. “Did she say?”
“Not specifically,” Martina says, “but what aside from your case could Paisley Bellamy possibly need to speak to detectives about? Maybe they were giving a character statement.”
“Maybe,” Anna muses. “I’ll ask. If the case does go to trial, maybe my lawyers want Emilia and Paisley to speak as witnesses on my behalf. I’m not really sure how all that works.”
“Me either,” Martina admits. “But this is a good thing, Anna. It has to be. Things are happening, finally.”
“I just want to go home,” Anna says, her voice small. “I don’t even care anymore if I never find out what really happened. I’m so tired.”
“I know,” Martina says, although she doesn’t, not at all. She doesn’t have any idea how Anna must feel, locked up in juvie week after week. And while Anna might be too tired to care about the truth, Martina isn’t. The need to know burns inside her, intense and center-of-the-sun hot. She’s so close to the truth, she can taste it, molten lava scorching her tongue.
27 THEN
August
Herron Mills, NY
OVER THE PAST three days, I’ve reread Zoe’s messages so many times I’ve lost track.
12/10: Hi. I tried to add you, but it looks like we don’t have any mutual friends. I know this is random, but there’s something I’d really like to talk to you about. I’m in Providence, at school, but I’m going to be home over winter break soon, and you’re in Brooklyn, right? I could come out there or you could come to Herron Mills. Message me back?
12/28: Hey Anna. I don’t know if you saw my last message. Anyway I’m home now. If you take the LIRR to Bridgehampton, I’ll come pick you up. I’d be happy to pay for your ticket. There’s some stuff I think you should know, and I’m not trying to be cryptic, it’s just better if we talk in person. I’m at 631-959-4095 if you want to give me a call.
When I read her messages one way, she’s writing to a girl she knows. When I read them again, she’s talking to a stranger. I read them so many times I can recite Zoe’s words in my sleep.
On Saturday night, I’m alone in the pool house, Zoe’s messages open on my screen. I look away, but the words dance along the bedroom wall. She gave me her number. I didn’t respond to her on Messenger, but I could have called her. I don’t remember doing it, but then again, I don’t remember reading these messages before either. And Messenger shows that I did. I click over to my call log, but I already know I won’t find anything there. I’ve only had this phone since June.
A persistent voice inside my head says I called Zoe in December. That three days later, I came to Herron Mills like she asked.
And then she disappeared.
I stare at her messages one more time. Then I write back.
8/1: Zoe? Hello?
In the two weeks that have passed since my last awkward movie night with Caden, we’ve texted some, but I’ve only seen him a couple times around the neighborhood when I’ve been out with Paisley, and neither of us has suggested making another plan to hang out. Charlie’s come and gone from Windermere a few times over the past week, although as far as I can tell he’s only gotten as far as replanting the grass in the backyard. The ruins of the stable remain untouched. Not that I’ve been spying. Much.
On Sunday, four days after I discovered Zoe’s messages on my phone, I sit alone in the pool house for what seems like the hundredth evening in a row. Dinner’s over and there’s still so much night left. I think about texting Martina, but I basically invited myself along last weekend. I should probably wait for her or Aster to invite me next time.
Finally, I pull up my last messages with Caden and fire off a text. It’s clear that things have shifted between us, but only I know why. If Caden thinks I got weirded out by his mom or lost interest in his friendship or even that I had something to do with the fire, he’s kept his thoughts to himself.
Over the past four days, my mind has been churning, Zoe’s messages triggering more and more fragments of memories that don’t fit together. There’s the indoor pool at Zoe’s house, but it’s not just that. I’ve been remembering specific details about Zoe. I’ve scratched the surface of something; I just need a little more information to connect the dots. And I think Caden can help.
Hey. Long time.
I stare at Caden’s reply, then start typing.
Yeah, I know. Just busy. You want to come over and hang?
Can’t really leave, as per usual. But you can come over here. Come around front, you can see the work I’ve done on the pond.
A few minutes later, I’m waiting for Caden to let me in at the front gate. It hits me that this might be the last time he invites me over to Windermere. After everything I’m about to ask, he’ll probably give me a wide berth. But I can’t help it. I need answers. Caden has them.
It’s only a little after seven, and the sun is still bright in the sky. Caden gives me a tour of the renovated pond, which he says is ready for fish again. The overgrowth has been cleared away, revealing a pretty stone rim around the edge. He explains that the whole thing had to be drained, the liner and skimmer pump replaced, and so on. Honestly, compared to the shape of the estate’s interior, fixing up the koi pond seems a bit like putting lipstick on a pig, but with Mrs. Talbot’s health—and indoor aviary—I can see why he would want to focus his energy on an attainable goal.
I plop down in the grass and hug my knees to my chest. Tonight, I’m wearing my hair down, and my sunglasses are propped on top of my head. The Zoe-factor is in full effect, and somehow that feels fitting.
“I don’t know how to explain this really,” I say, “so I’m just going to dive in. I need to ask you a
couple questions about Zoe.”
Caden frowns and joins me in the grass. “You’re not recording this for Martina, are you?” He narrows his eyes as if I might be concealing a wire under my clothes.
“What? No. It’s just, over the last few days, I’ve remembered some things. At least, I think they’re memories. That’s why I need your help.”
“Things about Zoe?” His voice is filled with skepticism. “Like the pool?”
“I know it sounds crazy,” I say, then stop. Probably using that word around a kid with a mentally ill parent isn’t cool. “What I mean is, I know it sounds impossible or really strange, but Zoe and I … I think we knew each other.” I take a deep breath and continue.
“The first week I was here, Paisley and I went to Jenkins’ Creamery, and they had this featured flavor, Chocolate Caramel Popcorn. I don’t even like caramel usually, but I had to order it. And then it hit me, all these weeks later—that was Zoe’s favorite flavor. That’s why I remembered it.”
Caden’s mouth is hanging slightly open.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” I press. My heart is a wild animal in my chest. This is it. Caden’s going to help me solve this thing.
He nods, then swallows. “She always ordered it. Never wanted to try anything else.”
“Her favorite color,” I go on. “It’s gold. She’ll go for yellow as a compromise, but she loves gold best.”
“Gold looks really great with her complexion,” Caden says. “She’d always say it made her feel …”
“… like a princess,” I finish for him. Because somehow, I know. I remember. She told me that too. We did meet up in December. Maybe we even knew each other from before. This is not just in my head.
“Holy shit,” Caden says. The look on his face isn’t surprise. It’s something between shock and horror.