Through it, I had my own guilt. I’d convinced Jamie that Skye was okay. However, if she was taking antianxiety meds, then she wasn’t okay. He’d known something was wrong, and I convinced him not to push her.
We were also plagued by the paparazzi that camped outside our house for days and hounded us to and from the funeral.
Today was the first day they hadn’t shown up.
I couldn’t bear to look at the internet to see what they were saying about Skye. Through the messages of love and grief, there would be gossip about her addiction and speculation over her death. There was no point reading all of that. It would be like picking at a fresh wound.
Watching Lorna lower herself into the cab, I felt relieved to see her go.
From the moment she’d flown in, she’d treated me with a cold fury. Three nights after her arrival, she got drunk and told me I was to blame for the distance between her and Skye before she died. That she wished she’d never brought me into her life.
It was hard to shut those words out.
If it hadn’t been for Jamie, I might never have bothered trying to.
But he needed me.
Although Lorna clung to him at the funeral and made it clear she didn’t want me in their space, Jamie needed me. He wouldn’t sit in the front pew until Lorna moved to his other side to let me in.
The day Skye died, Jamie got a flight home and I met him at the morgue. He wanted to go in alone. When he came out, he collapsed at my feet, and I held him while he sobbed deep, wrenching cries that I could still hear in my head when I closed my eyes.
That was the last time he cried.
Until the funeral.
Lorna organized everything. The place was packed with friends, celebrities, and industry people. I was barely aware of them or those who approached Lorna and Jamie to offer condolences. Despite the ill feeling she had toward me, I was proud of Lorna as she stood up in front of the congregation and delivered a beautiful memorial to a sister who had changed her life to look after her and Jamie. It was a relief to hear Lorna speak of Skye’s drive to give her and her brother a future they never would’ve had without her.
I hoped Skye was somewhere listening, finally realizing how much she’d meant to us all. And to the little sister she thought didn’t look up to her anymore. Lorna’s voice broke a few times, but she got through that speech in a way I wasn’t sure I could have.
As Skye was taken away for cremation, a video overhead played clips of her through the years. Photos and home-video shots. The Waterboys’ “The Whole of the Moon” played over the footage.
I wanted to be strong for Jamie. To hold back my tears, but I couldn’t. His grip on my hand tightened and I felt his shoulder shake against mine. I looked at him and saw the tears rolling silently down his face as he stared up at the memorial.
I broke.
Because he was broken.
And I knew it was a wound that would never fully heal.
I couldn’t help him.
So, I just held on tighter and laid my head on his shoulder. He gripped at my arm, keeping me as close as he could as I attempted to absorb some of his grief.
I wanted to offer the same to Lorna. I tried to.
But as I held out my arms to her afterward, she cut me a dark look and brushed past.
Two days later, we took Skye’s ashes to Santa Monica and poured them into the ocean. Lorna threw a fit when Jamie told her I’d be attending the private moment. As though I hadn’t been a part of their family for years. Jamie had no patience for Lorna’s antics normally, so to say he was on a knife’s edge was an understatement.
I’d never heard him roar at anyone the way he roared at Lorna that day.
She burst into tears, apologized to him, and didn’t say another word about me coming.
The three of us said a silent goodbye to Skye.
Lorna never spoke to me again.
So, yes, I was relieved to see her go. My fragile heart could not take the tension between us.
Jamie returned to the house and enveloped me in his arms. He buried his head in my neck, his embrace tight and reassuring—even though I knew it was me he sought the reassurance from.
I kissed his shoulder and caressed his back, trying to soothe him.
After a while, he lifted his head. Beneath the unbearable sadness was a resigned weariness.
The previous night, we’d discussed giving up the house. We couldn’t afford the rent on our own, so we’d need to find a smaller apartment. That meant packing.
Lorna packed up the things she’d left behind when she left for college and still wanted to keep. She said we could donate everything else.
That wasn’t our concern. The concern was that it meant going through Skye’s things and deciding what to keep and what to donate.
Lorna didn’t want to do it, and I didn’t want Jamie to have to do it, so I’d volunteered.
And since I was not looking forward to it, I wanted to get it over with.
“The guys dropped off the boxes.” Jamie pointed to the dining room where I’d already spotted the pile of packing boxes. His teammates had been a huge support to him through this whole nightmare, and I would never forget them for it. “I’ll get started down here.”
The house came furnished, so we didn’t have to worry about moving furniture, just knickknacks and clothing.
“Remember, we need to donate a lot. We won’t be able to take it all with us. I’ll go upstairs and get started.”
Sorrow rippled over his expression before he got control of it. Nodding, he pressed a hard kiss to my lips, murmured a hoarse “thank you,” and moved to the kitchen to get started in there.
Carrying a few boxes upstairs with me, I hesitated outside Skye’s bedroom door.
We hadn’t gone in since we raided her bathroom for clues to her death.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I threw back my shoulders and soldiered into the room. Dropping the boxes, I flicked the light switch.
The room smelled like her. Like the Gucci perfume she wore.
Tears clouded my eyes and I took a deep breath, letting out a shaky exhale. Memories of finding her on her bed played over in my head. All the time.
I’d never be rid of them.
I knew it.
And I’d have to find a way to live with their permanent residence in my head.
Fighting down the nausea, I started in the bathroom. Most of everything in there could be thrown out. From there I moved on to her shoes and clothes. I tried to numb myself. To not associate any of the items with memories as I created donation boxes filled with her beautiful things.
Along the top of her closet were trinket boxes, hatboxes, and jewelry boxes. I pulled them all out and started going through them. I was there a few hours, putting aside items I thought Lorna might want to keep.
Pulling over the stool from Skye’s dresser, I stepped up onto it to make sure I hadn’t missed anything in the closet and found a large shoebox buried at the back. It was much too heavy to have shoes inside.
Dragging it down, its weight caused it to spill from my hands, and journals fell out, slamming to the carpet one after the other.
As I stared at them in surprise, I heard Jamie call upstairs to ask if I was okay.
I called back my affirmative and lowered to my knees, reaching for the leather-bound journals. There were eight of them. They were thick. And as I flicked open the pages, I saw they were all filled with Skye’s handwriting.
She’d kept diaries.
I had no idea.
I glanced at the door, wondering what I should do.
I shouldn’t read them. I should take them to Jamie and ask him what he wanted to do with them.
Instead, I tremored with adrenaline. Inside these diaries were possible answers. Why was Skye on antianxiety meds? What drove her to alcohol and drugs? Was it a genetic predisposition toward addiction, or was there another reason?
That roiling sensation moved through my gut—the one you get when y
ou know you’re doing something you shouldn’t be doing—as I fumbled through the diaries, trying to find the most recent entry.
Her last entry was days before her death.
What I discovered had me tearing through the diaries, traveling back through her words to four and a half years ago.
The entry was dated November, my freshman year of high school.
Her writing was messier in this entry. Instead of the beautiful, cursive handwriting in most of her entries, here it was spiky and frantic. It was a detailed entry of how she’d gone to a meeting with the powerful Hollywood producer Foster Steadman. How he’d tried to coerce her into sex in exchange for advancing her career. How she’d said no.
And how he’d taken what he wanted anyway and raped her on the floor of his office.
Tears poured out of me and I tried to stifle sobs as I read on through the diaries, reading her pain and violation and shame through the months. How small and disgusted she’d felt by her own silence. The fear of losing her career if she spoke up. Losing the money she needed to take care of Lorna and Jamie. How she was repulsed anytime she looked in the mirror and that alcohol and cocaine made her forget for a little while.
Her entries changed after rehab. Her self-loathing eased. She’d confided to Sheridan what had happened, and Sheridan had convinced her to go to therapy, which we never knew about. The therapy helped.
Until the hospital TV drama. The rape storyline. It dragged Skye right back to that place Foster Steadman had taken her four years before.
Shaking hard, I cast aside the last journal and stumbled into the bathroom to throw up. As I cast up my sorrow and bile, rage, guilt, and grief fought to overwhelm me.
We never knew.
None of us knew.
And as far as I was concerned, Foster Steadman was the real reason my beautiful Skye was gone.
I leaned back against the bathroom wall, trembling so hard, my back moved against the tile. Shock. I think I was in shock.
That’s how Jamie found me.
As he lowered beside me, I stared at him, at his concerned eyes and furrowed brow, and terror flooded me.
If I gave Jamie those diaries … would I lose him too?
12
Months Later
JAMIE
Twenty-one years old
There weren’t a lot of things I was afraid of in life. After Skye died, I was sure the only thing I feared was losing Jane and Lorna.
Somehow, I’d convinced myself that I wasn’t afraid of prison. Yeah, I was afraid of losing out on five to seven years of a life with Jane. I was worried about my future, my career, once I got out.
It wasn’t until I found myself inside a cell in medium security at the state prison that the fear set in. I’d been there a week and some sick, twisted bastards that haunted the halls were eyeing me like I wasn’t human, but just a walking, talking orifice for them to stick something into.
“You’re too pretty for here, son,” a biker warned me in the cafeteria the first day. “Find yourself some protection, or you ain’t gonna last.”
It was like something out of a bad prison movie, except it was real. It was happening. To me.
And I was fucking scared all the time and pretending like I wasn’t.
Walking into the visitation room, seeing Jane sitting behind the Plexiglas of a visitor booth, I felt my feet touch the ground for the first time in a week. Lying in my cell at night, I missed her as much as I missed not being afraid.
I despised that she was seeing me like this.
She gave me a sad smile and that cute dimple in her cheek eased the ache in my chest as I sat down opposite her and reached for the phone.
“Hey, baby,” she said as she pressed her palm flat to the thick barrier.
I placed my palm over hers, wishing I could feel her skin. “Doe.”
She let out a shuddering breath. “How are you?”
“I’m okay,” I lied.
Jane knew. “Jamie.”
There was no way I would tell her anything that might keep her awake at night. “How’s it going with you? You and Cassie find a place?”
After my arrest, we couldn’t post bail, so I’d waited in remand. My case went to court quicker than expected, probably because Steadman wanted me there as fast as possible. My lawyer wanted me to plead guilty; I told my lawyer to go fuck himself. So I went to trial, was convicted, and ended up with a longer sentence for standing up for myself.
Jane had given up the small apartment we’d only just moved into and shacked up with her friend Cassie from art school in her one-bedroom apartment. After my sentencing, they got a place together.
“Yeah. We found an apartment in Pomona. Near school.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Jamie, I don’t want to talk about the apartment. I want to talk about you.”
Frustration blew through me. “About what? There’s nothing to talk about.”
“I need to know you’re okay.”
“Do you love me?”
Jane blinked at the seemingly random question. “You know I do. You’re my everything.”
I let out a slow exhalation. “Then I’m okay. He thought he took everything from me … but he didn’t take you, and you’re all that fucking matters. So, I’m okay.”
She squeezed her eyes closed.
“It’ll get easier, Doe,” I promised her.
I hoped it was a promise I could keep.
With the rage that stirred inside me, I wasn’t sure I could. I wasn’t sure I could live with myself if I let this go once I got out. My sentence was seven years, but my lawyer told me they’d let me out in five if I behaved myself and kept my head down.
“They’ve got classes here. Computing, stuff like that. There’s even a workshop. I’ll keep busy,” I promised.
“Can you write?”
“There’s a computer lounge. I can write there.”
“Good.” She nodded, seeming somewhat appeased.
“Now tell me about you. I want to know what you’re up to.”
I let Jane’s voice soothe me as she talked about her sophomore classes at Pomona. The projects she was working on. Dramas unfolding with her friends. That stuff seemed juvenile to us both now, I knew, but it was a distraction.
A distraction from the knowledge that we wouldn’t be able to touch each other for at least five years. Sometimes that thought took my breath away.
What would Skye think of me here?
That I’d been a naive, stupid, impulsive asshole, that’s what.
A moronic kid who had no idea what he was doing when he broke into Foster Steadman’s office and confronted him about Skye and what Jane had found in her journals. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to rip his fucking dick off so he could never hurt another woman again.
I knew I would do just that when I grabbed the letter opener off his desk. His security arrived before I could touch him and threw me out.
It was enough to calm my ass down. As was the tongue-lashing from Jane. We would do it right, she said. We’d take the journals to the police and they’d investigate Steadman.
We went out that night. Trying to distract ourselves. Skye had left a far more substantial amount of money than I’d been expecting, to be split three ways among Jane, Lorna, and me. My little sister threatened to contest Jane’s share, but I shut her down, promising I’d never speak to her again if she didn’t abide by Skye’s wishes.
The money allowed Jane and me to rent a decent apartment in Glendale and go out for the occasional nice meal if we felt like it.
That night we’d come back to our apartment.
It was ransacked.
And I knew why immediately.
Panicked, I’d hurried into the bedroom where I kept Skye’s journals in the closet, and they were gone.
That wasn’t even the worst of it. The next morning, there were cops at the door, and I was in handcuffs being arrested for armed robbery.
Armed. Fucking. Robbery.
&nb
sp; “You tried to fuck with the wrong guy,” one of the cops whispered in my ear as he lowered me into the police car. Dirty bastard cop. On Steadman’s payroll.
The next few months were even more of a nightmare than I thought they could be after losing Skye. Steadman had paid a cashier near the studio offices to lie. And it must have been some amount of cash he bribed her with because she took a bullet. The footage from inside the store didn’t show my face—it just showed some guy with a similar build to mine, wearing a hoodie that hid his face from the security cameras, coming into the store and robbing the cashier at gunpoint. The attacker clipped the cashier in the shoulder with a bullet.
That woman took a bullet to bury me.
She miraculously identified me. Said I came into the store a lot. She remembered my name from when I used my card there.
The fuck of it was, I’d gone into the store the day I attacked Steadman to grab bottled water. With no cash on me, I’d used my card.
Steadman’s security must have followed me. Put all this together.
Cops were paid off. He paid for the cashier’s lawyer. No one would listen when I tried to tell them about Skye, and my defense attorney said there was nothing he could do without any evidence.
There was no record of me showing up at Steadman’s office that day.
I spent all the money Skye left me on my defense fees. Worse, Jane had to give me a chunk of her share too to cover my legal costs. It didn’t matter. I got seven years for a crime I didn’t commit. To shut me up. To shut up anyone who knew about Skye.
Look what I can do, Steadman was saying. You’re a fucking bug and I’m a lion. I can squash you just by taking a stroll.
But I would get him.
I had patience. And I was smarter now.
As long as I could protect Jane while I did it, Foster Steadman was going to wish he’d kept his sick hands off my sister. I didn’t care how long it took.
I would bury the bastard.
13
One Year Later
JANE
Nineteen years old
For over a year, every Thursday, I’d gotten up early and driven Jamie’s car three and a half hours north to the state prison to make visiting hours at 11:00 a.m. I had not missed a week.
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