Girl on the Verge

by Pintip Dunn

  “You weren’t watering the lawn?” I ask carefully. “That’s where they found you, lying in the grass. The hose was running next to you.”

  She moves her shoulders. “Maybe I was. I can’t remember.”

  An image of a jasmine plant flits through my mind, the ground below it dried and cracking. Unwatered. Shelly was the last person Khun Yai remembers seeing? Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.

  Struggling to control my thoughts, I pour a glass of water from a pitcher on the nightstand and hand it to Khun Yai. This moment is about Khun Yai, not my suspicions. She takes the glass, and I sink to my knees, bending my head. Her frail hand strokes my hair.

  “I’m so sorry. I lied to you. And I shouldn’t have left you. This wouldn’t have happened if I were at home.”

  She continues to smooth my hair. “Yes, luk lak. If you did indeed lie to me, you were wrong. But you need only be sorry for your actual transgression. You did not cause my injury.”

  So who did? Did she simply fall, or was it something . . . someone . . . else? Was it Shelly?

  I shudder. All of a sudden, it’s vitally important that I understand what Khun Yai was mumbling. “You were talking in your sleep,” I say.

  Khun Yai blinks. “Was I? Well, I always said you got that habit from me. We’re the same, you know. Your mother always said we were twins, born two generations apart. We’re both too stubborn for our own good. We both harbor deep passion in our hearts. And we both talk in our sleep.” She pauses. “What did I say? Was it gibberish?”

  “You were talking to your granddaughter,” I say slowly. “But it wasn’t me. You called her a farang.”

  “It was you, luk lak. You’re my only grandchild born outside of Thailand. Who else could be a farang?”

  “No, you said the granddaughter was blackmailing you. With envelopes. How can that be me? I don’t even know what that means.” I rise from the floor, so I can look at her.

  But she won’t meet my eyes. Instead, she stares at a spot over my shoulder. Since the walls are blank, I know whatever she’s looking at can’t be that fascinating.

  “I’m not young anymore.” She moves her shoulders. “Maybe I’m getting . . . confused. There’s no accounting for the things I say, especially in my sleep.”

  “On the contrary, Mae says you’re still sharp. I agree.” I sit and move my chair closer. “Could you have been talking to . . . Shelly?”

  Her gaze could slice through bamboo. “Why would you say that?”

  “You don’t have that many teenage white girls in your acquaintance, Khun Yai.”

  She leans back tiredly and closes her eyes. “I must rest now, Kanchana. Perhaps we can talk about this some other time.”

  I soften. Whether or not she’s avoiding my questions, she is my Khun Yai. She’s suffered a traumatic injury, and she’s been through an emergency surgery. The best thing she can do is rest.

  “Of course, Khun Yai. The only important thing now is for you to get better.”

  Chapter 41

  Mae arrives an hour later to take my place by Khun Yai’s bedside, and I take her car back to our house. I’m desperate to get clean—but more than that, I want answers. And if Khun Yai won’t tell me, maybe Shelly will.

  But my bug isn’t in the driveway when I arrive, and the house is empty. So, where did Shelly go last night, if it wasn’t back here? Mae said she didn’t see her this morning, but I thought she just hadn’t looked.

  Mrs. Watson’s words drift through my mind. The con might take two weeks; it might take six months. But Leesa would worm her way into the person’s good graces—and bank account. She’d walk away with a sizable amount of cash, move to a new town, and the process would start all over again.

  Is it possible Riley taught her best friend this particular con? Good god, Shelly has my car. Maybe I’ll never see my bug again.

  I let out a shaky breath. That’s it. I’ll give her until this afternoon to bring my car back. Otherwise, I’m calling the police.

  I go into Shelly’s room. Everything looks the same. There’s a suitcase of rocks in the corner. A single pair of earrings on the dresser. At least she hasn’t moved out.

  I walk idly around the room, poking here and there. I don’t know what I expect. A bunch of envelopes in the middle of her bed, with a big arrow pointing toward it? If the envelopes are anywhere, they must be hidden.

  Taking a deep breath, I pull open a drawer. I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. I go through every last drawer, and although I uncover half a dozen of my shirts, I don’t find any envelopes.

  I walk into the closet, which Khun Yai has converted into a prayer room. A gold Buddha statue sits on one shelf, along with small pots of sand holding burned-down sticks of incense and fresh garlands of jasmine flower. The other shelf holds a framed portrait of my father. Lifting my hands into a prayer position, I pay respect to both Buddha and my father.

  And then, I just look at him, my Por. He has a handsome face and a square jaw, with a head full of thick black hair. I don’t know if he passed away before his hair turned gray—or if he simply dyed it, the way most men do in Thailand. I could ask my mother, I suppose, but I’m not sure the question is worth the glassy-eyed, shallow-breathing person she becomes anytime the subject of my father comes up.

  Most of my memories of Por have blended together, but in fleeting moments such as this, I think of his exuberant smiles and his kind hands. I think how he put me on his shoulders and said I’d better hold on tight, so that I wouldn’t float away like a balloon.

  Could this man have had an affair with another woman, a farang? Could he be Shelly’s father?

  I search and search his face, but I can’t see any resemblance. Not even a little bit. I must be wrong, then. Maybe I took Khun Yai’s words out of context. Maybe I jumped to conclusions, once again.

  I turn to leave the closet when I notice a cardboard box stowed in the corner. That’s weird. I’ve never noticed the box before, and Khun Yai visits the prayer room every day, keeping it relentlessly clean. You could eat mango and sticky rice right off the floor. She would never leave an extraneous box in here.

  Which means it’s not Khun Yai’s box. It’s Shelly’s.

  My skin prickles with goose bumps. I sit on the floor and open the box. An apple core lies at the bottom, along with a bunch of photocopied sheets from the yearbook. They feature not only Ethan’s face, but also portraits of other boys in our class. Last, but not least, I see a stack of envelopes with address markings on the front and neat slits on the side.

  My fingers trembling, I pick up an envelope. Inside, I find a single piece of paper. It is mostly blank, with a date scrawled across the top and four pieces of tape forming the corners of a rectangle, as though a check might have once been affixed.

  I peek at the other letters, and the contents are the same. A sheet of paper, with four squares of tape and a date, approximately one month after the previous one.

  Interesting, but nothing incriminating. Nothing informative.

  I flip over the envelope—and then freeze. The closet, the fresh garlands of flowers, even my dad’s portrait begin to spin around me, in slow, undulating waves.

  Each envelope is addressed to Sheila Ambrose. But in the upper left corner is my return address. Scrawled in Khun Yai’s distinctive handwriting.

  Chapter 42

  My mind whirls. Khun Yai was clearly sending checks to Shelly’s mom. Why? Did Sheila Ambrose have something over her? Or, oh god, were they . . . child support payments? They must be. I think of Khun Yai’s muttering in her sleep. Of Shelly’s insistence that we were sisters. It must be true. She must be . . . my father’s daughter.

  I pull my knees to my chest, hugging them. But how? She doesn’t look Thai. Not a single bit. But I know, more than others, not to judge someone based on his or her appearance. Lots of mixed-race people don’t look the way others expect. Maybe she is half-Asian. Maybe that’s why she was able to fool so many people into thinking she was me.
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br />   I don’t know how long I sit there, on the floor of the closet, my cheek pressed to my knees. Struggling to make sense of this knowledge that has rocked my world.

  Then, I hear a car pulling into the driveway. A minute later, the front door opens, and footsteps—soft rather than brisk—tap along the floor. Shelly’s back.

  Wiping away my tears, I stand, shove the box back into the corner, and walk into the hallway. Shelly jerks when she sees me.

  “Oh, hi. I’m sorry I took off last night,” she says awkwardly. “It was just getting to be too much for me. The hospital, worrying about Khun Yai. I just needed to clear my head.”

  “No problem,” I say, even though it’s a huge problem. She can’t just take my car and disappear. And yet, and yet . . . I can’t bring myself to get worked up over it. She’s done a lot of bad stuff—and might be guilty of even more—but she might also be my half sister. Am I supposed to feel something about our potential blood connection? And if so, what?

  I have no idea. But at least she’s back now. She wouldn’t be hanging around if she had anything to do with Khun Yai’s accident. Right? If she was guilty, she could’ve taken off with my car. The fact that she came back has to mean something.

  I should tell her I found the envelopes. Acknowledge the truth between us. But for some reason, the words lodge in my throat and I can’t pry them out.

  “I’m going to take a bath,” I say instead. “I’m so gross you’d think I’d been camping for ten days. But we should talk. . . .”

  “Take your bath. Relax. We’ve got plenty of time to talk.” She nods toward the room. “I’ll just go close my eyes for a bit. Didn’t get much sleep last night.” She laughs, but it’s weird and high-pitched. I don’t know what to make of it.

  “If you’re sure . . .” I say slowly. I’m going to talk to her about the envelopes. Really. But I could also use the reprieve. A few minutes to figure out exactly what I want to say.

  “Go.” She waves a hand down the hall. “Oh, and Kan?” She plucks my phone out of her pocket. “This is yours. I accidentally walked off with it last night.”

  She sure did.

  I take the phone from her and unlock the screen. No voice mail. No text messages. No word from Ethan. Of course, that doesn’t mean anything. He could’ve texted me a thousand times, left me a million messages, and Shelly would’ve just deleted them.

  I trudge into the bathroom. As soon as I get inside, I dial Ethan’s number. Straight to voice mail again. Damn. Where is he?

  I get into the bathtub and fill it with hot, hot water. And then . . . I just lie there. So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours, my brain can’t handle it. Besides, I’ve barely slept. I need to close my eyes. Just for a few minutes . . .

  The next thing I know, my chin plunges into the water, and I jerk awake. Good lord. I must’ve fallen asleep. My scalding bath water has turned cold. Is Shelly still here?

  Climbing out of the tub, I grope for a towel and listen hard. Yep, there’s the sound of thumping. She didn’t leave before I could talk to her. Good.

  I get dressed, suddenly realizing I haven’t heard anything from the outside world in nearly a day. Even when I had my phone, the connection at the hospital was nonexistent. I pick up my cell, now that I have Wi-Fi, and scroll through my social media.

  I can’t believe it.

  I haven’t stopped crying.

  Poor Ash.

  How could this have happened?

  My brows crease together. Huh? What happened to Ash? I keep reading my feed, looking for more information. Halfway down the page, I find a link to a news article and click on it.

  Ash’s body was found in a Dumpster behind the school. Her head appears to have been bashed in by a heavy object. Police are investigating.

  My hand shoots to my mouth. No. NO. This has to be a joke. A bad dream. It can’t be true. I just talked to her on Friday.

  My heart pounds. I can’t breathe. I’m so hot I might faint. But I stay glued to my phone. This isn’t real. It’s got to be some kind of prank for the spring carnival, a mass conspiracy. . . .

  Everywhere on social media, that’s all anybody’s talking about. Details of the funeral and visitation. Photos of Ash. Condolences to the family. Memories of her style, her charm, her spirit.

  It’s not a joke. Ash is dead.

  I sink to my knees, and the phone slides out of my hands. My mind still won’t process—can’t process—but my body reacts for me. I fling open the lid of the toilet just in time to throw up in the bowl. I retch and I retch until there’s nothing left.

  Minutes or hours later, I make myself get to my feet and wobble out of the bathroom. Shelly’s leaning against the mantel in the living room, next to the wide mirror on the wall. It’s almost like she’s . . . waiting for me. Why? If she heard me throwing up, why didn’t she come see if she could help?

  “It must be nice having your phone back.” She smiles at herself in the mirror. “Any interesting news on social media?”

  The old Shelly, the one who moved into our house a few weeks ago, couldn’t stand looking into mirrors. She hated seeing her scar, hated seeing who she was. This new Shelly can’t seem to look at herself enough. She’s more than gotten used to her new look. Hell, she might be more comfortable in my skin than I am.

  For the first time today, I notice that she’s wearing makeup, just like she has been at school. Mascara, foundation, even lipstick. Even though her plan was to take a nap. Who is she trying to impress? Not me, certainly not Mae. Who else is she seeing?

  My mind is absolutely numb. But the words come out anyway. “Ash is . . . dead. She was murdered, and her body was disposed of like trash in a Dumpster.”

  “Yes.” Shelly blows herself a kiss, not at all surprised. Holy crap, is that why she gave the phone back to me? So that I could see the news? “The whole town is buzzing with the drama of it. She always has to be the center of attention, even when she’s dead.”

  My stomach rocks violently. Oh dear god. I’m not dealing with a regular girl here, with a regular way of thinking. Why couldn’t I see from the beginning how twisted her perspective is?

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Why did you want me to read . . . the gory details . . . on my phone?” My voice drops. I want there to be a simple explanation. One that will allow me to go back to my regular life, before Shelly.

  Wishful thinking. Khun Yai is hurt. Ash is dead. Nothing will ever be the same again.

  “You were sick with worry over Khun Yai,” Shelly says. “I didn’t want to burden you with this, too.”

  “Why hasn’t Ethan called me?” I need to shut up. I need to get out of here and call the police. I don’t know for sure if Shelly was involved with Ash’s death, but the cops need to know everything about this strange girl. And there’s a growing dread in my stomach. Two crimes in two days. Both of the victims close to me. What if there’s a third victim, a third crime? What if it’s Ethan? “It’s been half a day since he got back from the dance competition. Shouldn’t he have called—or picked up the phone—by now?”

  She shakes back her hair. That long black waterfall of hair so similar to mine. “There’s no telling with boys. I’ve told you from the beginning, Kan. They’re not worth your time.”

  “You don’t seem too broken up over Ash’s death,” I say, my voice cracking. “I know you didn’t like her, but shouldn’t you feel something?”

  She doesn’t answer, and I grab her arm. “Goddamn it, Shelly. Tell me! Tell me why you don’t care that Ash is dead!”

  “What was I supposed to do?” she says, her voice robotic. “She was going to ruin everything. I was so close to having everything I ever wanted, and she threatened to destroy it with a single word. It’s just like you said. She didn’t think of anybody but herself, and she deserved to be taught a lesson.”

  My stomach heaves. Oh dear lord. She’s confessing. She’s actually admitting that she killed Ash. I’m in my house with a goddamn murderer. I look wil
dly around, searching for a curtain rod, a ceramic tissue box, anything that could be used as a weapon. But there’s nothing.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I whisper. “You know I didn’t.”

  “Well, that’s not what the police are going to think. At this moment, they’re analyzing the scene of the crime. They’re going to find your DNA. Specks of your blood mixed in with hers. I only had a few drops, but it will be enough.”

  My heart stops. The blood sister ceremony. My blood, preserved on a paper plate. Was that why she wanted a “before” sample?

  “Your favorite scarf is wrapped around her neck, and your fingerprints are on this heavy, rock-shaped item found next to her body. It won’t take long for the police to determine that was the murder weapon.”

  My fingerprints? What . . .?

  And then I remember. Go ahead, she’d said on the morning after she arrived at my house, gesturing to her suitcase of paperweights. Pick one up. You need to experience for yourself how heavy these are.

  Oh dear god. How long has she been planning this?

  “Your mom’s art,” I whisper. “So that’s why you lug those things around. That’s why you wanted me to touch the paperweight. It wasn’t in memory of your mother at all.”

  She ignores me. “Everyone saw you hooking up with her nemesis just the day before. Coupled with the voice file I sent to Lanie’s phone, the one where you said that Ash’s opinion doesn’t matter, I’m afraid you’ve all but confessed to the crime.”

  “You recorded me?”

  “My phone was in my pocket. It was so easy to reach inside and hit the record button. You didn’t have a clue.”

  I’m nearly vibrating with rage now. “You set me up. From the very beginning, you set me up.”

  She shakes her head sadly. “I’m really sorry, Kan. I didn’t want it to turn out like this. I didn’t want to frame you. But you have to understand, I had to be prepared in case things didn’t work out. That’s what I was taught: always have a backup plan. It’s not my fault that you gave me no choice.” She pulls a gun out of her waistband and points it straight at me.