by Kara Thomas
“Alexa Santiago and Sharaya Tompkins! And for the boys…”
I tune out, my stomach sinking. Rachel looks absolutely crushed.
During our pep rally routine, she turns the wrong way when we’re changing formations and collides with Kelsey G.
After practice, when Alexa asks what time we’re getting to float building later, Rach mumbles an excuse about cramps and says she’s not going. I wait until I get home to text Alexa that I’m not going either, so the worst thing she can do is send me a picture of herself giving me the middle finger.
Alexa will get over it; she always does. But I can’t stop thinking about Rachel, and how every day it feels like I’m letting her slip away from me. When Ginny picks me up at six, she asks me what’s wrong.
“Just bullshit with my friends,” I say.
Ginny doesn’t reply; as if sensing I don’t want to talk about it, she turns the radio on. My parents think I’m going to float building, so I have Ginny make a right out of my driveway as if we’re going to school, just in case anyone is watching from my house.
We—or Elizabeth Lewis, rather—are meeting Carly at the Orange County Community College student activity center, where there’s a coffee shop.
“Are you sure we should confront her?” I say to Ginny as we pull into the parking lot. “This has the potential to get ugly.”
“I know.” She chews on a hangnail. “I brought this.”
She dips a hand into the V-neck of her shirt and emerges holding a small purple whistle. “My mom gives these out at the sexual assault prevention class she holds at the hospital every month.”
I don’t tell her that the whistle is a small comfort. The cars in the parking lot are sparse, and I wish that Carly could have met us earlier, when more people would be around.
At 6:30 on the dot, a Volkswagen pulls into the parking lot. Carly gets out of the car. Holds her keys over her shoulder and locks it.
“There.” I point to the Volkswagen. “That’s her. Let’s go.”
Ginny and I climb out of her mom’s car and follow her, darting between cars. I signal for Ginny to go around the SUV blocking our view of Carly. I run around the other side, cutting Carly off.
“Hi,” I say.
Carly Amato jumps back. “What the fuck?”
“We just want to talk to you,” I say. “Ten minutes. Please. And you’ll never see us again.”
Carly shoves a hand into her bag, and I shrink back into the car behind me. Squeeze my eyes shut, bracing against a shot of pepper spray to the face. But she pulls out her vape stick and puts it to her lips.
“I’ve got nothing to say.” Carly blows smoke through her nostrils.
“You were friends with Juliana,” I say. “So why did you say you barely knew her?”
“You don’t get it,” Carly says. “I did a lot of stuff I regret in high school. I have my life on track now, so excuse me if I have a problem with you two digging up old shit.”
“We know you hung out with Allie’s boyfriend and his best friend,” I say. “You introduced them to Juliana, didn’t you?”
“So what if I did?” Carly’s eyes dart between Ginny and me, like a hamster’s. “What does it even matter?”
“It matters if Allie’s boyfriend or his friend drove a pickup truck.”
Carly’s lips part. “Why?”
“Because someone saw Juliana get out of a pickup truck the night she was killed. Someone else heard her yelling, ‘Don’t tell me to calm down.’ ”
Something flashes in Carly’s eyes. She swallows. I glance at Ginny.
“Carly,” she says. “We don’t care if you did drugs. We just want to know who really killed Juliana.”
Carly folds her arms across her chest, burying her hands in her cardigan. “That big creep next door killed Juliana.”
“You don’t believe that,” I say. “We just want the name of the guy who drove the pickup truck.”
“Fuck no. I bought from one of those guys. I saw him beat the shit out of a kid who told his parents he bought Oxy from him.”
I balk, even though I’m not sure why anything surprises me anymore. “You bought pills from your cheer coach’s boyfriend?”
“Not him. His friend.” The small of Carly’s throat twitches. “She attacked me, you know. Allie. She thought I was screwing her boyfriend. I would have loved to throw it in her face that his best friend was pulling in thousands selling pills.”
“This guy. Did Juliana buy from him?” I ask.
“Juliana didn’t do drugs.” Carly takes another pull from her vape. “She didn’t want to hang out with him anymore once she found out he was selling. We were hanging out one night, just drinking, the four of us. He had to stop to do a deal, and Juliana kind of freaked.”
“And you didn’t think to tell anyone this when she was murdered?”
Carly snorts. “Who the hell would believe me? These were Hamilton guys.”
“Hamilton?”
“The college. Preppy and rich and shit. And I didn’t have any proof that they even knew Juliana. Aside from the party where I met them, we never hung out with them in public or anything.”
A blood vessel under my right eye pulses. “What are their names, Carly?”
She blows a stream of smoke into my face. “The neighbor killed Juliana and Susan. That’s all I got to say.”
“And what if Jack didn’t kill them?” Ginny blurts.
I look over at Ginny; her face is scarlet, and she’s breathing heavily. “How can you live with yourself if those guys are guilty and you helped them get away with it?”
For the first time, Carly Amato actually looks sad. “Guys like that always get away with it. Sorry to be the one to tell you that.”
* * *
—
We did it—we found out who else would have wanted Juliana and Susan dead. Allie’s boyfriend and his friend must have gone to the Berrys’ house that night to confront Juliana. Maybe they wanted to reason with her, or intimidate her into being quiet about the drug deal.
Instead, she fought back.
Ginny and I are in her room, sitting on her bed.
“It makes sense,” I say. “They got into a fight with Juliana downstairs, and they killed her—and when Susan heard the commotion, she got out of the shower. So one or both of them chased her back upstairs.”
Ginny sits butterfly style, pressing the bottoms of her feet together. “It definitely makes more sense than Jack Canning sneaking into the house and killing Juliana just to get to Susan.”
I press my fingers to my eyelids. “This is infuriating. We have two guys with a motive and no idea what their names are because Carly Amato is a coward.”
Ginny’s eyes blaze. “No. We’re going to find them.”
The forcefulness of her voice takes me aback. I stare at Ginny, unsure of when this happened to her. Maybe she was always like this and no one bothered to pay attention.
“And then what?” I say. “Who would believe us if we accused two random guys of a five-year-old crime?”
“Ethan could testify.” The pink in Ginny’s cheeks deepens. “If they can tie the pickup truck to the guys—”
“No one is going to believe Ethan.”
Ginny goes quiet. “I hate this.”
“Me too,” I say.
I don’t just hate this—I feel completely wrecked. The idea that Juliana and Susan’s killer is alive and walking free and there’s nothing we can do about it is worse than not getting answers at all.
Is this where Jen found herself? Did she figure it out? She was closer to Juliana than anyone.
Did Jen find out something she wasn’t supposed to? Did they get to her?
I need to know what happened to my sister.
FIVE YEARS AGO
NOVEMBER
&n
bsp; “I can’t do this.”
Jen lay balled up on her side, the pillow beneath her stained with tears and drool. Her mother was sitting on the bed next to her, stroking her hair.
“You have to, baby. For her.”
Jen’s throat felt like it was closing. Her mother never called her baby, not once in her life. Jen cringed under the bony feel of her mother’s fingers. She had lost so much weight in the past week. They both had.
Her mother had to help her into her dress. Jen didn’t even care that her mom was seeing her in her bra and underwear. When her mother left to change into her own dress, Jen sat on the edge of her bed. She stared into her full-length mirror, unable to pick up the hairbrush lying next to her.
In the mirror, Jen caught a flash of brown hair in her doorway. She craned her neck in time to see Monica dart back down the hall.
Jen called her sister’s name and Monica slunk back to Jen’s doorway, silent in her black velvet dress. When Jen opened her mouth to ask Monica why she’d been spying, all that came out was a strangled cry.
Monica stepped inside Jen’s room. She silently picked up the brush and began working at Jen’s tangled ends. Jen sat, staring into the mirror, tears rolling down her cheeks as her sister—her little pain-in-the-ass sister—braided her hair with all the care and tenderness she used on one of her dolls.
* * *
—
The line for Juliana’s wake wrapped all the way around the side of Maroney’s and spilled into the parking lot. When Jen got out of the car, she felt her knees go wobbly. I should wait out here for Susan.
She was aware of her mother’s eyes on her, and when Jen looked up, the realization crushed her. Susan was dead too. Her wake was in two days.
Her mother took her hand, but Jen stayed planted to the ground. People were looking over, their eyes lingering on the Rayburn/Carlino family a beat too long.
“They’re looking at me,” she whispered.
Tom put a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “We can go in the back. No one will mind.”
Jen kept her eyes down as Tom ushered them around the side of the building, to the emergency exit door. It was propped open, a man just outside in a suit—Mr. Maroney—sneaking a cigarette. Even he looked beaten down.
Mr. Maroney nodded to Tom and let everyone inside without question. Jen let herself exhale as the door shut behind them. The hall was empty, save for a man dressed like Mr. Maroney. He seemed to be standing guard over the smallest room in the parlor. The door was cracked open; Jen caught a glimpse of the photo on the end table, surrounded by white lilies. Her stomach bottomed out.
“They had his wake here?”
Tom placed a hand on Jen’s shoulder. “His mother deserves to bury him too.”
Jen shrugged herself away from Tom. “He’s a monster.”
The man stationed outside the door to Jack Canning’s viewing was looking over at them now; Mr. Maroney had stepped back inside at the commotion. Even Monica and Petey were looking up at Jen like they’d never seen her before.
Jen covered her mouth, running outside. She gagged over the railing, but nothing came out. Probably for the best. She would have ruined the pansies below her. The pansies hadn’t done anything wrong.
“The trick is to stick your finger down your throat.”
Jen looked up. Carly Amato, eyes red and eyelashes clumping together, was watching her. A cigarette burned between her index and middle finger.
“Don’t talk to me,” Jen said.
“That’s right. Take it out on the skank.” Carly stamped out her cigarette with the heel of her lace-up boot.
Jen felt a surge of anger. She thought of the blood staining Carly’s lips, the manic look in her eyes when Allie had gone after her. The fight had felt like it was weeks ago. But it had only been six days.
“You had something to do with this, didn’t you?”
Carly smirked. “Yeah. I told that creep to go over and kill them. You got me.”
Jen had to stop herself from charging at Carly, transferring her rage to her like Allie had. She thought about saying something cruel. You do a line of coke in the bathroom, Carly? Because you sure look like it.
But Jen couldn’t be cruel, no matter how much she wanted to be. The cruelest people were the ones who seemed to coast through life, as if all that nastiness was a shield.
“I wish she’d never met you,” Jen said. “Maybe she’d still be here.”
Carly blinked. Jen thought maybe she saw tears in her eyes before she turned and left her standing there.
* * *
—
When they got home from the wake, Jen said she was going to bed early. She climbed out the window and cut across the backyard, the glow of the TV in the den behind her.
He let her in. “Are you okay?”
Jen bit her lip. Shook her head. “Can we go to your room?”
Ethan slipped a hand in Jen’s and led her down the hall. With his free hand, he opened his bedroom door. Jen looked from him to his bed. She lay down, and Ethan followed, keeping about a foot of space between them. His comforter was cool against her cheek.
Jen took Ethan’s face in her hands. He held her back, winding his fingers through her hair. He didn’t move to kiss her; this time, she kissed him first. He kissed her back until their faces were flushed and they had to break apart to catch their breath.
Jen stared at Ethan’s face. Ran a finger down his lips. He kissed the pad of her finger and she reached behind her, unzipping her dress. Ethan put his lips on her shoulder.
Jen moved her hand lower, lower, until she felt the hot flesh of his belly. When she reached for the zipper on his pants, he laced his fingers through hers. Pulled her hand up his chest.
She sat up. “You don’t want to?”
Ethan’s face was flushed, his lips plump from the kissing. “I really, really want to.” He scooted closer to her. Pulled her so she was tucked in the space between his legs. “I just don’t want to do it when you’re sad.”
Jen’s eyes stung as he moved her hair off her bare shoulder, brushing his lips against her collarbone. “I’m always sad.”
She didn’t realize she’d said it out loud until he paused. She turned to face him, her face wet now. “I’m always so goddamn sad.”
Ethan reached and wiped away a tear with his thumb. “When was the last time you were happy?”
She didn’t know. Even when she dug up her happiest memories, it was as if she were viewing them on a film reel. Things that had happened to another girl.
“I don’t know if I ever was happy.” Jen wiped a tear with the back of her hand. “It doesn’t even matter. They’re gone and I was supposed to be with them and every day since I’ve woken up wishing I could die too.”
Ethan’s finger, the one stroking her cheek, went still. “I tried to do it in eighth grade. Die.”
It felt like the air was sucked from her body. “How?”
“I’m not telling you that. It’s not the point. I changed my mind and I’m still here.” Ethan cupped his hands around her face, inches from his own. “You have so many people here who love you.”
That was the problem. Jen knew she was loved and that she’d always been loved. She knew that even if she did the unforgivable and destroyed them, they’d still love her. And that made it so much worse.
“I was supposed to be there,” Jen whispered. “It was supposed to be the three of us.”
Ethan said nothing. He moved his fingers from her cheek to her forehead. He brushed aside a lock of hair that had become wet with her tears, sending a shiver across her skin. Ethan didn’t say You can’t think like that or you can’t beat yourself up like everyone else did. For that, Jen was grateful.
When he spoke again, his voice was a whisper in her ear. “You’re still here. That’s all that matters now.”
Jen shut her eyes. A tear trailed down her cheek, over her lips, pooling in the crook of her collarbone.
Ethan wiped it away. “Say it. I’m still here.”
Jen obeyed, her voice straining against the invisible grip on her throat. “I’m still here.”
She repeated the words in her head. But the longer they played on their loop, the less the words felt like an affirmation.
I’m still here.
It was starting to feel like a curse.
Mango scratches at my door around midnight. I shoo him back to my mother and Tom’s room. He gives me a look that makes me feel like the most evil person who has ever lived.
I wait another half hour to make sure he doesn’t come back before tiptoeing out of my room. Tom’s snores carry out into the hall; I take the stairs, pausing on every step to listen for the sounds of the snores behind me.
Tom’s computer is password protected. I try my mother’s name, Petey’s name, even mine with every permutation of our birthdays. None work, even when I substitute our names with NYGiants.
I open the top drawer of his desk, searching for a stray Post-it with passwords scribbled on it. I move my hand down to the third drawer, but it doesn’t budge when I tug the handle.
Dread pools in my stomach. I left this drawer unlocked—Tom must have found it that way and known someone had been inside. I think of him searching through the contents. Realizing Jen’s phone was gone. Figuring out there’s only one person in this house with a reason to steal it.
I stand so forcefully the desk chair rolls backward. I need to get the hell out of here. When I turn and face the office doorway, I yelp.
Tom’s arms are folded across his chest. He looks at me as if there are a million things he wants to say, but he settles on one word: “Sit.”
Tom points to the love seat by the window. I comply while he flips the light on and sits at his desk. He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. Shuts his eyes and spins small semicircles in his desk chair.
I don’t know if he’s waiting for me to defend myself or not.