by Leah Konen
My eyes caught hers, and it was so strong, the desire to save her—from this anger, this rage, this hate, from all the things that destroyed us, turned us into monsters, salivating for vengeance.
“Claire,” I said, forcing a bit of calm into my voice, speaking to her like my mother had spoken to me, early on, when my anger sometimes got the best of me. “Claire, this isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.”
She looked down, shaking her head.
“There’s never a reason for anyone to kill anyone else,” I said. “Vera included. You did nothing wrong. It’s the rest of us—the adults—who didn’t take care of you.”
Claire looked up at me, blinking through tear-soaked lashes. “I should have told Vera myself.”
“No,” I said. “Vera was determined to do what Vera was going to do. You couldn’t have done anything to stop this. Some people are so angry, they have to destroy the people they love.”
“I never meant to hurt anyone,” she said earnestly. “I sent you that text, you know. ‘The truth shall set you free.’ I know it’s cheesy, but I needed to make a Gmail that wasn’t in my name.”
Like that, a flash of recognition. Of course it was her. McKnight had said that the text was sent from Sam Alby’s house.
“I felt so bad for you,” she went on. “I knew you would never hurt him, and I felt like, because of what happened with me, you got mixed up in it.”
“Thank you, Claire,” I said. “Thank you for telling me that. And thank you for telling me everything. I’m sorry you got so caught up in all this. I’m sorry about your dad, too.”
“Thanks for listening.” She paused, eyeing me. “I know that . . . I know that you understand.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Understand what?”
Her hand reached for the door but didn’t open it—not yet. “My dad, there was this one time he hit my mom—it was just once, but—you know, I heard what you said to your friend, that day in the restaurant. I’m sorry that happened to you. Was is that guy, the guy who came around asking about you?”
“Yes, it was. It’s all over now, though. He’s not going to hurt me again.”
“Good. Thank god.” She sighed. “And is that why—?”
I nodded before she could finish.
“Well, I guess I should get back to work.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I should get going, too.”
Claire leaned across the console and wrapped me in a hug. “Thanks again for listening.” Then, with hands half shaking from all that she’d just told me, Claire opened the door and walked away.
As soon as she was gone, I took deep breaths—in and out—calming my furiously beating heart. I flicked the radio back on, and two more songs played before I felt okay to pull out of the parking spot and drive down the road.
As I made the turnoff to Rachel’s place, my mind was still reeling. I couldn’t believe it. After everything, this was the truth after all.
It began to snow again, and I parked in front her house, walked around the car, and opened the back door to let Dusty out of his crate.
But as I did, I stopped short. My mail was still there, and during the drive, it had separated, fanning out across the back seat.
There, in the midst of grocery store weeklies and the usual junk mail, was a sheet of white paper.
I leaned forward, Dusty whining, and plucked it from the array.
The words were printed in large, bold type.
THIS ISN’T OVER
FIFTY
Get in here—it’s freezing out there.”
I turned and, through lightly falling snowflakes, saw Rachel standing in her doorway, a smile on her face.
“Be right there,” I said. Mind spinning, I tucked the sheet of paper into my pocket, then let Dusty out of his crate.
He bounded up the driveway and straight into Rachel’s arms.
As I walked toward her, I tried to make sense of the note in my pocket.
THIS ISN’T OVER
When was the last time I checked my mail? I tried to focus, to remember. Could this have been from Vera, trying to make me think it was from Sam, just like the other one?
Rachel turned, and I followed her inside.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said instinctively.
Still smiling, she let Dusty down, then wrapped me in a hug that felt suddenly too tight. She wore red lipstick and an eggplant wool dress, but there were bags beneath her eyes. She looked older, and her voice sounded almost robotic. “I’m so glad you came over.”
“Me too,” I said as I sat down on her sofa, my voice cautious.
“Can I get you some wine?”
“Yes,” I said. Between what Claire had said and the note I’d just found, I needed something to take the edge off.
In minutes, she was back, two stemless glasses in her hands. “I just got this good cabernet, and I’ve been meaning to open it.” I could hear it, more clearly now, in her voice, the difference. Her words weren’t robotic, they were almost slurred, as if she’d been drinking even before I arrived. It hit me then, what exactly had changed—she was torn up about Vera. No matter what Vera had done, she’d still been Rachel’s friend.
She handed me a glass, then situated herself on the Eames chair. Dusty hopped into her lap. “To friendship,” she said, lifting her glass to mine.
“To friendship.”
We both drank, and my eyes flitted to her wall, seeking out the photo of Vera, but it was no longer there.
“Well,” Rachel asked. “How have you been, all things considered?”
“Fine,” I managed. “I mean, okay as I can be. You?”
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.
Briefly, I wondered if I should tell her what Claire had just told me, but something stopped me. Rachel had lost her best friend because of a rumor, something that hadn’t even been true. A story that had been so damaging, it had led Vera to kill her own husband. The irony was too cruel to share.
“You’re staying another month?” Rachel asked.
“Yes, I just paid my rent today.”
Her hand sank into Dusty’s fur, scratching him just where he liked. “It’s good, I think. So much has happened—it’s a lot to think about, just up and moving in the midst of it all. You’ll have to deal with our winter, though.”
“I can handle it,” I said. It was hard to imagine another month of sitting in my cottage, alone, but I didn’t know where else to go. Perhaps the absence of Vera and John, the hole they’d left in this place, and in me, was tether enough for now.
“Do you miss her?” Rachel asked, her lips pressing together.
“Desperately,” I confessed. “You?”
Rachel took another sip of wine—a gulp, almost—before answering. “I’ve been missing her a long time. I don’t think I’ll ever stop, actually. It’s just horrible, that it all had to happen like it did.”
For a moment, I wondered if Rachel blamed me, just like I blamed myself. If I was the enemy to her now, the reason her estranged friend was dead.
But she smiled again, and I pushed the thought out of my mind. Rachel had encouraged me to stay. She had invited me over.
She took another sip—her glass was already almost drained. “I don’t think I’ll ever forgive her, you know.”
I gulped. “For killing John?”
Rachel laughed bitterly. “God, no,” she said. “He deserved it.”
He didn’t, my mind practically screamed. We were all so terribly wrong.
“For attacking you,” Rachel said.
My chest seized up, and the glass felt slippery in my hand.
Her eyes narrowed. “I mean, she did attack you, right? That’s what Maggie said.”
“Yes,” I said weakly. “Yes, she did.”
“Vera was never good at knowing who to trust,” Rachel said. “If she hadn’t cut me out of her life, if she hadn’t turned on you . . . if she’d leaned on her friends instead of lashing out in anger, maybe none of this would have happened.”
She stood suddenly. “I have some cheese and olives in the fridge. Should I make up a plate?”
“Yes,” I said. I needed a moment to collect myself, to push Vera’s pleading eyes out of my mind, to pray that one morning, they wouldn’t be the first thing I saw upon waking.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I asked.
“First door on the left,” Rachel said as she turned on her heel and headed to the kitchen.
Dusty followed me as I made my way down the hall. There was a door on the right and one on the left, and one at the end of the hall—probably Rachel’s bedroom, the only door that was shut.
I closed the bathroom door behind me, leaving Dusty to wait in the hall like he always did. Her bathroom was decked floor to ceiling in all-white tile. Vera’s blood, crimson against white, flashed into my mind, and I shook my head forcefully, trying to get the images out of my brain.
I leaned against the sink, half-afraid I might throw up. This had all been so pointless, so awful. John hadn’t even been a bad person—it had been a rumor, a miscommunication, a child who didn’t want to be slut-shamed—and yet it had triggered something unfathomable, one step after the next.
Vera killing him.
Me killing her.
I flicked on the faucet, splashing cold water on my face, then looked in the mirror. My eyes were nearly as baggy as Rachel’s, my hair a mess. The few sips of wine I’d taken had already stained my lips. I had to pull myself together. This wasn’t my fault.
Vera had tried to frame me. Vera had believed the rumors about her husband. Vera had caused this all.
Vera had been my best friend.
Drying my skin on Rachel’s clean white hand towel, I opened the door, returning to the hall in time to see Dusty scratching at the shut door at the end of the hallway.
“Dusty, no,” I said, but before I could stop him, he’d gotten it open—it must not have been shut all the way—his furry body disappearing behind the door.
I took a few steps, then checked behind me. Rachel must still be in the kitchen.
Pushing the door open, I walked into her bedroom.
It was as clean and beautiful as the rest of her house, her bed covered in a white duvet edged in black. I swiveled my head, looking for Dusty, then saw an open door—her closet.
Inside, it was a mess, a welcome change from the rest of the place, hangers packed full of colorful dresses and tops, a dresser, its drawers half-open, already-worn clothing littering the few feet of floor space.
Dusty had tipped over a beat-up leather tote and was nosing around inside. “Dusty, no!”
I leaned down, pulling him off it. In his mouth was a plastic baggie filled with what looked like doggie beef jerky—Rachel must have brought it over when she visited Maggie and Pepper. “Bad dog,” I said, but I almost wanted to laugh. Dusty had always been a pro at sniffing out a treat, used to lose it when Davis brought something new home.
I snatched the baggie, set Dusty down, and righted Rachel’s tote so it sat upright on the floor.
Then I paused.
On the top of the dresser, among tossed-aside jewelry and a pashmina scarf, was Vera.
Vera, the photo that had once hung on Rachel’s wall. And shoved into one corner of the frame, a Polaroid of the two of them—smiling, happy, maybe drunk—like Vera and I had been so many times.
My eyes trailed down, and beneath the frame I saw it:
A padded yellow envelope.
It looked just like the one I’d found at Vera’s. Same size. Same shape.
Unsealed.
Hands nearly shaking, I looked over my shoulder, making sure Rachel wasn’t there.
It’s nothing, I told myself. It’s probably nothing. So many envelopes look like this.
Carefully, I opened it.
I saw the photographs first. All extremely up close, so close they almost seemed intimate, snatches of brown hair and a salt-and-pepper beard catching the light.
Then there, in front of them, a small scrap of paper.
And the familiar handwriting of a dead man.
I’m sorry about the other night. Please don’t tell Vera. I’ll call you soon.
FIFTY-ONE
What are you doing?”
I turned, clutching the envelope in both hands.
Rachel stood in the doorway to the closet, a thin steel knife in her right hand. She followed my gaze to the knife, then looked back at me. “I was slicing up a plate of cheese,” she said, forcing a smile. “I couldn’t find you.” Her eyes caught on the envelope. “What have you got there?”
“Nothing,” I said.
She only smiled wider. “You better give that to me.” When I didn’t move, she reached out her hand. “Now, Lucy.”
I handed it over. Rachel glanced inside, checking its contents.
“How did you—” I asked, hardly able to make sense of what was happening. “How did you get those?”
Rachel cleared her throat. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry, and Dusty began to whine. “I don’t understand.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “Vera gave them to me. Now, come on—”
I shook my head. “Why would Vera—you weren’t even friends with her anymore.”
“Don’t grill me about my friendship with Vera,” Rachel said. “Please.”
“What do . . . what do you mean?”
She laughed bitterly. “Let’s just say one of us was a shitty, backstabbing friend to her, and it sure as hell wasn’t me. John was never in my bed, I can promise you that.”
I closed my eyes, shaking my head as I remembered waking that morning, drapes opened wide. “You saw us?”
Her eyes bored into mine. “If you didn’t want anyone to see you betraying the friend you supposedly loved so much, maybe you should have pulled the curtains shut.”
A weight, heavy in my stomach. Poison in my blood. Rachel had been there, Rachel had seen us. Not Vera, but Rachel.
“You don’t understand,” I said desperately. “We were drunk. It was a stupid mistake. It was just a kiss.”
Rachel’s eyebrows knitted together. “Funny you hang on to a note like that, tucked away in your drawer, if it’s just a harmless little accidental drunken kiss.”
I stared at her, this woman I’d thought was on my side, after everything. Vera would never have given those things to her. “Did you—did you come into my house?”
There was a slight upturn at the corner of Rachel’s mouth, etching her laugh lines deeper, wrinkling her foundation. As if she were proud she’d gone so long without being discovered.
“You had a key, didn’t you? You had a copy you never gave back.”
“Jennifer was supposed to send the guy over to change the locks the day I was meant to move out, but when he didn’t show up”—she shrugged—“I didn’t tell her. Honestly, I expected her to take care of it. Maybe she just forgot. A lot was going on with her during that time. Her daughter, you know.”
“But . . . but why?”
Rachel’s hand twisted, the edge of the knife catching the light. Dusty whined again. “I missed Vera, that was all. It wasn’t a crime to go by your house occasionally, to keep tabs on her new best friend, the one who conveniently comes along after I’ve been shut out. I didn’t like you, but still, I never expected to find you and John like that, curtains open for everyone to see.”
“No,” I said. “I told you, it wasn’t like that.”
“That’s not what it looked like to me.”
I shook my head, trying desperately to understand. If
Rachel had been coming into my house, that meant, it meant that . . .
“You took my knife,” I said. “You took that photo of me, so it would look like . . .” I gasped. “You took everything.”
Rachel tilted her head to the side. “Lot of fucking good it did me.”
No no no. This couldn’t be.
“It would have all worked perfectly if you hadn’t ruined it,” Rachel said.
I took quick breaths, trying to understand, trying to get a grasp on the truth, but it felt like it was all suddenly slipping away. I chanced a look at Dusty, huddled by my feet, his tail down. Then I looked back at Rachel. Was it possible? Had it really been her all along?
“Vera had the knife,” I said. “It was right there, in her things. She was going to frame me. She had an insurance policy. She had, she had . . .” My voice faltered, temporarily stunned by disbelief. “It had to be her.”
“I gave her the knife, told her I found it when Maggie and I went over to get Dusty when you were in the hospital. I wanted her to see for herself just what kind of a friend you were.” Rachel’s face went red. “But now I know that she never even believed me. She was always trusting the wrong people. John. You.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I said again. “I loved her. I never meant to—”
“Oh, shut up,” Rachel snapped, lifting the knife so it hovered in front of her hip. “You can fool the police, maybe you could even fool Vera, but you can’t fool me. She deserved better than either of you. She was my best friend. She pulled me out of the worst time of my life, got me through my divorce, but when I tried to comfort her about her own shitty husband, she still chose him, the guy screwing around with a teenager, over me. And after all that, he still couldn’t stop. John had to have you, too. Neither of you gave a shit about her. I’m the only one who ever looked out for her. I’m the only one who ever loved her.”
“That’s not true. I loved Vera. More than anything.”
“Way to show it,” Rachel spit, lifting the knife even higher.