by Hart, Holly
“Let’s see what her second file says. If she’s even got one.”
I bring my fist down on the table. “It wasn’t Kate.”
And now they’re all looking at me. Fuck. Fuck. I’m not defending her. I’m taking control. Getting this shitshow back on track.
“I don’t know: the notes kind of sound like her. Maybe.” Kyle’s eyeing her speculatively. “Like those billboards she had, with the, uh, large ladies.”
“They’re not large ladies—they’re plus-sized models. And I didn’t write that. It was an ad agency.”
“An ad agency you hired. Maybe you hired them again.”
“I—”
“Enough!” I’m on my feet. “I said it wasn’t Kate. Whoever sent these...they’ve been here. Not just in New York, but in my office. In my life—and I’m willing to bet, all of yours. Who here’s seen Kate in the last ten years?”
Silence falls, thick enough to cut with a knife. I should leave it at that, but my frustration’s boiling over. “And if Kate wanted me to notice her, she’d have tried an e-mail. A phone call. A birthday card. Anything at all.”
The silence is heading into awkward territory. Carson sits down, and I follow suit. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
It’s Kate who speaks up, at last. “So...who’s been in everyone’s lives?”
“Everyone except you.” Carson frowns. “Max. Rachel and Kyle. Dev. Even Wes.” He shakes his head. “But...I didn’t tell any of you everything in my file. It’s got to be someone outside the group. Someone we all know.”
Kyle laughs, a bitter, nasty sound. “Like you and I run in the same circles.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I get up again. It’s getting late. Tempers are frayed. This is going nowhere but downhill. “Let’s call a halt for tonight. We’ll each make a list. Everyone who’s in our lives—everyone with access. Then we’ll see where they overlap. If they do.”
Kyle looks like he’s about to protest, but Rachel puts her hand on his arm again.
“Tomorrow, then?”
“Tomorrow night. Same time.” I tug my jacket into place and leave my friends to show themselves out. I’m done with every last one of them. Even Kate. Especially Kate.
Chapter 8
Kate
* * *
What the hell happened?
It’s like they can’t stand each other—any of them, besides Kyle and Rachel. And Max...this is his office? I’d pictured something more...I don’t know. Fun, maybe. Boardroom meets breakroom, like the dotcoms of the nineties. That’s what he used to talk about. Not this sterile corporate cage.
I don’t know him at all any more.
But he defended me. He defended me...right before he called me out. I wanted to tell him I did reach out, a couple of years back. I called, and it went to somebody else’s voicemail, and it felt like an ending. Like he’d changed his number and changed his life, and I’d be intruding.
As excuses go, that one sucks.
I gather up my laptop and purse. Wes doesn’t seem to be coming back. No reason for me to hang around. And this place is creepy at night, like something out of a sci-fi movie—all silver light and hard lines. A water cooler’s dripping, out in the lobby, and it’s setting me on edge.
I tiptoe down the hall. Max’s door’s open. He’s in there, looking out over the city, bathed in the same weak moonlight as the rest of the office. Our eyes meet in the window, and he turns around. He’s changed so much, but he hasn’t—those are the same gray eyes that caught mine in algebra class. That’s the same shaggy brown hair, tamed and gelled into submission. He’s filled out, hardened around the edges, but—
“Can I help you?”
That’s not the voice I remember.
“I, uh...I—”
“Yes?” So cold.
“Thank you. For standing up for me.”
“Yeah, well.” Max shrugs. “Looked like you checked your spine at the door.” He turns his back on me. I should go. But—
“Max?”
He exhales harshly and says nothing. I should really go.
I step through his door instead of away from it. He wanted to hear from me? Here I am. Under the worst of circumstances, at the darkest of hours, but here I am. Ready to take it, whatever he wants to dish out.
“What happened with everyone? It seemed like—”
He spins on his heel. If he was masterful in the meeting, he’s terrifying now, crossing the room in two long strides. I barely suppress a yelp. He’s in my space, towering over me. “You’re asking me what happened? Me?”
“I—”
“Look, talk to Rachel. Talk to Carson. Talk to Dev—oh. You can’t. He’s gone.” Max is circling me, blocking off my exit.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Oh? Tell me, then. What did you mean, coming in here—no ‘nice to see you’, no ‘how’ve you been?’—just ‘what happened with everyone?’ like it’s my job to catch you up?”
“I didn’t know where to begin.”
He laughs, a harsh bark that has me backing away again. I can feel the chill of the night leaching through the glass. Nowhere left to run.
“Max—”
“You tore my heart out.” He snarls it at me through clenched teeth. His fists are bunched at his sides, eyes narrow with rage. I wither before him, shrinking against the window. “Our wedding day—what the fuck? And you couldn’t...you never...why?”
I can’t look at him. Let him call me a coward—I was. It’s true. But this isn’t Max. This is some stranger wearing his skin, spitting fury from his lips. It’s my turn to show him my back. I turn to the window, staring at the city with unseeing eyes.
“What? Nothing to say?”
What can I say? Nothing could be enough.
“That whole year. After Matt Danbury. After we....” Killed him? He’s advancing on me, slow, measured steps. “You were there. You saw the way I—” His voice cracks. “You kept me going through the funeral. Through the investigation, through school, through graduation—and you swore our future was waiting. Our future. Together. Don’t you remember? We were supposed to climb these towers hand in hand. You and me.”
Those were my words. We’ll climb the towers of Manhattan together. I promised him that every night for months.
“I waited for you in the church. Till it got dark out. Did you know that?”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. That’s his voice. My Max. Max, who called me every morning and every night, our whole senior year. Young and vulnerable, but so strong. So determined. He kept me going as much as I did him. Didn’t he know?
“Well? Did you?”
I nod. A tear escapes and trickles down my cheek. A thousand times I’ve pictured him watching the doors as the stained glass went dark.
“Did you even think about calling?”
“No....” I couldn’t. It hurt too much already, that hole in my heart where our dreams were ripped out.
Max snorts. “’Course you didn’t. What was I thinking?” He laughs, and all trace of his old self is gone. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter, anyway. Tell me why; don’t tell me why—it’s not like I’d believe you.”
“I don’t—” My voice catches in my throat. This is horrible: my eyes are streaming. My chest’s heaving. Another word out of his mouth, and I’ll be sobbing out loud, ugly-crying right here in his office. I might not have much pride left, but I don’t want that.
“Kate....”
He’s crowding in on me, close enough I can feel his heat at my back. I turn my head to keep him from catching my eye in the window. He follows with his hand: I feel more than see his palm hovering over my hair, my shoulder, barely an inch from my skin. I break out in gooseflesh as he traces a path down my arm to the elbow, never once making contact. For an instant, I’m positive he’s going to take my hand, pull me into his arms, kiss me like he used to. Promise me—
He jerks his hand back like I’m a flame that could burn him by proximity alone
. “Get out.”
“Max—”
“Get out!”
I flee. My hip collides with the corner of his desk, but I barely feel it. He’s right. I need to go. I should never have come. My first instinct was right: to run, run, far from whatever this is. It’s not too late. The airport’s half an hour away. I could be in New Zealand this time tomorrow. And where the fuck is the elevator? I press the button furiously, five times, ten, and I lose count.
“Come on...come on....”
If I run, what then? I didn’t get far enough last time. Would this time be any different? Does far enough exist?
The elevator arrives. I step inside, eager to be gone. Gone—but where? Time’s collapsing in on itself, and nowhere’s safe. Even my wavery reflection in the elevator door takes me back there—my bedroom, my mirror, my veil floating out like a dream. The way I kept turning into the light to make the beads sparkle. And the dress... I’d never worn anything so elegant. The brushed silk made my prom dress look cheap.
I watch the numbers light up, one after the other, as the elevator starts moving. I still have the note I found in the garment bag when I turned to hang up my veil:
* * *
I KNOW ABOUT MATT DANBURY.
LEAVE MAX. LEAVE TONIGHT. LEAVE WITHOUT A WORD.
SAY “I DO,” SHOW ANYONE THIS NOTE, I GO TO THE COPS.
* * *
I find myself mouthing the words I meant to say to Max after the wedding, after I showed him the note—the words I rehearsed all night. You’re my future. You’re my everything. I’d take life in prison over life without you.
It was the thought of his jubilant expression giving way to one of horror that changed my mind. The thought of his fury at the realization I’d sacrificed us all on the altar of my happiness. We wouldn’t have gotten life, not even close, but our lives, our dreams...we’d never have crawled out from under that shadow. And he’d have left me. Hated me. Everyone would have.
Everyone does.
My eyes well up anew. Was it all for nothing? Did I break both our hearts for no goddamn reason?
If I could be the one to solve the mystery—if I could bring down the blackmailer—maybe I’d redeem myself. But I don’t even have a theory. It’s been ten years. And Lake George was packed the day Matt died. Bursting at the seams with summer people. Everyone saw us head over there.
It was only a prank—we wanted Matt to know it was us. We weren’t exactly hiding. Anyone could’ve spotted Max sneaking round the side, Wes at the gate...anyone at all. Or maybe someone was lurking at the beach, after, watching us watch the smoke blot out the stars.
I’m so pissed at myself. Eight hours on the plane, and I came up with bupkis. And the meeting—I sat there like an idiot, thinking about the wedding. Max in his suit, at the head of the table; Max in his tux, at the altar. Even when they went for my throat...it was like I was looking on from a distance. Barely present.
I need to do better.
I brush away tears, wiping my eyes till my fingers come away mascara-free. Slow, even breathing—that’s the ticket. I dab concealer under my eyes between floors thirty and twenty-four; reapply my mascara the rest of the way down. I’m not getting in a cab looking like the Bride of Frankenstein. I’m going to walk out of here with my head held high, and tomorrow....
I don’t know.
A bottle of wine might inspire me.
Chapter 9
Max
* * *
Well, that felt good for all of three seconds.
She deserved it. All that and more. She traded me in for a tween dream career and a parade of snooty British guys. And she did it in the worst way possible. She could’ve sat me down. Said she wasn’t ready. Needed space. Hell, I’d have taken it’s not you; it’s me. Anything but what I got. Which was nothing. Which is precisely what I owe her.
I take one last belt of whiskey and stow the bottle. Time to go. I’m not getting anything done tonight.
The elevator’s coming back up. I stiffen—fuck. She’s coming back? After all that? No point hiding: she knows I’m here. I brace myself for a confrontation. But it’s not Kate who calls down the darkened hallway.
“Hello? Anyone still—ugh!” There’s a crash as Wes barks his shin on that stupid ficus. He mutters something low and profane. “Uh, hello?”
I drape my coat over my arm and step out of my office. “Hello.”
“Oh, uh—”
“Kate left a while ago.”
Wes holds up his phone. “Yeah, she texted. I’m here for my jacket. And to find out what I missed.”
I raise a brow. She must not have mentioned our little spat. “Honestly, not much. We all read our notes; there was some bickering; I called a halt.”
“No grand revelations, then?” He leans into the conference room and grabs his jacket. “Kind of thought as much. I mean—hey, you want to get a drink somewhere? Catch up? It’s been a couple of years. And you look—no offence—like you could use one.”
“Full disclosure: I’ve already had a few.” I sling an arm over his shoulders. “But I could use a few more. A lot more, even.” This could be an opportunity. Wes, he’s a lightweight. Always has been. It never occurred to me to quiz him on Kate—never wanted to face the truth—but if she’s going to be hanging around all week, I should know what I’m dealing with.
We end up at Lobo’s. Wes orders a Bellini. It comes with an umbrella and two plastic swords. I get another Jack: better the devil you know.
Wes stirs his drink. “I was thinking, it’s got to be someone we knew. Someone who peaked in high school. A loser.”
“Huh?” I snap to attention. Woolgathering already. Great start. “Why?”
“’Cause successful people don’t blackmail. And we’re all pretty much loaded. My theory: he’s guessing. Or she’s guessing. Whoever it is, they don’t know shit. If they had proof, they’d have turned us in years ago. When it happened.”
He’s got a point. But.... “He’s not asking for money.”
“Yet.” Wes sucks at his drink, slurping it through a coffee stirrer. I remember that from high school, too. He drank everything through those things. Even Pepsi. Said it tasted like cinnamon, when you squeezed the straw tight, bit it between your teeth so only the flavor got through. Like Big Red gum.
He narrows his eyes. “What are you grinning at?”
I drain my drink and wave for another. “You. Still with the coffee straws.”
“Yeah, well. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” He takes another sip. “So what do you think? Of my theory?”
“Everyone else thought it was one of us. Gotta say, I like yours a whole lot better.”
“One of us?” He pushes his straw aside and slurps from the glass. “Which of us?”
“Doesn’t matter. A lot of paranoia, if you ask me.” I’m not getting into what happened with Kate. The bartender refills my glass, and I toss it back. “Keep ‘em coming.”
“You know, I almost didn’t come back. I would’ve, for the funeral, but by the time we heard, well, we’d have been lucky to make it through customs by amen. But for this....” He lets the thought hang in the air. But I’m hung up on something else he said.
“So you’re an item now? You and Kate?”
He laughs. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“I don’t know—you said ‘we’. ‘By the time we heard’.”
“Only because we talked about it. The funeral, I mean. Dating Kate... It’d be like dating my sister.” He sighs. “I got over my crush years ago. And if she ever saw me that way...nah. She didn’t.”
That warmth washing over me, that’s the whiskey. Not relief. Certainly not hope. I take another drink to drown it out. The liquor burns its way down my throat and lights my belly on fire. I’m feeling good for the first time since I got my flash drive. Confident. Wes has a point: it’s got to be someone familiar. We were invisible to the summer crowd, waiters and caddies and townies, there for their convenience. So it’s a classmate
. A neighbor. Someone we’d all recognize. We’ll find him. We’ll put a stop to this. But first...first—
“Kate. After she left—I know you were there for her. Did she ever say anything about the wedding?”
Wes pushes his drink away with a frown. “Not a lot. No. And I really shouldn’t...” Shit. He’s not drunk enough. Or—not drunk at all? Is that still his first Bellini?
Fuck it. I’m done beating about the bush. “She must’ve said something. Some hint. I’ve seen your Instagram. Half your pictures, shit...it’s like the saga of you and her and a raft of empty bottles. All those nights, drinking, talking; you must’ve....”
“You know Kate. She’s a silly drunk, not a maudlin drunk. We talk about pizza toppings. Pubs with dirty-sounding names. Catfights on the catwalk. You don’t come up.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Wes recoils, and I realize I’m looming. I back off, just out of his space. Not as far as I should.
“Come on. I can take it. In ten years, there must’ve been something. Anything. A hint.”
“Well, maybe.” He shifts away from me, holding his drink between us. “Not when we were drinking, though. At her first show in Milan, she might’ve said—”
“What?”
“No. This is just going to drive you crazy. It probably wasn’t even about you.”
“What’d she fucking say?”
“Jesus, Max!”
I grab my latest shot and gulp it down. How many’s that?—five? Can’t be more than six. “Talk to me.”
“Fine. If you’re going to be a dick about it....” He stabs his swizzle stick at me. “She said ‘this is the dream’. Or ‘I’m living the dream’. Something like that. And I thought maybe—well, she did hate Lake George. Being away from the action. So I figured, hey: maybe that’s what she ran away from. Not you.”
But we were going to New York. Home of Fashion Week. Vera Wang. Michael Kors. And fashion wasn’t her dream. She never wore anything but jeans and T-shirts. We had the same dream: spearheading the social media revolution. Her and me, back to back. It was her fucking idea. If she had other ambitions... She wasn’t shy. She’d have told me.