The Last House Guest

by Megan Miranda

  “No, I mean, it’s not what you’re thinking.”

  Those summers when we were fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, sometimes at night, we’d take his dad’s boat from the harbor, just beyond the bluffs. Anchored here, far enough offshore, you could watch them in the dark, and no one could see you doing it.

  They weren’t close enough to see clearly, but it was enough: The girl in the upper-right window, staring out. Shadows behind the screens. Bodies moving in time to some rhythm we couldn’t understand, on opposite sides of a door. On opposite ends of the house. Every light on, every shade pulled open—they were a beacon in the night, calling us closer.

  She sees us, I’d said, so sure from the way she was standing there, looking out.

  Not possible, Connor had promised. The light from the boat was out. We were invisible, as we were taught to be.

  If I lived there, I wouldn’t spend all day staring out.

  If I lived there, I’d hang some curtains already, he said, laughing.

  We watched their lives from a distance. Imagining what they were doing, what they were thinking. We were captivated by them.

  So when Connor asked if it was everything I hoped it would be, I knew what he was thinking—that I had wormed my way into their lives, become the thing I once only imagined.

  I could almost forgive him the implication. The tattoo on my body, the way I was living up there. The way I seemed to slide into her life. I was following the ghost of her footsteps even now. “It was a coincidence that we met,” I said. “She walked in on me in the bathroom when I was working. Evelyn hired me.” It was what I’d always believed until Erica told me someone from the Loman house had requested me to work that party. But that didn’t make sense.

  “And yet,” he said.

  And yet here we were again, in a place we hadn’t been together in years. “Did you ever see me in there?” I wondered then if he had continued on without me.

  He cut his eyes to me briefly, but he didn’t move his head. “I don’t watch people, Avery. I’ve got better things to do.”

  “Then what the hell are we doing here now?”

  “Because I was a suspect until a note was found, and I’ve been living under a cloud for almost a year. I’m sick of it. I don’t know what’s the truth anymore.”

  I blinked slowly, taking a steady breath. “I don’t know anything more than you do. I’m the one who told you about the phone.”

  He shifted to face me, one leg tucked up on the bench seat. “You know, just because you don’t talk to us anymore doesn’t mean people don’t talk about you.”

  “I know. I’ve heard it all.”

  He tilted his head back and forth, as if even that was up for debate. “Most people seemed to think you’re fucking the brother. Or the father.” He said it sharp and cruel, like he intended to hurt me with it. “I say you’re smarter than that, but what do I know.”

  “I wasn’t. I’m not.”

  He raised his hands. “Faith always thought it was the sister,” he continued. “But I told her you only wanted her life. Not her.” He dropped his hands abruptly. “Anyway, mostly she was just pissed at you, so no one really listened.”

  My stomach squeezed, hearing his words. Even though I’d imagined them, heard the whispers, gotten the implication from the snide comments—like Greg Randolph’s. It was different hearing them from someone who knew me, from the people who once were my closest friends. “It’s not true. Any of it.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I covered for you once before, you know. Told the police it was an accident when you pushed Faith.”

  I flinched, though he hadn’t moved. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  “I was there, Avery. I saw.” In the dusk, I couldn’t read his expression. Everything was falling deeper into shadows.

  I closed my eyes, seeing her fall in my memory. Feeling the surge in my bones, as I had back then. The rage fighting its way to the surface. “It was just . . . I didn’t know she would trip.”

  His eyes grew larger. “Jesus Christ. She needed surgery. Two pins in her elbow, and God, I covered for you, even after everything.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my throat catching on the word. It needed to be said, now and then. “Back then, you should know, I used to think about dying. All the time.” I thought of the journal, the things I had written; the nightmare of my life. “I dreamed about it. Imagined it. There was no room for anything else.”

  “You wanted to die?” he said, like it had never occurred to him.

  “No. I don’t know.” But, the blade. The list of things I had done—leaning forward from the lighthouse, falling asleep at the edge of the water—the time he had found me on Breaker Beach, drinking so I wouldn’t have to make a decision either way.

  Salt water in my lungs, in my blood. A beautiful death, I had believed.

  But it had been Sadie’s death instead, and the reality of it was horrible. All I could give him was the truth. “It was a bad time.”

  He sighed, ran his hand through his hair. “I know. I knew it was bad timing.” He saw it the other way—that it was his fault. Timing, not time. “You weren’t yourself.” Except I was. In one way or another, I was never more myself than right then. Desperately, terrifyingly, unapologetically myself. And I’d just discovered the power of it, how it wreaked destruction, not only on myself but on others.

  “When I saw you on the beach,” he continued, “I wanted to die, too.” A smirk to soften the truth.

  “I didn’t go there to hurt you. Some nights I’d sleep out there.”

  “I know. That’s why I went there. You weren’t home, and I was worried.”

  They had just shown up. Two guys, a bonfire. I knew them, a year older, but I knew them through Connor. “Everything just went to hell.”

  I thought of that journal, how fast I was sinking, at the whim of some current I couldn’t see.

  He sighed, then spoke quietly, as if someone else might be listening in. That detective, somewhere on the dark beach in the distance, watching us. “I need to know, Avery. What role you’re playing here. It’s not just your life, you get that? It’s mine, too.”

  I didn’t understand what he was implying. “I’m not—”

  “Stop.” His entire body changed, no longer feigning nonchalance. Everything on high alert. “The police kept asking why I was there that night, at the party. And I didn’t know what to say.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “Are you kidding me?” His eyes went wide. “You sent me the address. Why did you want me there?”

  “I didn’t.” I pulled out my phone, confused, even though this was a year ago.

  “You did. You sent me the address. Listen,” he said. He leaned forward, close enough to touch. “It’s just me and you here. No one can prove what you say to me right now. But I have to know.”

  I shook my head, trying to understand. “It must’ve been Sadie,” I said.

  The same way I’d just accessed her phone. I checked the password settings on my own phone now. She’d programmed her thumbprint, just as I’d done on hers—we’d done it together, years earlier. Because we shared everything, for years. And when that changed, we’d forgotten to redefine the boundaries.

  Now I was picturing Sadie getting Connor’s number from my phone. And then sending him a text about the Plus-One from me. She wanted him at the party that night. Which meant she was planning to be there, too.

  “It was from your number,” he said, his hand braced on the bench between us.

  “I didn’t send you that text, Connor. I swear it.” And yet he had shown up, thinking it was me. It was a startling confession. But Connor always saw the best possibilities in people.

  “It’s not over, Avery.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? Collins questioned me, sure. But I’m not the only one they want to know about. Not back then, and not now.” Even in the dark, I could feel his eyes on the side of my face. I pictured that
list. The one I’d been filling in to make sense of things. But also: the one Detective Collins had slid in front of me the very first day. He’d written out each name. Avery. Luciana. Parker. Connor. A list of suspects.

  Mine was first on that list. He’d practically told me from the start: You.

  And I’d gone straight to him with the phone, hoping he’d reopen the case.

  “Did you tell the police about the text from me?” I asked.

  “No. I didn’t mention it.” His eyes slid to the side. “I didn’t mention you at all. So don’t worry.”

  “Why not?”

  “Maybe I’m a better person than you.” He shook his head. “I loved you once.” Changing his tune but proving the first comment true in the process.

  “You hated me, too,” I said.

  He grinned tightly. “I don’t even know who I’m talking to anymore. What you’re like.”

  An echo of Greg’s thoughts, claiming I was Sadie’s monster instead of someone fully formed. There were pieces of others who gave everyone shape, of course there were. For me: my mother, my father, my grandmother, Connor and Faith, even. And yes, Sadie. Sadie and Grant and Bianca and Parker. How bizarre to expect a person to exist in a vacuum. But more than any of them, I was a product of here. Of Littleport. Same as Connor beside me.

  “I don’t live up there anymore,” I said. He turned his head quickly, in surprise. “Long story.”

  He leaned back. “I’ve got nowhere else I need to be.”

  I tried to think of something to give him. Something true that would mean something to him. I pictured Sadie standing behind me in the window of her bedroom—and how we’d seen her standing there before, looking out. “At night, from the inside,” I told him, “the only thing you can see is your own reflection.”

  As we were watching the house, the lights shut off unexpectedly, all at once. Not like someone was flipping the switches one by one. Like a power outage. Everywhere I looked, darkness.

  “And I still get seasick at night.” As if there was one thing that could bridge the time. A place to start.

  “Keep your eyes fixed on something,” he said.

  “I remember.” He had said the same thing to me when I’d gotten sick over the side. But there was only the lighthouse in the distance, and the beam of light kept circling, appearing and vanishing as it moved.

  I scanned the distance for a steady object as Connor started the engine again.

  There. On the bluffs. A flash of light in the dark. Near the edge, moving away from the Loman house, down the cliff path.

  Another person, watching. Moving. Someone was there.

  “Connor. Someone’s up there. Watching. You see that, right?”

  “I see it,” he said.

  CHAPTER 19

  The twinkling glow of lights along Harbor Drive came into view as we neared shore. The lights of Littleport, steadying me—guiding me back. The docks were empty at this hour, no more workers milling about. Just a handful of visitors out for a stroll after dinner.

  How many times had Sadie and I been out there together, imagining ourselves alone? Walking back toward Landing Lane, the sound of the waves as we passed Breaker Beach. Not noticing the people around who might be watching. Laughter in the night, stumbling in the middle of the street—oblivious to the fact that someone could’ve been lurking around their house. Blinded to the true dangers that surrounded us.

  Not tetanus, sepsis, or a misstep near the edge. Not a warning to be careful—Don’t hurt yourself—and a hand at my elbow, guiding me back.

  But this. Someone out there. Watching, and waiting, until she was left all alone.

  * * *

  I HOPPED OUT OF the boat as Connor tied us up to the dock, checking to make sure the detective wasn’t anywhere in sight. “Avery,” Connor called, “you tell me what’s on that.” He nodded at the box tucked under my arm.

  I was trembling with cold, the dried salt water coarse against my skin, my hair stiff at the edges. The ground shifted beneath my feet, as if we were still out on the water. In the distance, the lighthouse flashed over the dark sea. I just wanted to get home, get warm. “I will,” I said—but honestly, that depended on what I found.

  * * *

  WHEN I GOT BACK to my car, I had a missed call and voicemail. The sound of a throat clearing and then a man’s voice, professional and serious. “Avery, it’s Ben Collins. I was hoping to run into you today, wanted to check in on some things. Give me a call when you get a chance.”

  I hit delete, stored his number in my phone, and drove toward the residential section behind Breaker Beach. I decided to park a few blocks from the Sea Rose and walk, just in case the detective was still prowling the streets, looking for me.

  As I walked the two blocks toward the circle, the outside lights of the homes illuminated my path, making me feel safe, crickets chirping as I passed. I’d just turned onto the front path of the Sea Rose when I heard the sound of footsteps on rocks—coming from the dark alley between homes. I froze, unsure whether to run or move closer.

  A shadow suddenly emerged—a woman with her hand on the side of the house for balance. She was in platform shoes, a skirt that hit just above her knees, a top that draped low in front. Unfamiliar but for the red glasses. “Erica?” I asked.

  She stopped, narrowed her eyes, then took one more step. “Avery? Is that you?”

  She had something in her other hand, and she twisted it out of sight, looking over her shoulder into the dark alley, then back at me. Her face nervous and unsure—like she had something to hide.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, walking closer. I had to see what was in her hand. What she was hiding.

  “Just walking. For my car.” She stepped back as I approached, as if I were something to fear.

  And then a voice from deeper in the alley. “What’s going on?”

  I saw it then—a phone held out in her other hand. Like I might do when walking in an unfamiliar place, the light guiding the way. A man jogged the rest of the way through the alley, calling, “Erica? You okay?”

  He slid an arm around her. She looked shaken, confused by my presence here. Like she was remembering the stories her aunt must have told her. The things I had done and therefore was still capable of doing. “You guys scared me,” I said. “Someone’s been messing with the properties around here.”

  She blinked twice, slowly, as if unsure about what had just happened. Whether to trust her own instincts. She gave me a small smile, her eyes drifting to the side. “I was just cutting through. From Nick’s.”

  “Nick’s?” The guy she was with, maybe. But he didn’t react.

  “The bar behind Breaker Beach,” she said. “Straight shot from here.” She extended her arm like an arrow down the dark alley. “We were just . . . going to get my car.” She cleared her throat. She was drunk, I realized.

  “Oh. Oh.”

  The break-in the other night could’ve been a crime of opportunity, then. A house on the way back from the bars. Unlocked.

  The man beside her watched me carefully. He had sandy blond hair, the shadow of a beard that matched; taller than Erica but not by much—I didn’t recognize him. I was thinking of the image of the person on the bluffs with the flashlight. The fact that I’d seen the power go out, and now Erica was here with a strange man, slipping beside this house where someone had been the night before, lighting candles.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I was visiting a friend. Heading home now.”

  She nodded once and shifted her weight, leaning in to the man beside her. She kept looking down, and I realized it wasn’t nerves—she was embarrassed that I had seen this other side of her.

  I wanted to tell them not to drive. But Erica was maybe a year younger than I was, and there were a lot of dangers in Littleport. You learned them by living them.

  Still. “I can give you a ride,” I said.

  “No, no . . .” she said, waving me off.

 
“She’s fine,” the guy answered. “Well,” he corrected, “I’m fine. And I’ve got it.”

  * * *

  I WAITED UNTIL THEY were out of sight, the sound of their laughter drifting farther away, before letting myself in to the Sea Rose. The place was just as I’d left it—dark but warm. I wasted no time in emptying my purse, opening the Ziploc bag, pulling out the box, and removing the flash drive.

  When I held it to the light, I saw a small circle engraved on the front with the logo for Loman Properties. I’d seen a collection of these at the Lomans’ house in the desk drawer of the office upstairs.

  My God, this was hers. This was definitely hers.

  My hands shook as I inserted it into the USB port of my laptop, waiting for the folder to pop up. There was only one file inside, a JPEG, and I leaned closer as I opened it.

  It was a screenshot, a long horizontal bar with two rows in a spreadsheet, slightly out of focus, all blown up on my screen.

  Sadie had majored in finance, interned with her father in the process. Before she died, she’d been working with the cash flow of his company.

  There were three columns, each containing a string of numbers, but only one made sense: the one with a dollar amount—$100,000.

  The other two I recognized as bank account and routing numbers. I pulled out my checkbook from my purse to confirm. And yes, it all made sense.

  Account numbers. Payments. Something she’d felt the need to hide away, outside the reach of all of Littleport. But there wasn’t enough information. No names, no dates. It all meant nothing in a vacuum.

  Maybe this was where the stolen cash was going? Maybe what I’d uncovered last summer was just a small part of it all—

  My phone rang, jarring me. A name I’d never thought I’d see again lighting up the display.

  “Hey,” I answered.

  “Hi. Sorry I was a little impatient.” In all the years that had passed, I’d never deleted Connor’s name from my phone. And Sadie had found him here. In the things I had lost but held on to.

  “It’s hers, Connor. It’s bank stuff. Two payments. I don’t know what any of it means or why she hid it.” The words coming without a second thought, a habit of trust. He’d covered for me once before, he claimed. Like a promise that he was on my side. But I wanted to take the words back as soon as I said them, no longer sure of his intentions—of anyone’s. Things were moving too fast, and I kept making mistakes.