Every Last Fear

by Alex Finlay

  “You need to relax,” Harper said out of the side of her mouth, sensing Maggie’s stiffness. “I’m going to get us drinks,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Wait,” Maggie called, but Harper was already weaving through the horde. Maggie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trying not to look nervous. It wasn’t that she didn’t like to have fun, or was a prude. And Harper was wrong: she’d had a drink before, and even made out with Reeves Anderson after the science fair. But for her entire high school career, she’d been living with the aftermath of a party just like this one.

  She felt a pit in her stomach about lying to her father. But she hadn’t really lied, had she? She’d said she was staying the night at Harper’s, which was true. Dad didn’t ask about their plans. And she couldn’t spend her life avoiding parties, right? She was headed to college soon. Matt told her that he went to parties all the time at NYU, though she couldn’t imagine Matt’s uptight girlfriend going to a gathering like this one.

  The crowd roared again at a ball plopping into the cup, and Maggie thought about the cell phone video—the anonymous tip she’d received from that night. The last hours before Charlotte’s murder. The six seconds of video had the decadent feel of this party—as if something could veer out of control at any moment, which made tonight both scary and exciting.

  She’d spent many nights thinking about the infamous house party seven years ago. What had happened? Had Danny and Charlotte really gotten into an argument? Why did they separate when the cops busted up the party? And why couldn’t Danny remember anything? Maggie hadn’t been allowed to attend Danny’s trial, she was only ten years old at the time, but she’d since read all the transcripts.

  PROSECUTOR:

  You attended a party?

  DEFENDANT:

  Yes.

  PROSECUTOR:

  At Kyle Brawn’s house?

  DEFENDANT:

  Yeah.

  PROSECUTOR:

  What time did you leave?

  DEFENDANT:

  I don’t remember. I drank too much. I blacked out.

  PROSECUTOR:

  You ran out when the police arrived?

  DEFENDANT:

  I don’t remember, but I must have.

  PROSECUTOR:

  You fought with Charlotte at the party.

  DEFENDANT:

  No.

  PROSECUTOR:

  She told you she was pregnant and you had a fight.

  DEFENDANT:

  No!

  PROSECUTOR:

  If you don’t remember anything, how do you know that?

  Someone touched her shoulder, and Maggie turned around, thinking Harper had returned. But it was him.

  “Hey,” Eric said. “You made it.” He’d obviously been at the party awhile. His eyes were glassy, speech slurred.

  She smiled, not sure what to say.

  “Come with me,” he said, dragging her by the hand.

  Soon she found herself in a laundry room making out with him. He reeked of pot and stale beer, and her eyes kept going to the dirty laundry piled in the basket on top of the dryer. She pulled away.

  “What’s wrong?” Eric slurred.

  “Nothing, but this isn’t how I—”

  He grabbed her by the arms, pushing her against the wall. He jammed his tongue into her mouth. With one hand, he managed to hold both of her wrists above her head. With the other hand, he started groping her breasts.

  “Stop,” Maggie said, yanking back.

  But he didn’t. He kept her arms pinned. The fingers of his large hand squeezed her wrists together, both arms against the wall. It hurt and she was scared. And his other hand managed to slide down, unbutton her pants. Panic enveloped her.

  She looked him in the eyes. They were nothing like earlier at the Center.

  They were dark.

  Wolfish.

  “I said, stop!”

  Another wave of terror coursed through her. Of all the horror stories her father had warned her about—exaggerated fears of a man who couldn’t bear another loss—here she was. He would be so disappointed in her. And she was in herself.

  But there was one positive that had derived from all of Dad’s fears: he’d made sure his children were prepared if they ever encountered a monster. Self-defense classes, role-playing, emergency planning.

  Maggie steeled herself. “Slow down,” she said, softer. “I’ll let you, but what’s the rush? Take off your shirt.”

  He released her arms, yanked his hand from the waistband of her pants, then clumsily tugged off his shirt and threw it on the floor. Unexpectedly, he unbuttoned his pants and they dropped to the floor around his ankles.

  “Touch it,” he said. His rank breath wafted over her.

  Maggie tried to remain calm. She put her hands on the balls of his muscular shoulders now. She stared seductively into his eyes, trying not to show the panic in hers. “If that’s what you want.” She drew back slightly like she was going to lower to her knees, and Eric’s body shuddered.

  She squeezed his shoulders tightly, using them as an anchor as she rammed her knee into his balls.

  Eric doubled over and howled. Maggie pushed him hard. With his pants still around his ankles, he toppled to the laundry room floor.

  He started yelling at her as she heaved open the door and ran.

  CHAPTER 13

  In the car ride home, tears spilled from Maggie’s eyes. She felt emotionally hungover, adrenaline ripping through her. Anger at Eric. At herself for being such a fool.

  “Talk to me,” Harper said. She was in the back seat with Maggie. One of Harper’s friends Maggie didn’t know was driving.

  Maggie wiped her eyes. Her chest convulsed in a flutter of tight breaths.

  “What did he do?” Harper said. “I swear to God, I’ll—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “That motherfucker.”

  “It’s okay. I’m okay. I just want to go home.”

  “You’re not gonna stay over?”

  “I just want to go home.”

  Harper told the girl driving where to go. They made their way down the suburban roads, Maggie staring out at nothing, tuning out Harper ranting about Eric. Finally they pulled up to Maggie’s house.

  “Text me later,” Harper said as Maggie unbuckled her seat belt.

  “Can you tell I’ve been crying?” Maggie asked, worried her dad would ask questions if he was awake.

  Harper wiped Maggie’s eye with her thumb. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Maggie said, slipping out of the car. “It’s mine,” she added quietly to herself.

  She unlocked the front door, surprised that the lights in the entryway and down the hall in the kitchen were still burning bright. It was late. Dad was usually in bed by now, and he was a stickler about saving electricity.

  She thought of just heading up to bed. But if he was awake, he’d wonder why she was home and not staying over at Harper’s. She tried to look composed as she walked quietly down the hallway.

  That’s when she saw her father on the kitchen floor.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Dad! Oh my god!” Maggie ran over to her father. He was out cold, a pool of vomit on the kitchen floor near his head.

  She crouched down and shook his shoulders, fumbling for her phone to call 9-1-1.

  But her dad jerked awake. He sat up quickly. His pupils were dilated, and he seemed off balance.

  “Dad, what happened?” Maggie said in between ragged breaths. “Are you okay?”

  Her father looked around, confused. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he seemed to have a flash of lucidity.

  “I’m fine, honey,” he said, grabbing the counter with one hand and pulling himself up. His movements were slow, labored, like an elderly person with arthritis. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

  Maggie stared at him, trying to process the scene. “What happened? Did you slip and bump your head?” Her eyes went t
o the vomit. When Maggie was little, her mother seemed obsessed with concussions, the plight of a football mom, and Maggie remembered that throwing up could be a sign of a serious head injury.

  “No. I think I may have gotten food poisoning. After dinner, I got this intense heat in my face and I threw up.” Her dad went to the sink and ran water from the faucet, cleaning whatever was in the basin. “I must’ve passed out. But I’m okay, I’m fine.”

  What would make you so sick you’d pass out? Maggie’s eyes were drawn to the bottle of Scotch on the counter. It was nearly empty, less than a finger of brown liquid settled at the bottom. Her dad wasn’t much of a drinker—well, until lately. She started to put things together. He was passed-out drunk. Embarrassed to tell her.

  “You’re home,” her dad said, more upbeat. He grabbed for the paper towel dispenser, unraveled a handful, and cleaned up the mess on the floor, casually, as if it weren’t strange at all.

  “I thought you were staying at Harper’s?”

  Maggie considered telling him about the party. About what had happened with Eric. She was still shaken up. But she, too, was embarrassed. Weirdly ashamed. But most of all, she worried that her dad might go off half-cocked. Call Eric’s parents. Or confront him, even.

  “I wasn’t feeling well myself,” Maggie said. “I wanted to sleep in my own bed.”

  “Can I get you something?” Her father opened the cupboard where they kept Advil and over-the-counter medicine.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  He seemed to believe her. And he didn’t notice that she was dressed for a party, not a lazy sleepover. Just as well. Her dad didn’t need more to worry about.

  Her father had a glint in his eyes, like he’d just realized something. Maggie felt a jolt, worried that he knew she was lying. But he rushed to his smartphone on the counter and gestured for her to come over.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” he said. His tone was excited, eyes manic.

  He started thumbing the phone. “I got a video call. Right before I got sick.”

  Maggie just watched him.

  “It was her, Magpie.”

  “Who?”

  He looked at her intently: “Charlotte.”

  Okay, he must’ve bumped his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “She called. She seemed scared. I saw her. She was alive.…”

  “I think maybe you weren’t feeling well”—she eyed the bottle—“and you just thought you—”

  “No,” her father said. “She was older, but there was no mistaking it. I’ve looked at hundreds of photos of her. It was Charlotte.”

  “Then it’s a prank,” Maggie said. “Somebody found a girl who looks like Charlotte. Or they did some CGI. A sick joke.” It wouldn’t be the first time someone had played a cruel prank on their family.

  “She said help me, Magpie.” Her dad looked like he was going to tear up.

  “Charlotte’s dead, Dad. They found her body. She’s—”

  “No, think about it. The girl’s head was smashed in, face completely disfigured.”

  “But DNA—they must’ve—”

  “I don’t think they ever ran Charlotte’s DNA. And why would they? No one questioned that it was Charlotte.”

  “But, Dad…” Maggie trailed off. She’d seen him like this before. Going down the rabbit hole. Yesterday it was the video of the party—the image of the Unknown Partygoer. Today, a FaceTime call showing a dead girl alive and kicking. In truth, she kind of liked it. The light in his eyes—the rare optimism, the enthusiasm—spending time together working the case. What strange daddy issues she must have, bonding over her imprisoned brother and his murdered girlfriend.

  She decided to humor him. Let him sleep it off. Maggie gestured for him to give her the phone. “You said it was FaceTime?”

  “Yeah. I tried calling back, but it just rings.” He handed her the device.

  She held the phone, still studying her father.

  “The call, it said it was from a town in Mexico.”

  Maggie examined the call log. The phone said it was from Tulum, a place called Moloko Bar.

  “There are services that can generate fake caller IDs,” Maggie said. “It could be a scam.”

  “Or not,” her father said.

  Maggie pulled up a travel site on the phone. It described Tulum as “a stylish vacation spot along Mexico’s eastern coast, with amazing beaches, historic ruins, and a cooler, more laid-back vibe than the mega-resorts of Cancún and Riviera Maya.”

  Her father stared over Maggie’s shoulder at the photograph on the travel site: a beautiful young woman on a beach sitting on a swing set made of carved wood, paper-white sand under her feet, the neon-blue ocean behind her.

  Maggie googled Moloko Bar. It was a nightclub, images of young women in glittery attire getting bottle service, apparently having the time of their lives.

  She looked at her dad again. It was as if a lightbulb had gone off over his head.

  “Next week,” he said, “for spring break, how’d you like to go on a trip?”

  Maggie tipped her head to one side. “Where? You mean there?” She pointed at the screen.

  Her dad nodded slowly, his eyes alight.

  “I thought we couldn’t go anywhere this year—that money was—”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “But Mom is—”

  “They get back from Nebraska on Sunday. We can leave later that day or the next morning.”

  “I don’t think Mom will like—”

  “Let me handle your mother.”

  He was acting impulsively. No, obsessed, crazy. Maybe he did have a concussion. But Maggie didn’t have the heart to pop this balloon tonight. He’d come around.

  “Get some sleep,” he said. “We’ve got a lot of planning and packing to do tomorrow.”

  She wanted to tell him what had happened earlier. That she’d lied to him and was sorry. That she’d been terrified. That she’d used what he’d taught her and gotten away. But instead she kissed him on the cheek and said, “Good night, Dad.”

  * * *

  Sitting on her bed in her sleep shirt, Maggie hugged her knees as her mind returned to the party. Her heart thrummed looking at the fingerprint bruises on her wrists. She’d been a fool. Believing Eric was interested in her. Believing he was a sweet boy, like her brothers. She tried to suppress the tears, but that look in his eyes. If she hadn’t tricked him into letting his guard down, he would’ve … She didn’t want to think about that. She wanted to forget about tonight. She wanted this stupid year to end so she could leave for college and start over. Someplace where it mattered how intelligent you were, and not just how you looked or how well you threw a ball. Someplace where she wasn’t just Danny Pine’s sister.

  She wished her mom was home. She could call her, of course. But she didn’t want to call this late, worry Mom while she was out of town. Mom had enough going on, dealing with Grandpa. And returning to that town where everyone hated them.

  She thought about Eric again, pretending to care about Danny’s case. Faking interest in the video. She reached for her laptop, which was at the foot of the bed. She wanted to check for any comments or tips about the video. If there was one thing the Pines were good at, it was using Danny’s case to avoid their problems. Excitement flickered in her chest. The page was filled with dozens of new comments, potential tips. But then she read them:

  Slut

  You should KYS

  No one invited a loser to the party

  Your brother’s a killer and you’re a whore

  Skank!!!!!!!

  A sob escaped her mouth. It was Eric or his friends, it had to be. And KYS? Kill yourself? Because she’d rejected him? Or was all this to deter her from saying what had really happened in that laundry room? She snapped the laptop shut. She pinched her eyes closed and cried herself to sleep.

  CHAPTER 15

  MATT PINE

  The consular officer who was supposed to pick up M
att at the airport was a no-show. Matt texted Agent Keller, then made his way past the luggage turnstiles crowded with travelers waiting anxiously for their bags. He stopped at the rental car counter, but they had no vehicles available. The rental agent told him that Tulum was about two hours away, and cabs and shuttles were just outside the main exit.

  He careened around the frazzled masses and through the surprisingly small doors that led outside. Bright sunshine assailed him.

  Near a cluster of vans, a man holding a clipboard approached him. “Welcome to Mexico,” he said in accented English. “Do you have a reservation?”

  “I don’t. I need to get to Tulum,” Matt said.

  The man grimaced. “We’re booked solid, my friend. This is our busy season.”

  Matt let out a breath. “There’s nothing? I’ll take anything you have. It doesn’t have to be nice.”

  The man paused, like he was thinking. He unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt and said something into it in Spanish. A distorted voice responded.

  “It won’t be very comfortable,” the man said, “but we can probably fit you in. Three thousand pesos.”

  “Will you take US?” Matt asked, showing the man a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Yes, one hundred sixty dollars.”

  Matt had five hundred dollars in cash, the ATM’s daily maximum. “I’ll take it.”

  “Bus cinco,” the man said, pointing to a line of vans. They were larger than standard vans, but smaller than buses.

  Matt didn’t speak Spanish, but cinco was easy enough. What college kid hadn’t been to a Cinco de Mayo party? Matt paid the fare and hesitantly tipped the man a twenty—he didn’t have smaller bills—leaving Matt enough for a shuttle back to the airport and dinner. He found the van with a sign displaying the number five.

  The driver was leaning against the vehicle smoking a cigarette. He sported an impressive mustache.