A Good Idea

by Cristina Moracho

  I drove to Owen’s cabin; no one would look for me there, with him in jail. The place had been trashed, I assumed by Silas, searching fruitlessly for the pills. The mermaid lamp was on the ground, bulb shattered; the corny thrift-store oil paintings I’d always teased Owen about had been torn from the walls and slashed open; the stacks of books painstakingly arranged in the living room had all been toppled over. I sighed as I looked around at the damage. It would take the whole night to clean it up.

  The cans of beer in the fridge were still intact, so I cracked one open and took a few hearty swallows. I wrapped some ice cubes in a dishrag and pressed it to the side of my face, wincing. The ashtray I found under the couch. I righted the coffee table and sat smoking, drinking, trying to keep the swelling down, trying to think of a plan. Maybe Owen could come up with Silas’s money in time; maybe he could simply give Silas back his product. But that didn’t solve the problem of Silas in general. Emily was right; Owen was guilty, and I didn’t care about anything besides how to protect him. And myself. Between Silas and Calder, Williston was starting to feel crowded with sociopaths who had it out for me.

  So I cleaned the cabin, sweeping up the broken glass and cigarette butts, putting the furniture back where it belonged, rebuilding the towers of books in the living room. Even the small bathroom had been ransacked—the toilet tank’s porcelain cover lay in two pieces, the medicine cabinet was open, its contents spilled everywhere, and the tiny cabinet beneath the sink had been emptied onto the floor. I tidied it all, neatly placing the unused rolls of toilet paper back into their basket, sifting through the debris to determine what was still worth keeping, lining up the boxes of Q-tips and bottles of Advil in the meticulous rows I knew Owen liked.

  Kneeling down, I reached behind the toilet for an errant tube of Crest, and a small plastic cylinder rolled across the floor, coming to rest by my foot. It was a tube of lipstick, and that old jealousy began to rise inside my chest, even as I reminded myself I was with Serena now, even as I told myself all the usual bullshit, that Owen had never been my boyfriend, that of course he fucked other girls and, who knew, maybe even dated once in a while, and if I was willing to come up with some sort of scheme to keep Owen safe from Silas, it shouldn’t be that hard to wish Owen all the best when it came to finding a nice girlfriend.

  Then I looked closer at the lipstick in my hand, pulling off the cap and twisting the bottom, and I saw that unmistakable red, that signature shade I would have known anywhere. Fire and Ice. Betty’s.

  • • •

  I slept until the next afternoon, curled up in a ball on the couch underneath flannel blankets that smelled like Owen. Whenever I started to wake up, I remembered everything that had happened in the past few days and willed myself back into unconsciousness. I didn’t want to think about why Owen had one of Betty’s lipsticks in his bathroom, or how much time was left until Silas’s deadline was up, whether Owen would get out of jail today or if the police would come for Serena and me next. The constant effort I’d exerted, ever since I came back to Williston, trying to be brave or clever or convincingly deceitful, had left me spent.

  It wasn’t until the front door opened and Owen walked in that I finally allowed myself to surface. He looked terrible and I forced myself to stem a tide of sympathy for him, reminding myself he wasn’t the only one who’d been through an ordeal in the last day or two.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, but I could tell he was glad to see me.

  “It’s a long story,” I said, slowly sitting up, the blankets still wrapped around me.

  “Jesus Christ, what happened to your face?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  He sat beside me on the couch. “You should probably start at the beginning.”

  “Before we get into that, maybe we should talk about this first.” I pulled the lipstick from my pocket and tossed it to him. He caught it with one hand and looked down at it with grim recognition.

  “Finley—”

  “Did you fuck her?”

  “What difference does it make now?” he asked.

  “All the difference,” I yelled. I was awake now for sure. “I’ve been waging a goddamn war of attrition with this entire piece-of-shit town for her. Yesterday I got beaten up by your connection and I still came here to clean up the house that he trashed so that you wouldn’t have to do it when you got home from jail. So, yeah, Owen, it makes a difference to me whether you were fucking my best friend.”

  “Wait, Silas did that to you?”

  “That’s not what we’re talking about right now. How could you do it? How could you sleep with her? She was my best friend. And your cousin, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Only by marriage.”

  “Owen! Was it you they found in the car with her? Are you the reason she got shipped off to Jesus camp?”

  “It wasn’t me, I swear.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Okay, fine. You want to talk about loyalty? I’m out on bail for a crime I know you committed, something I’ve conveniently neglected to mention to the police, because who fucking cares if I go to jail, you’re the one with the bright future.”

  “God, are you ever going to stop acting like such a martyr? Stop pretending that these things just keep happening to you. Everybody makes choices.”

  Owen stood up and began to pace. “What did Silas say? Did he threaten you?”

  I thought about the deadline Silas had given me, considered passing the message on to Owen as instructed, but I didn’t trust Silas, didn’t believe that obeying his order would keep Owen or me from getting hurt. Or hurt worse, I guess. I didn’t want Owen to work out some kind of deal with him. I wanted Silas out of the picture, period.

  “It doesn’t matter. I think I know a way to get rid of him.”

  “Stop,” he said, holding up his hand. “Not another word. Get up. Put your shoes on. We’re leaving.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’m taking you to your dad’s, we’re going to pack up all your shit, and then you’re getting your ass back to New York.”

  “No way.”

  “Don’t argue with me.”

  “I’m not leaving!”

  Owen crouched down by the couch and put his hands on my knees. “Listen to me. I am sorry about sleeping with Betty. It’s complicated, okay? And I know you had some well-intentioned, ludicrous idea that you’d come home this summer and—I don’t know, exactly, what your plan was. But it’s not working. Going after Calder, that was stupid, and futile, and I tried to tell you a hundred times. But this thing with Silas—this is my doing, it’s my fault, and now you need to go somewhere he can’t get to you.”

  “And what about you? We need to do something about Silas so that he can’t get to you.”

  “Finley, I am begging you. Literally, on my knees, begging you. Please. Let me put you on a bus today.”

  “No.”

  “What about a train? I’ll even spring for a train ticket.”

  “No.”

  He leaned forward, resting one hand on my bruised cheek. “Does it hurt?”

  “It’s a little tender.”

  “If you stay, it’s only going to get worse.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I know you don’t care,” he said, “but I really need you to start.”

  The phone rang. “Answer it,” I said. “Maybe it’s good news.”

  He laughed mirthlessly and went into the kitchen. “Hello? . . . Oh, hi, Mr. Blake. . . . Yeah, she’s here. She didn’t tell you? I’m sorry. . . . Yeah, I’m okay, thanks. . . . No, but thank you, I appreciate that. Here, why don’t you talk to her?” He put his hand over the mouthpiece as he stretched the receiver into the living room. “You didn’t tell him you were sleeping here?”

  “I didn’t know I was going to sleep here until I passed out.”


  He shook his head and handed me the phone.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said, reaching for my cigarettes.

  “Hey, Fin,” he said. He didn’t sound angry at all.

  “I’m sorry about last night. It’s a long story.”

  “It’s okay, I’m not mad. I’m just glad you’re all right.”

  “Are you all right? You sound a little, I don’t know, a little weird.” I looked up at Owen. I think he might be crying, I mouthed.

  “Tears of frustration,” Owen muttered. “From dealing with you.”

  “Dad, are you there?” I said.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just been a tough morning.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Maybe you should come here, and I can tell you in person.”

  “Whatever it is, just tell me now.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry. They found her. They found Betty.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Her body. They found Betty’s body.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN.

  MY FATHER WASN’T at the office. Instead, he was at home—the better for him to comfort me, I supposed—and he didn’t seem surprised when I showed up with Owen, both of us shaky and pale.

  Dad told us what he knew. Her body—what was left of her; I could hardly bear to think of it—had been found in the woods, in a shallow grave, nowhere near the beach where Calder had once claimed to have killed her. The police would need to use dental records to make a positive identification, but they were reasonably sure it was her, because of the scraps of peach silk found with her, and because of the long, blonde hair. Owen and I sat at the kitchen table while Dad talked, drinking his French-press coffee, Owen’s arm around me as I sank lower and lower in my chair.

  “Will they even be able to tell how she died?” I finally asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dad said. “I really don’t know what will happen now. I’m so sorry, Fin.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense. He said he drowned her. Why would he take her all the way out to the woods and bury her?”

  “At least the police will have to reopen the investigation now, right?” Owen said. “Maybe they’ll be able to find something—something that will prove that it was him?”

  “I don’t know,” Dad repeated. “The cops finally have proof that she’s dead, so in theory, Owen, you’re right; they’ll have to investigate. That doesn’t mean they’ll focus on Calder. And if it turns out she didn’t drown—if they can even figure out how she died—they may stop looking at him altogether.”

  “What about her parents?” I asked. “Have they heard yet?”

  “The sheriff told them this morning. Once the medical examiner releases the body, there’ll finally be a funeral.”

  “Oh my God,” I said, the finality of it sinking in. I’d had no hope, none, and still this news tore me open all over again. For eight months my imagination had led me astray. I’d been picturing Betty drifting in the Atlantic, when she’d been here in Williston all along. “Where did they find her?”

  Dad hesitated.

  “Where?” I asked again.

  “Off the hiking trail that starts out by the highway. The one across from the scenic overlook.”

  I wondered if Serena knew yet, if there was still time for her to hear it from me. I stood up so quickly that my chair almost tipped over. “I have to go,” I said.

  “What happened to your face?” asked Dad.

  “I was drunk,” I said, gingerly touching the tender bruises around my still-sore eye. I wondered if I had any of Serena’s blues around to take the edge off. “I think I fell. I don’t really remember.”

  He met my gaze. “I don’t really believe you.”

  “I don’t really care.”

  Dad glanced at Owen.

  “Don’t look at me,” Owen said. “I was in jail.”

  “I don’t know about you guys,” I said, “but I can’t wait to see this week’s police blotter.”

  • • •

  When Serena answered the door, I could tell she didn’t know yet. Her gray eyes were narrowed in anger—and at that moment I remembered we’d had plans the night before, plans I’d totally forgotten, and that she was legitimately angry with me—but as soon as she got a good look at my face her mouth formed a horrified O, and she grabbed my wrist and pulled me inside, into the foyer.

  “Jesus Christ, Finley, what the fuck happened to you? Are you all right?”

  “It’s not important. Really,” I said.

  “What do you mean, ‘it’s not important’? Who did this to you?”

  “I’ll tell you everything later, okay? First, I need to talk to you about something else.”

  She must have read my grim expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “Something—” I faltered on my first try. “Something’s happened.”

  She led me toward the stairs. “Okay. Okay. Come on.”

  Serena’s house smelled of flowers and whatever it is they put in Earl Grey tea—bergamot oil, I think. It was bigger than it seemed from the outside, with dark hardwood floors and lots of little mahogany tables covered in delicate vases and Tiffany lamps. She led me upstairs and down a long hallway lit by sconces, and finally into her room—unmade bed, an armchair by the window, dusty gray curtains open, showing the clouds outside threatening to burst. Her belongings were a series of nests: a pile of laundry by the bed, cassette tapes spilling out of their cases on the floor in front of the stereo, a stack of books resting against the chair.

  “Where are your parents?” I asked.

  “Doing something at church.” She sat on the floor and patted the spot next to her.

  I joined her, hugging my legs and resting my chin on my knees.

  “Is it Caroline?” she asked gently.

  I swallowed. “It’s Betty. They found her body.”

  “What?” Serena said sharply, one hand anxiously reaching for the crucifix around her neck.

  “In the woods. I don’t know much yet.”

  “In the woods? What was she doing in the woods?” she said, her voice rising.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did they find her?” Her eyes bore into mine, accusatory.

  “I don’t know,” I said defensively.

  “So are they going to arrest him? They found her body, they know she was murdered, doesn’t that mean they arrest him now?”

  “Serena,” I said softly, “that isn’t what this means. Unless there’s something that can link her body to Calder, this doesn’t change anything.”

  “This changes everything!” she screamed, and then she surprised me—both of us, I think—by bursting into violent, hysterical sobs.

  I put my arms around her, stroked her hair, her back, made every soothing noise I could. She was as inconsolable as any small child I’d ever seen melt down over a stolen toy on a playground, those same bewildered tears. Why is this happening to me? It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair!

  “I know,” I whispered. “I know.”

  “I don’t want her to be dead anymore. They say it gets better, but it doesn’t. She keeps getting more dead and I keep feeling worse and I don’t think it’s ever going to get better.”

  A wave of irrational helplessness swept over me as Serena convulsed in my arms. For some reason, I remembered those childhood assemblies in the auditorium of Williston Elementary, the principal onstage explaining that the solution to any problem was to tell a grown-up. But he never told us what to do when the grown-ups were incompetent or had their own problems or just didn’t fucking care. Serena’s sobs were tapering off, more from exhaustion than anything else, and I was filled with a fresh, raw grief—not just for Betty, but for the way the world was supposed to work, and my sinking suspicion that Serena was right, and we would feel this way foreve
r.

  I wiped away her tears. I kissed her forehead and her mouth, and she kissed me back with the same vehemence and desperation that had just powered her furious outburst. I took off her shirt and laid her down on the floor, unfastening her jeans, pulling them down, my hand between her legs. She whimpered as I touched her, turning her face away from mine, grimacing and arching her back, fingers splayed out and flexing against the rug as her breathing came faster and faster until she cried out, wordless, guttural, and I watched her as she came and went to that secret, inward place; until slowly she returned, panting, opening her eyes and smiling at me and pulling me closer so she could kiss me.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “My pleasure,” I whispered back.

  “Do you know where it is?” she asked, abruptly ending the moment as she shimmied her pants back up around her hips.

  “Where what is?” I asked her.

  “The spot they found her body.”

  “I think so, yeah.”

  She stood up, looking for her shoes. “I want to go there.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  She answered me only with a look.

  “Okay,” I said. “If that’s what you want.”

  • • •

  We drove out to the highway. I parked by the scenic overlook, which was already crowded with cars. Across the road, I could see the trailhead; it wasn’t blocked off, as I had been secretly hoping. I guessed the cops hadn’t wanted to hang crime scene tape along the side of the highway where drivers could see it; bad publicity for Williston’s already withered tourist trade.

  But the news was out. Even as we climbed the trail, I could hear the buzz and hum of voices in the woods above us. The crime scene tape started about halfway up the hill, wrapped around the trees on the side of the path, flapping in the salty wind.

  The crowd was made up of people I recognized from town, from Charlie’s, from the Halyard—vaguely familiar faces whose names I couldn’t place, and a few who I could, like Jenny the waitress and Janet the aerobics instructor. A TV reporter stood in a small clearing filming a segment, and I wanted to knock her cameraman’s equipment from his shoulder and ask the two of them where the fuck they had been last November. Betty disappearing hadn’t been news worthy of the TV reporters from Portland; now her body turned up in the forest and suddenly they had a story on their hands. I was sorry we’d come, knowing that to anybody else we’d appear to be just another pair of rubberneckers.