She's Too Pretty to Burn

by Wendy Heard

  I open up my photos. I feel like I’m sneaking something.

  I’ve been taking pictures.

  There are shots of the pool, bright turquoise with the sun rising in the sky above it. I took this because I love the feeling of getting to the pool first, with only the birds to keep me company.

  There are shots of the beach, from when I went alone at Veronica’s insistence while she was in the hospital because I needed to get outside. It was the middle of the day, bright and sunny, and at first I’d been a little afraid to go in the water. After a lifetime of being told how weird and wrong it is to want to do things alone, I felt like everyone was looking at me.

  But then I remembered everything I had survived, and I dropped my towel on the sand and marched straight into the waves.

  There are selfies in here, too, but not the kind I think Veronica or my mom would approve of. They aren’t flattering or artistic; they’re more to capture certain moments I don’t want to forget. I’ve been taking rock-climbing lessons, and there’s one I took from the top of a climb, my face sweaty and shining in the sun. There’s one I took that day at the beach, just to prove to myself I could, that I wasn’t afraid anymore. I was wet from the ocean, my hair plastered to my head, sunglasses a little lopsided, but, for the first time in my life, I felt brave and bold and all the things I’ve always longed to be.

  After all, Nico is still out there. He could be back any day, with worse plans in mind than the ones he was forced to abandon. For the last six weeks, I’ve felt like I’ve been living in the eye of a hurricane, the hushed pause before a trigger is pulled. I think I’ll feel this way until the police catch him, if they ever do.

  And if they don’t? Is this just how the rest of my life will feel?

  I navigate to Instagram and open the years-old account I never use. It has a handful of photos with Liz from a couple years ago. I look like an infant in them.

  I start uploading pictures. I caption them with This was the day I went alone to the beach and Highest climb yet. The captions are for me. I’m capturing my life, not for anyone else’s eyes, but just to have it, and maybe even to share it with people who might like to be a part of it, like Veronica, or Claudia, or a few of the friends I’ve made on this new swim team.

  Why does this sharing of pictures feel so different than when Veronica did it? Is it because I’m in control of my own story here?

  When I’m done, I look at the grid, and it’s so colorful. Bright blue water, bright blue sky, warm sun on tanned skin, the orange of a sunset.

  I feel good. This is my story. The pictures of me that are going on tour—those are Veronica’s story, they’re the part I play in her life, but they aren’t me. She can have them; she’s allowed to own her side of the story. But I’m also allowed to own mine.

  From down the hall, I hear Veronica let out a shriek, and then my phone buzzes with a text from her.

  ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME, it says. An image pops up, a screenshot of the selfie I just posted, of me at the top of my recent climb. She’s annotated it, drawing red arrows to the muscles in my shoulders.

  I laugh out loud.

  I write, You’re such a stalker, how did you even know about this account?

  Because I’m a stalker! Now come in here and take your clothes off.

  I snort. Your mom is home.

  A pause, and then TANTRUM!!!!!

  Of all the colorful things in this new, precarious life, she is the most colorful.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  MICK

  I pull the Honda CR-V over onto the shoulder of the too-familiar desert road. This is the used car Veronica’s dad bought her for senior year. It was twelve thousand dollars. Claudia had said the words it’s only twelve thousand dollars when she asked Veronica’s dad to pay for it.

  Veronica and I have been arguing about whether what I’m doing today is necessary, or if I should wait until she can come with me. I can’t handle waiting anymore. As long as the photos are out here, they hang over my head, a threat waiting to be executed.

  I grab the pile of rock-climbing gear from the back seat and lock the CR-V behind me. I don’t bring my phone. It’s off. No one can know I came here. The police have pretty much let go of the idea that Veronica and I might have been involved in Lily’s and David’s deaths, but it was touch and go there for a minute, with them thinking I may have killed both Lily and David despite Veronica’s insistence that I didn’t. Ultimately, the DA didn’t think they had enough evidence to charge me, especially with so much evidence pointing to Nico. When the lawyer Veronica’s parents paid for pointed out the impossibility of me pushing David, who was twice my size, off the bridge, they decided to pour their resources into the hunt for Nico.

  But still. They could change their minds anytime.

  The sun is so hot and bright, I feel like it’s inside my skull, burning my brain. I’m already sweating through my T-shirt. It must be a hundred and ten. I pick my way carefully through the brush and cacti, trudging up the hill until I’m at the top of the cliff Veronica fell off of.

  Damn, it’s a long way down. I can’t believe she survived the fall. She’s so lucky. I’m so lucky.

  I look back at the CR-V. It’s completely alone, a solitary interruption in the desert and winding road.

  Goose bumps stipple my forearms. This place feels like a fork in the road between a reality in which Veronica died and I was remembered as a stainless steel corpse and … and this. Just yesterday, I used the word precarious when thinking about my new life, and now I feel superstitiously certain that this life is wrong, that I stole it, that I cheated fate.

  Stop. Enough. I need to get moving.

  I find the little ravine I used to climb down last time. I strap myself into a harness and hammer some pins into the rocks. I’ll have to be able to make my way back up alone, so it’s important that I take my time and do this right.

  I climb down backward, so much more confident now that I have the right gear. Rock climbing is getting easier and easier the more I practice, and this time, it only takes me fifteen or twenty minutes to get to the bottom. I disentangle myself from the gear and move carefully through the rocks and weeds; this is really a dried-up creek bed, now that I look at it without the distraction of wounded Veronica. It only takes a little while of scouting before I find the spot where she lay dying. The rocks where her head rested are covered in dried blood.

  I walk past the rust-brown inkblot bloodstains. Twenty paces, heel to toe. I turn left and approach the wall of the cliff. At its base is a large, roughly triangular stone I immediately recognize. I squat down, get my gloved hands under it, and heave it up. With great effort, I shift it over six inches. The manila envelope comes into view. It’s stained and dirty.

  I shake grubs and spiders off it, remove my gloves, and pull out the contents.

  There are the clear plastic negative sleeves with the negatives intact inside them and a stack of prints. I flip through them. There are photos of the tent, and there are David, Lily, and me lugging Christmas trees to surround it.

  These people are dead. Lily, with her dark, sparkling intelligence, and David, with his uncomplicated good nature—gone forever.

  I come to the picture of myself, torch in hand. Next to me, Nico looks at the camera with an exhilarated, smug expression that takes my breath away with fear.

  It’s kind of a shame to destroy it. I’ll never do anything that reckless again, that destructive. For a moment, I’m sad, longing for the version of me that Nico inspired. It was powerful.

  But no. That’s a lie. With Nico, I only felt powerful when I was destroying something. Now I want to build things.

  That’s what I realize about Nico: He’s not smarter than anyone else. He’s not special, or a force of change. It’s so easy to destroy. It’s cheap and lazy and small.

  That doesn’t mean he won’t come back for us. I know he will. It’s only a matter of time. When he’s set his mind on something, he does it. No regrets, no conscien
ce, no second thoughts.

  I pile up the photos and scrounge for twigs and dry leaves. I pull a lighter from my pocket and set them on fire.

  I sit there and watch them burn. I add more twigs and leaves, and soon the whole thing is just a pile of ash. I stamp it out, afraid of starting another wildfire. I cover the ashes with dirt and rocks.

  I return to the spot where I found Veronica. After staring at her dried blood for a while, I find myself sitting down and then lying back, putting my head on the rocks where hers rested.

  I look up at the pastel-blue sky.

  Birds flit around, back and forth, crisscrossing paths in front of the baby blue. Veronica is right. I’ve always noticed birds.

  A silhouette appears on the cliff’s edge.

  My heart stops.

  It’s tall and slim. It stands there for a few seconds, looking down at me, and then it disappears.

  I sit up.

  It’s Nico.

  What do I do? I have no phone.

  Did I lock the CR-V? I don’t know.

  He can either climb down somewhere I can’t see him, or he can wait for me up there and kick me in the head when I climb up.

  I’m safer down here. I should hide.

  I grab the harness and other gear, throw it over my shoulder, and sprint down the creek bed. I make good time, jumping from rock to rock, dirt patch to dirt patch. The ravine winds around a little, but I’m not worried about getting lost. I can easily retrace my steps. The heat is taking its toll, though, and I’m excruciatingly thirsty. I think I might be getting heat stroke. I slow my pace and come to a stop.

  I put my hands on my knees. I can’t catch my breath. It’s like exercising inside a sauna.

  I walk past a crack in the cliff wall, and then I come back to it. It’s really just the space between two boulders, barely wide enough for me. I grab a stick off the ground and poke around in there, worried about snakes and mountain lions and whatever other creatures might live out here. I can’t find anything except more brush and rocks, so I turn sideways and slip into the crevice. It goes back about five feet and is just tall enough for me to stand upright.

  I stand there for a long time, chest heaving, heart pounding, ears straining for the sound of footsteps.

  My feet start going numb. How long can someone stand in one spot?

  My ears are hypervigilant. Birds. So many birds. No footsteps.

  It’s cooler in here than out there, but I’m still sweating more than is probably okay, given how thirsty I am.

  How long can I stay here?

  He could just be waiting for me at the top of the cliff. He could wait there all day. All night. He probably has water. Knowing Nico, he has an arsenal of murder supplies in a car parked right there on the shoulder by mine.

  To pass the time, I try to compile lists of things in my mind: all fifty states. All the algebra equations I can remember. All the movies I’ve seen. I try to count the times Veronica and I have kissed. I try to pin down my favorite moment between us. Maybe that first one, on the train. Or when she woke up in the hospital.

  I can’t stay here forever. At some point I have to go up there and find out what he has planned for me.

  I’m not crying. I’m not anything. I’m blank with panic, an empty slate of pure adrenaline.

  I have to face it.

  I peek out of the crevice, half expecting him to be there waiting. It’s peaceful, deceptively so. This desert is as dangerous as Nico. It will swallow me whole, and the birds will keep on singing.

  I stay to the edge of the creek bed and make my way back on careful, quiet feet. I’m so thirsty, I almost don’t care about Nico now. I’m desperate for water. The heat is alive, petting my skin.

  I start worrying I’ve come too far, that I’m lost. I keep walking. Maybe I was running faster than I remember. I’ve lost my sense of time and direction.

  And then there’s my rope, dangling from the top of the cliff straight ahead.

  I have to search the area. I can’t have Nico leaping out at me while I’m trying to climb up.

  With dread, I look all around, behind the next curve in the ravine, behind every bush and crack. I keep glancing up at the cliff’s edge, searching for signs that he’s watching me.

  It seems clear.

  I know it can’t be.

  He’s probably got a sunshade and a picnic set up for himself. He’s probably just going to wait for me to climb up and push me right off, so the cops will think it’s a rock-climbing accident.

  Trembling, I get back into the harness. I grip the rope. I have to clear my mind and climb carefully.

  The climb is endless. I keep waiting for Nico to appear, for the rope to be cut. I clutch the rocks with desperation. Before I ascend the last bit, I say a quick prayer.

  I pull myself up. I brace myself for an attack.

  Hills. Rocks. Emptiness.

  I scramble up the cliff and away from the edge. I detach myself from the rope and run down the hill, heart racing.

  There’s the CR-V, on the shoulder of the road. No other vehicle is parked anywhere in sight.

  I climb back up the hill. From here, I can see the road as it stretches off on both sides for miles.

  No cars.

  Did I imagine the silhouette? Could I have been delirious from the heat?

  On my hands and knees, I gather the rock-climbing gear into a pile and lug it back to the CR-V. I pop the back door and throw it into the storage compartment.

  I shut the door, only now thinking—could he be in the car?

  No. It’s a thousand degrees in there. If that was his hiding place, he’s dead.

  Still, I drop down and check underneath it.

  Nothing.

  I fling the doors open, passenger’s side front and back. No one is inside.

  I’m losing it. I almost just got swallowed by the desert, and for what?

  I shut the doors and go around to the driver’s side. I open the handle, and just before I can hop into the car, I notice something on my seat. It’s silver and shiny, like a stainless steel kitchen utensil.

  I reach out and touch it with a fingertip. It’s hot enough to burn straight through skin, like it’s been sitting here for hours.

  I pull my gloves back on and pick it up. It’s heavy.

  It’s a silver rose, the stem about ten inches long. It’s beautiful, but it’s made out of steel.

  Nico.

  The rose has thorns, wicked sharp, all along the stem.

  * * *

  I get back to Veronica’s house much later than I was supposed to. She and Claudia are in the living room with Erica, Veronica’s new agent or manager or whatever. She’s based in LA and is a striking-looking brunette with freckles covering her face, neck, and arms. The three of them are drinking coffee and laughing. Veronica looks good, like she spent some time primping. She decorated her wheelchair the second she got home from the hospital, and the wheels are all full of glued-on rhinestones. She calls them her “rims.”

  “Mick!” Veronica cries. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “I’m sorry I’m late. I was hiking, and I took a longer trail than I intended to.”

  Veronica says, “Did hiking go well?” It means, Did you burn the photos?

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Erica says, “Well, we’re planning the tour, in case you’d like to join us.” She knows Veronica wants me to come with her on some of the trips if I can, but it’s hard with my swimming schedule.

  “Sure. Let me just clean up.” I go down the hallway to the bathroom, shower off, throw on shorts and a tank top, and check every nook and cranny I can find in case Nico is hiding in the house somewhere. I come trotting back as they’re examining something on Erica’s laptop, which is open on the coffee table.

  The silver rose from the desert is hidden in my bag. I don’t know how to tell Veronica what it is, what it means, but there’s no way around it. We’re going to have to change the alarm codes, maybe
add some new sensors or change security companies altogether.

  Because on my pillow lies another silver rose.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  NICO

  I relax back into the luxurious white cotton bedding. This is a nice hotel, even for downtown LA, but I’m not an official guest here. I’m just occupying an empty room.

  I check the news on my phone.

  The Griffith Park wildfire is going well. That’s good. The Calabasas one is taking a little longer to get off the ground, which is fine; we have until tonight. The Malibu fire is making news in a big way. All those celebrities tweeting about their horses and mansions. I feel my mouth twist into a smirk. The news outlets are barely covering the Mount Washington fire, but that one’s going to help shut down the 5 freeway once it connects with the Sunland and Griffith Park fires. That’s my sleeper. The Sepulveda Pass fire by the Getty Center is doing big things; it’s crossed the 405 and is burning the hills in Bel Air. Perfect. They’re unable to keep it contained, not with so much manpower deployed to other fires around the city.

  That’s the idea. Deploy all the manpower. Get every single first responder out there.

  I check the time. Five o’clock. At six, the real fun will start.

  Mick, I hope you’re watching. This is all for you. My most interesting, unpredictable doll. My pretty little arsonist. I can almost forgive you for slipping away from your coffin. I suppose that’s my best work: pushing you to jump up off the page.

  And you gave me the idea for this, my best install yet. You’re an actual muse.

  Though, is it really an install? Is chaos something you can install?

  You know what, Mick? I think it is.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  VERONICA

  Mick and I get home from school at a quarter to eight, since I had to wait for her to finish swim practice. Once I got used to seeing her in a bathing suit, watching her swim back and forth from one side of the pool to the other is incredibly boring. I mean, let’s be honest. I can see her naked at home now. I don’t need to thirst after her in a Speedo one-piece with her hair trapped in a rubber swim cap, getting yelled at by a masochistic middle-aged woman with unchecked access to a whistle.