The Last Time I Saw Her

by Alexandra Harrington

  “Probably good money in it,” Max reasoned. She’d told him what she found, thinking it meant Sean might still in town. “I mean, if”—he was treating Sean with the same eggshell attitude as she was his dad—“Sean was dealing too, it was probably just for that.”

  “Yeah, money doesn’t always justify being a criminal. That’s kinda the whole point.”

  “But,” Max slid together two halves of a blue pasta bowl, “the money was for you guys, you know. He would have done it for you.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

  “Did he leave you any money?”

  “Some. Enough for a few months. Probably all he had.” She reached for three pieces of a teacup. “I don’t think he was dealing, honestly.”

  “Or maybe he did, and then stopped. Do you think that’s how he paid for your boarding school?”

  “I—”

  “Damn,” Max said, interrupting her. He showed her his finger, which had a small gash leaking the tiniest bit of blood. “Dangerous work.”

  “I’ll grab the first-aid kit.”

  She was referring to a dusty old tin on the top shelf of the cabinet that was filled with bandages and gauze.

  “I think we have Dora the Explorer Band-Aids,” she told him as she reached onto her tiptoes and her hand closed around the tin. Max half-heartedly pumped his fist while she pulled the tin free. With it, a folded piece of paper fluttered down and landed on the counter. Frowning, she placed the tin on the counter and reached for the yellowed paper. She had a sneaking suspicion of what it was before she unfolded it.

  Sean,

  I’ve been writing you letters since before you were born, but I haven’t written you one in a while. Today, your mom left. But also today, you kept your baby sister from getting hurt. And I hope that’s what you think of first when you think of this day. I’m so proud of you. It’s just the three of us now, and looking out for each other has to be the most important thing. When your mother stormed out of the house this afternoon, I panicked at the thought of taking care of a kid and a baby by myself. But now I know that you know how to be a big brother. In life you two are going to need to protect each other. There will never be anything more important than family.

  Hell or high water,

  Dad

  Charlotte felt her stomach flip-flop, like the feeling you got when you drove down a steep hill. She folded the letter in half, using her nail to emphasize the crease.

  “What is it?” Max asked.

  “Uh, it’s a letter.” Charlotte waved the paper. “From my dad. He used to write them to us when we were kids. It’s to Sean, on the day our mom left.”

  Max placed his hand comfortingly on the space behind her knee and placed a light kiss halfway up her thigh. She managed to smile down at him and placed the letter on the counter. “I’ll get you your Band-Aid.”

  She pried the lid off the tin. A crumbled piece of receipt paper bounced out. Charlotte tore off a pink Dora the Explorer Band-Aid and passed it down to Max.

  He peeled it open carefully. “I think this glows in the dark,” he said.

  “I really don’t know how you’re ever going to repay me,” she said, un-crumbling the receipt. It was from the Quik Mart, for a Powerade and twenty dollars worth of gas. She looked at the date stamp at the top.

  “September ninth, 2016,” she read aloud.

  Max looked up quickly. “What?”

  “That’s the day of the car rally.”

  “Yes.”

  “9:41 p.m. The night of the accident.”

  “What is it?” Max asked.

  “A receipt from the Quik Mart. It’s not mine. Must be Sean’s, I guess, but…Sean was out of town that weekend.” She scanned the receipt over and over. What the hell? She had had the only car that night for her babysitting gig. Sean hadn’t even been home. What car was he putting gas in? Charlotte looked back down at her dad’s letter.

  A thought struck her.

  She blew out of the kitchen and out the back door, crossed the porch, and ended up in front of the workshop. Max had followed her.

  “Sean put a new lock on this when I got home,” she breathed. “Because he thought I’d been in here.”

  Max looked at her nervously.

  “We need to get in there,” she told him.

  At the other edge of their yard, Sean kept an axe for when he was sometimes inclined to chop firewood for the wood stove. Max retrieved it for her.

  The big barn doors gave way easily; they could have probably kicked them in. Charlotte pushed inside and flicked the overhead light on. In the back corner, the shape of her dad’s old truck loomed, as it had for as long as she remembered.

  A huge drop cloth covered the truck. She picked up a handful of the paint-splattered fabric. Moment of truth. It would be worse than ripping off any glow-in-the-dark Dora the Explorer Band-Aid. She tore the cloth back.

  Both the headlights were smashed; the hood twisted, the windshield cracked like a spider-web.

  “Holy shit.” Max joined her beside the car.

  “No.” Charlotte shook her head. “No.”

  The driver-side door was unlocked; the keys were still dangling from the ignition. She climbed inside while Max seemed to be transfixed by the front of the car. The bottle of blue Powerade in the cup holder wasn’t even half empty.

  “What did you find?” Max asked finally.

  “I…someone was driving this the night of the accident, and obviously—” she couldn’t say it out loud.

  “Sean hit us,” Max finished for her.

  No. No way. Charlotte would know. Sean wouldn’t have been able to hide something like that. Sean had a conscience. She would have noticed if her brother had almost killed her best friend and her boyfriend and tried to cover it up.

  But, said a voice in her head, you were gone for a year.

  “It doesn’t make sense—he, he would have helped you, he wouldn’t have just left you there, he would have done something. He wouldn’t have hidden it, not from me—”

  “But, what if he was trying to protect you from…to protect you—”

  “He wouldn’t, I know him—”

  “Charlotte.” Max had come around to the driver side and grabbed onto her suddenly by both arms. “Sean needed to get you away from Nick. What if he did it to protect you? To get you away?”

  “What, hid it from me?”

  Max shook his head and looked her in the eye. “No. What if Sean wasn’t dealing for my dad? What if it was something else? What if my dad got tired of paying Sophie to be quiet about the property? What if he paid Sean instead? To—”

  Charlotte recoiled. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I think I know where Sean got your boarding school money.”

  thirty-three

  It had been a rough night. Charlotte piled up theories and explanations and excuses and twist-endings, because there was no way Sean could have done it. Max shook his head at every one. It was his turn to be delicate, to be careful as they unravelled what her brother had done. There was a lot of crying. A lot more denial, mostly on her end. But the more she fell apart, the more the pieces of what happened a year ago seemed to fall right into place. Turned out she hadn’t been that far off when she had accused Sean of being a hit man at the start of the summer.

  Simon had paid Sean the money he’d needed to send Charlotte away; all Sean needed to do was get rid of Sophie, who knew all about the drugs and the property. Sophie, who’d been extorting Simon and was a liability. That’s why Sean had banned her from the car rally, because otherwise Charlotte would have been in that car with Sophie and Max. That’s why Sean hated when Max was around. That’s why Sean wanted to keep her out of the workshop. That’s why Charlotte had been kept safe, away from Nick—because Sean was desperate for the money and Simon was desperate for s
omething else.

  She lay in bed with Max, the night deteriorating into a cold, rainy morning. It had been storming for days; the only break had arced over their excursion to the abandoned house. The river must be high by now, Charlotte thought. It overflowed almost every summer, near the end of August.

  Max was facing away from her, his shoulders an effective barrier against conversation. She didn’t know if he was mad. She knew, even less, how she felt. She was mad at Sean and mad at herself for not figuring it out, but like a song playing in the distance, there was a faint feeling that they still had to be wrong. There was no way.

  Charlotte reached out and placed her hands at the low of Max’s back, sliding them over his sides to rest against his stomach.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She wondered if Max was thinking about his dad not caring that his son would be in the car too, when Sean hit Sophie. Charlotte pressed her forehead to the space between his shoulder blades. “I feel like I’m dreaming.”

  Max rolled over to face her, untangling her hands to hold them himself. “We might be wrong.”

  She looked at his eyes, the silhouette of his head and hair backlit by the grey sunlight from the window. They were the only things that felt real—the sun and his eyes—that hazy morning. The world outside seemed like it was standing still.

  “I don’t think we are,” she admitted, feeling like she had betrayed Sean just by thinking it.

  “Then we should tell someone,” he whispered, dragging her closer to him. “The police.”

  Charlotte bobbed her head against the pillow, nodding, sealing Sean’s fate. She wished they didn’t know where Sean was, so they couldn’t tell the police. She didn’t know if she’d reveal him, if they asked, but she couldn’t ask Max not to. Max didn’t owe Sean anything.

  “We can wait,” Max said, noticing her silence. “A few days.”

  Charlotte shook her head, tucking her face against his shoulder. “No. We shouldn’t. We’ll go when the rain stops.”

  Her hand skimmed down his front to the bottom of his T-shirt, slipping under the edge and up. She stopped on a jagged line along his rib cage that she could feel beneath her hand.

  “This is from the accident, right?” she hadn’t wanted to ask before.

  “Yeah. Stitches.”

  “How many?”

  “Twelve.”

  “I only had eight.” She shifted a bit and tightened her hold on him, feeling his lips against her hairline. Charlotte closed her eyes. She could have lost Max, too, she thought. Not just Sophie. The world felt bigger and smaller all at once. The accident had brought them together, but it could have just as easily dragged all three of them apart. For good.

  When she woke up again, there was still an orchestra of drumming against the tin roof. Still pouring rain. She grabbed Max’s wrist to check his watch. Past six. Charlotte was restless; she didn’t want any more time to think, she wanted answers.

  She wanted to talk to Sean.

  Charlotte pulled herself out of bed, carefully edging out from under the comforter. Max was sprawled on his back, asleep. Kneeling on the corner of the mattress, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

  “Back soon,” she promised.

  Charlotte knew this was a bad idea. Really bad. You never confront the villain at the end. That’s how people die. But the villain was never supposed to be Sean. Charlotte twisted her hands nervously around the steering wheel as she headed in the direction of the elementary school.

  She parked in the school lot, as close to the edge of the woods as she could get. The rain pounded the windshield as she steadied her breathing. She tried to rehearse what she was going to say, what she was going to demand answers to, but the thoughts dissipated as quickly as her breath.

  Charlotte flipped her hood up over her head and trudged towards the trees and the path. The walk felt quicker this time; she pushed through the trees like she was following a trail to a familiar spot. Mud splattered in all directions as she went, spraying her boots and knees. Charlotte could feel her heartbeat rattling in all her bones, sometimes fast and sometimes slow, like it was trying to synchronize with the way the rain was hitting the ground.

  She found the farmhouse. It was quiet—no armed bodyguards outside, and no sign of anyone else. No cars. No Simon Hale. Charlotte nearly ripped her pant leg climbing over the fence without Max to boost her, landing on the wet ground on the other side with a thud. She ducked under the caution tape and crept inside, only pushing the door open enough to get in, and still half-terrified the entire structure was going to collapse. The house seemed to be sagging with the weight of all the water from the last few days. The murky earth holding the foundation was probably sliding and uneven by now. The inside of the house was dry, though. Some old houses were just built to withstand the rain.

  Charlotte checked the living room. It was cold, and the sleeping bag was still there, beside some cigarettes and empty can of corn. There was a pyramid of empty beer cans beside the makeshift bed. But no Sean.

  She listened for someone upstairs, or anywhere, but the rain made it impossible. She reached out for the sleeping bag, in case there was something under it. Lifting up one edge, she must have disturbed a mouse hiding underneath. It writhed and scurried away as Charlotte jumped back, but the mouse careened into the empty cans, and her quick movement knocked them to the ground.

  If anyone was in the house, they had definitely heard that.

  She heard movement in the other room, confirming her fears. Charlotte spent more time than she should have debating whether she could make it to the door, out of the house—the answer was no. There was a smaller door at her right, and she slipped into the tiny closet and pulled it shut, leaving just enough of a crack for her to see.

  It was Sean.

  He looked wet and exhausted. He checked his watch—their dad’s watch—and stood completely still. Waiting. Charlotte could hear her own breathing, and she tried to force her brain to reveal herself. It was just Sean. She could burst out and scream at him and accuse him of everything. But she couldn’t move. She knew she couldn’t do it. She wasn’t ready to look right at him, and have him confirm that he was the one who tried to kill Sophie.

  The front door slammed and she almost gave herself away with a yelp of surprise. Sean didn’t look at all fazed.

  “If you’re going to be squatting here, the least you could do is clean up after yourself,” rang a vaguely familiar female voice from the hallway; Charlotte couldn’t quite place it.

  Sean looked over his shoulder and scoffed. “Right. It was really the Four Seasons before I got here. You said you’d be here an hour ago.”

  High heels clicked across the floor as the woman walked in the centre of the room before looking back to face him.

  Charlotte’s brain whirred with alarm signals, like a siren in her head.

  “I’m sorry, you must have so many places to be,” Deirdre snapped, folding her arms across her chest.

  “What do you want?” Sean asked.

  “I need four to Sydney by tomorrow morning,” Deirdre said, looking over her shoulder and around the room like she was envisioning how to redecorate the place.

  “Short notice,” Sean grunted.

  Deirdre’s head flicked back to look at him so fast she must have gotten whiplash. “Well. It was Nick’s run, but you, uh, killed him, if I’m remembering correctly.”

  Sean grimaced. “He deserved it. Went after Charlie.”

  “Yes, I know all about your Nancy Drew sister. You know Simon doesn’t like her sniffing around.”

  Sean glowered. Charlotte felt her stomach stirring uneasily. Nick worked for Simon. Simon wanted her to stop meddling.

  “And don’t give me that,” Deirdre said to Sean. “Your sister wouldn’t be butting in where she doesn’t belong—and my husband wouldn’t have to h
ire people to try and kill her regularly—if you had just done what you were supposed to last summer.”

  Sean whipped back around. The most energy and life Charlotte had seen in him in a while. He was angry. He stepped toward Deirdre, who stepped back and drew her hand out of her purse.

  She was holding a gun. A small one, but a real gun. Charlotte couldn’t help it; she yelped, clapping a hand to her mouth.

  The noise distracted Deirdre and Sean recoiled.

  “Just don’t,” Deirdre said, lowering the gun but waving it at him like she was asking a child not to misbehave. “What was that sound?”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Sean said.

  “Is there someone here?” Deirdre began circling the room, poking her head into the doorway of the adjacent room.

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot,” Sean said, “all my friends are over. We’re just about to get the Xbox set up.”

  “Check,” Deirdre commanded, as she stalked to the hall and toward the kitchen.

  “There is no one here.” Sean shook his head and paced the length of the room. He pulled open a closet door across from Charlotte’s and her heart sank. Sean turned and approached her hiding place. Shit, shit, shit.

  “I would know if someone was—” Sean yanked her door open, still facing the direction that Deirdre had disappeared. He looked back—directly at Charlotte—and she watched him flinch in surprise. “—here,” he finished quietly.

  Charlotte could hear her heart beating so loudly it felt like it was suspended between her ears. Her hands gripped her own shoulders in an effort to make herself smaller and to keep her breathing under control.

  “Did you find anything?” Deirdre called from the other room.

  Sean looked at Charlotte warningly. “No,” he said, shutting the door.

  Deirdre click-clacked her way back to the living room. “You should leave now if you want to get there in time. Nick’s car is out back.” Deirdre slid the gun back into her purse like it was an iPhone. “And don’t get all worked up on me again. Simon might not have had it in him to get rid of that bitch, but I did. And I might have been the one who paid for it, but you’re the one who did it.” She smiled sweetly. “So I think that makes us partners.”