But she notices. “You don’t have to be so tough all the time, Stella.”
I straighten my spine and don’t answer.
“Neither do I.” Then Tamara laughs. “Well, yes, I do, actually.”
“What?” I say. “Everyone loves you.” The words spill out like water. “Your parents are obsessed with you. So is everyone at school. You might not be the fastest, but you have . . . everything.”
But then I look at the amused expression on her face and realize how dumb that all sounds. I don’t know what her life has been like as one of the only Black people in town, or how I, as one of the white girls on our team, might have made it even harder.
“Sorry,” I say quietly. “That was a ridiculous thing to say.”
“You couldn’t understand,” Tamara says. “But you know who did? Mila.” She sits down on the couch and rests her head back against the cushions. “It was nice to have someone who just got it. We didn’t even have to talk about it, you know? Obviously we had to deal with different kinds of garbage, but she understood things like why it was so messed up when Coach told me not to get so angry at practice. I didn’t even bring it up. She came up to me and said she was sorry that happened. Raven and Julia would never do that.”
I sit down too and let my jaw drop open. I’ve never heard her talk shit about them before.
Tamara laughs. “What? You think they’re my favorite people in the world?” She shrugs. “We all do what we have to in order to survive. You know that. Mila was so refreshing. We talked about running and art,” she says. “She was just . . . easy to be around.” Maybe Tamara knew Mila better than I did. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who saw Mila for who she really was.
“It sounded like her life back in Connecticut was similar to mine,” Tamara continues. “She hated the people who had become her best friends, but didn’t know how to ditch them. And she never really felt like she fit in. But at least she had Naomi. One true friend. More than me, I guess.”
I pause at the name Naomi, Mila’s best friend from Hadbury, and Tamara glances at me sideways. “Look at me, spilling my guts to Stella Steckler of all people,” she says.
A smile creeps up my face. It’s unlikely, this moment.
“I’m sorry for . . . everything,” I say. “I wasn’t . . .” I start. “I don’t . . . It’s hard for me to trust people, I guess.”
Tamara nods and we’re both quiet until a vibrating sound slices through the silence. Tamara pulls out her phone to look at the screen. Her whole body tenses as a block of text appears on the screen. “Fucker,” she says under her breath.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Noah,” she says. “I haven’t seen him all day. Probably pumping in the gym or something. Idiot. He knows he should be here. I’ve texted him like fifty times.”
I could tell her exactly where he’s been and with who and what they were saying. I almost do. The words are on my tongue and I can taste them, salty and potent. But I think of Ellie, propped up against the tree, the hurt in her voice, how she shook in the cold. Tiny goose pimples forming on her flesh. My baby sister alone with that cheating asshole. No. I need to talk to her first. I can’t betray Ellie. She’s my blood.
Tamara shoves her phone back into her pocket. “You don’t think the killer is back, do you?”
I mull over what Pérez and Parker said at the assembly today. They definitely insinuated Mila was found on the Oak Tower path, just like all the others. But the idea of Mila being a victim of a serial killer feels absurd.
“It doesn’t add up,” I say. “Why would Kendall Fitzwater or whoever come back after all this time, right when Mila moved here? Blaming it on something like that is the easy way out. It absolves anyone who actually lives here, who actually knew her.”
Tamara ducks her head to me. “Naomi has a theory.”
“You spoke to Naomi?” I ask.
Tamara nods. “We’ve been talking a little bit since everything happened. Shawna gave me her info. It’s been nice to hear from someone who knew Mila—like, really knew her, you know? They were best friends since kindergarten.”
“Yeah,” I say softly.
“She thinks Mila’s dad might have been involved. Wild, huh?”
Then I remember the comment I saw on Naomi’s Instagram a few weeks ago. Come home, Mila. Come home to me. It’s certainly something a father would write, a father desperate to see his daughter. Plus, there was that weird call I overheard, how Mila told him to never come here.
“You should talk to her,” Tamara says. “Naomi, I mean. Might bring you some comfort or closure or something.” She pulls her phone out again. “I’m sending you her number.”
My phone pings softly and a humming starts in my heart.
“You might be right,” I say, and push myself to stand.
Tamara nods and gets up too. She looks me straight in the eyes, her gaze unflinching. “Do you think we’re going to make it through this? The shittiness of being cross country runners in Edgewater?”
I mull over her words, but I know there’s only one answer. “We’ll have to.”
When I make it outside, the air is cold and whips against my cheeks. I want to run home, but instead I take slow steps and stare at my phone, trying to think of what I could possibly say to Naomi.
Will she even respond? Is it worth it? Will she take it to the police? Tell me to go fuck myself? But at this point, I need answers about Mila. I want to find out what happened to her and I want to clear my name. Maybe Naomi can help. What choice do I really have?
I take a deep breath and tap out a message, something that feels real and true.
You don’t know me, but my name is Stella Steckler. You might have read about me in the paper or heard my name from the cops, but despite what they say, I was Mila’s friend. I’d really like to talk to someone who knew Mila better than I did. Maybe we can meet?
I close my eyes and hit send.
31
STELLA
Mom tries to convince me not to go to the funeral. She says it would inspire talk, as if everyone isn’t already gossiping about what I did or didn’t do anyway. But Ellie said it would be weirder if I didn’t go, which is how I end up wearing the same itchy black dress I wore to the track formal, the one I wore when Mila and I sat in her car listening to Fleetwood Mac.
We arrive at the old church near the hardware store just as one of the ushers starts shutting the doors, and plaster ourselves up against the back wall. It’s standing room only. The other Edgewater students, people who didn’t know Mila until she was a dead girl on posters, pack the pews. They’re the ones who gawk, filing this away as another detail about their strange hometown.
I spot Tamara, Raven, and Julia sitting up toward the front with Noah and his bros, Coach, and some JV runners. And in the first row, I see Mila’s mother, Shawna, her shoulders tense and high, up around her ears. Her sister sits next to her, one arm wrapped around her, as if she’s the only thing holding Mila’s mother up. I try to find Naomi. I’d recognize her from her Instagram, but it’s impossible to see her in the dimly lit church.
The priest walks to the center of the stage and begins talking, reciting traditional prayers and examining the difference between heaven and hell, right and wrong. He doesn’t say much about Mila at first. He doesn’t mention how much she loved art history or how she had a tiny tattoo circling her wrist. He doesn’t sound comforting or sad. He sounds like a man doing his job, who has presided over many funerals. A girl gone too soon? Just another Sunday. But then he pauses and looks to the front row where Shawna’s face tilts toward her lap.
“Mila’s mother has asked one of Mila’s best friends, Naomi, to say a few words,” the priest says.
There she is, in the second row, just behind Mila’s mother. She’s wearing a silk black headband over her short dark hair and a long-sleeved black lace dress th
at hits just above her knees. It swishes when she walks toward the front of the room. She climbs the stairs of the dais and turns around once she reaches the podium. Her lip trembles a bit but she smiles at the crowd.
“Mila would have loved to see you,” Naomi says into the microphone. “She would have loved to know that so many of you want to remember her. She was a connector, someone who was always bringing people together, on the cross country team or in the classroom. She wanted people to be happy.”
A hitch catches in her voice. “I don’t need to say how deeply upsetting it is that we are here today and she is not. Mila and I became best friends in kindergarten. Even then, she loved with her whole heart. She would spend hours at my house, helping my mom slice cabbage for kimchi or working out long-division problems with my little brother. He always liked her more than me. Even after she moved here, we spoke every day. On our last call, the night before she disappeared, Mila said something I’ll never forget.” Naomi lifts her chin and one hand floats over her mouth. She blinks back tears. “She told me, ‘I’m finally starting to feel like Edgewater is home. I think everything really is going to be okay.’ ” Her gaze drifts to where Mila’s mother sits and even from the back of the room I can see her shaking in her seat.
Naomi straightens her back and looks at the piece of paper in front of her. “I will leave you with this quote, which Mila slipped into my locker one day after practice last year.” Naomi closes her eyes and recites the words from memory.
“ ‘Life is so short, I am finally learning. But if I can love and be loved all at the same time, I’m not sure I mind.’ ”
People murmur their agreement and I feel like I’m naked, disemboweled, and served up for feasting. Like my whole world has been wiped out at once. When Naomi opens her eyes, I swear she looks right at me, all the way in the back of the room, behind a few hundred other mourners. And as she descends, her gaze stays put, holding mine until finally she turns away.
* * *
—
After the service, everyone crowds under a tent on the back lawn of the church, nibbling on crackers and drinking hot cider in the cool fall air. The crowd is thick with students from Edgewater and Hadbury, dozens and dozens of people I don’t know. Naomi is off to the side, picking at a platter of cucumber sticks, bundled in a puffer coat for warmth. She looks exhausted.
I dart through the crowd and stop right behind her. “Hi,” I say. “I’m—”
Naomi turns around, an unfazed expression on her face. “I know who you are,” she says. “Stella Steckler. I’ve seen photos.” She looks over her shoulder like she doesn’t want to be seen with me, like she’s scared of getting caught speaking with the enemy.
“Then why didn’t you respond to my text?” I ask, desperation creeping into my voice.
“We can’t talk here. Let’s meet in an hour. Is there somewhere we can go?”
“The diner on Main,” I blurt out. “No one goes there except the old farmers. There’s a booth in the back that’s private.”
She nods and turns on her heel, sucked back into the crowd.
I duck out of the funeral and get to the diner early enough to grab the booth and order an iced tea. I sip it gingerly, my teeth clanking against the ice. My heart thrums loud and fast in my chest. The diner is empty save for a few farmhands who come here for bowls of chili every day after their shifts. I love this place. Used to come by when I was suspended last year. Here, no one asked why I hurt Allison. Or how it felt to break another person. No one whispered things like crazy or monster as I ate my chicken Caesar wrap with waffle fries in peace. They just ignored me, which is how I liked it.
The bell on the door chimes and I peek out of the booth to see Naomi looking around. I wave my hand once and she rushes toward me.
“That was a nightmare,” she says when she sits down, unzipping her coat. She pulls off her headband and shakes out her short hair, running her fingers through her bangs.
“You spoke beautifully,” I say, but the words come out formal and odd, as if I’m an old lady or a stranger, which I guess I am.
Naomi snorts. “Mila was right about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“She said that you were kind of weird and I would like you immediately. Mila always liked weird. That’s why we were best friends for so long.”
My face gets hot as Naomi flags down the waitress. She wiggles her fingers as she orders a plate of mozzarella sticks and a Diet Coke, and I notice her nails are painted all different shades of purple. Mila’s favorite color. “I love diners,” she says as the waitress disappears behind the griddle.
I know the proper response is Same but different words form in my mouth. “So, why didn’t you respond to my text?”
Naomi leans back against the leather booth and looks to the ceiling, like she’s trying to decide which version of the truth to tell. “I wasn’t ready to talk.”
“Are you now?”
Naomi shrugs and looks over at the glass case of pies by the cash register. “We all want answers, right? Doesn’t seem like Parker and the detectives here are doing much good. Shawna is still looking for a PI to help, and let’s be real, this is the town of cold cases.” Naomi smirks. “Bullshit, really. Seems more like they just bungled the Fitzwater thing and then pretended those murders were unsolvable.” Then she cocks her head and holds my gaze, her dark eyes piercing my skull. “Did you do anything to hurt Mila?”
“No.” I shake my head emphatically. “No.”
“I have no reason to believe you.”
She’s right.
“But I do. I can tell you’re just as freaked out as I am—about Mila. Not yourself.”
I relax my shoulders and feel relief. I don’t know why, but I need Naomi’s approval. For some reason I want her to like me, to be on my side.
“Got any other leads?” She leans in close and I can smell her vanilla shampoo. “This can’t be a serial-killer thing, right?”
I shake my head. “I just can’t wrap my head around that. I mean, I guess there’s always a possibility, but it doesn’t make sense.”
Naomi nods slowly.
“Do you think her dad had something to do with this?” I ask. “I overheard him calling Mila once and it didn’t sound good.”
“Ah,” she says softly, crossing her arms over her chest. For a second, Naomi’s wrist is exposed and I can see a tiny daisy-chain tattoo circling her wrist. It’s identical to Mila’s. “How much did she tell you about him?”
“That he’s sick, that he’s an addict. That they moved here to start over without him.” I remember the strained, sad look on Mila’s face. Her determination to move past it all. Something about Naomi makes me want to tell her my truth, too. Maybe it’s the way she doesn’t break eye contact or that she looks at me like we’re a team, an alliance. “My mom is in recovery,” I say. “It was something we talked about.”
Naomi nods slowly. “Good,” she says. “Mila always wanted to find people who understood. I only could a little, you know? My parents have no vices. Their only real flaw is that it took them a little while to get on board with the whole I’m a lesbian thing.” She smiles and I notice a dimple on her left cheek and the way she’s twisting her straw wrapper in her delicate fingers. Suddenly I want to know everything about her. Naomi shrugs. “But even that was just a few weeks. Now my mom plans the Fairfield County Pride Parade.” She laughs like there’s more to say on that topic. But I don’t push. “Honestly, I think Mila was the one to help her get it. She just had a way like that, you know?”
I nod. I barely got to see it, but I do know.
“Anyway,” Naomi says, wiping her eyes with her palms. “You asked about Mila’s dad, right? Well, when Shawna told him she was filing for divorce, he lost his mind. Like, tear-the-house-apart lost his mind.” Naomi tucks her hair behind her ears. “He was high. He wasn’t himself. There
were holes in the wall. Broken chairs. Glass everywhere. Mila called me sobbing that night. He didn’t touch Mila or her mom, but they fled to her aunt’s apartment in the city that same night. Never went back. I think that was the last time she saw him.”
“Whoa,” I say. Mila gave me the watered-down version. My chest tightens at the idea of her scared and worried, afraid for her father.
“Her mom’s the best. She kept everything stable. Within a few weeks they were off, over here in Edgewater, which they thought was far enough away from her dad but close enough that Mila’s aunt could visit. Nearly broke Mila, though, to leave her dad when she knew he needed help.”
“Had you seen her recently?” I ask.
The waitress comes back with Naomi’s order, sliding everything onto the table before walking away without saying anything.
Naomi smiles and dips a mozzarella stick into a steaming bowl of marinara sauce. “We FaceTimed a lot. Talked about everything. I kept her in the loop of all the drama at Hadbury. She was like my sister.” She pauses, then points her mozzarella stick at me. “You have a sister, don’t you?”
I nod. “Ellie.”
“Yeah, she knew you two were complicated. But she liked you both. Scary Stella wasn’t so scary, she said.” Naomi breaks the fried cheese in half and steam floats above, circling in front of her face.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Mila saw me. She did. And I pushed away her friendship.
“She felt awful about meeting with Georgetown, you know.”
I shake my head and try to find the words. “I shouldn’t have . . .”
But Naomi cuts me off. “I get it,” she asks. “You’re competitive.”
That doesn’t even skim the surface of the raging desire inside me to win, win, win. But it’s easier to agree that’s all it is. A competitive streak. “It hurt.” My voice shakes as the words come out. “I had to stay focused this year. It was my last shot. Everything . . . I had to leave everything on the trail, and Mila knew that. Or I thought she did.”
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