We Were Never Here, page 22
I’ve been thinking back to those late nights when we’d sneak out at 4 or 5 am and splash in the water and then watch the sunrise over Lake Michigan together. Remember that? When we’d feel like we were the only ones awake in the whole world. When we’d feel like not just Evanston but the entire world was ours. When we would dry right off—perfectly, boldly ourselves.
XOXO,
Kristen
PS If you ever forget how amazing you are, you know who to call. Because I never, ever forget, and I’d be honored to count the ways.
PPS Last line of the day, promise!
“Last line of the day”—why not “last clue” or “last surprise” or similar? Because she was referring to the last line of the card, the one that sounded a bit wonky. I ran it through her usual codes and had it in seconds. “Dry right off—perfectly, boldly ourselves. X” D-R-O-P-B-O-X.
My pulse surged, pushing out against my fingers and throat. Dropbox—we occasionally used the hosting site to share files, mostly trip photos siphoned from our digital cameras. The URL of her Dropbox account filled in automatically.
My heart had reached my ears now, whooshing like the surf, like a deafening snare drum. I scanned through the folders there: work stuff, camera uploads, dated subfolders bursting with pictures from some of our earlier travels. And then my breath caught: There was a new folder, created on my birthday, labeled Chile.
Relax, Emily—it’s probably just, duh, photos from Chile.
But we hadn’t shared our photos from that trip, hadn’t created a shared album and compared shots. I steeled myself, then clicked.
There was another folder inside, this one labeled Phnom Penh. A squall of hysteria rose through me and I crouched over, prepared to vomit. What. The hell. Was this.
I clicked again, and a pop-up appeared: File is password-protected. Beneath it, a field with a blinking cursor. I tried Emily, Quiteria, Paolo, Sebastian. I thought about texting Kristen, but fear held me back. Could she tell I was trying to access the file now? That I’d realized I hadn’t completed her little treasure hunt?
I grabbed the card, pressed it open at the spine.
PS If you ever forget how amazing you are, you know who to call. Because I never, ever forget, and I’d be honored to count the ways.
Counting—that was the clue. And come to think of it, we hadn’t met in Stats 101; it was Statistical Methods in Economics. The card was riddled with numerals, and I underlined them hastily:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY! It’s hard to believe we’ve been friends for 10+ years. I can’t imagine my life without you—in a way, I guess I owe those douchebags in our Stats 101 class a thank-you. I’m so proud of the smart, strong, independent woman you’ve become. And I count myself so lucky that, after 2 years apart, we’ll finally live in the same city again!
I’ve been thinking back to those late nights when we’d sneak out at 4 or 5 am and splash in the water and then watch the sunrise over Lake Michigan together. Remember that? When we’d feel like we were the only ones awake in the whole world. When we’d feel like not just Evanston but the entire world was ours. When we would dry right off—perfectly, boldly ourselves.
I input the numbers, breathing hard, and hit Enter.
My shoulders slumped. Incorrect password; please try again.
I returned to the card one more time. Screw you, Kristen, for taking what I thought was a sweet sentiment and turning it into a riddle. Like this is all a game.
Aha—relief like a key slipping into a lock. When we’d feel like we were the only ones awake in the whole world.
I tried the combination again, this time with a 1 at the end. I smiled, almost clapped, when the file began to download.
I watched the progress bar slide to the right, then opened it eagerly.
It filled the screen. It took me a moment to make sense of it, the dizzying colors, overexposed whites and blacks and colorful blobs at funny angles.
And then it took form. The blobs were lanterns, strung across a busy street. There were people everywhere, bustling to and fro, but in the center were two shapes, clear and crisp in the swirling night scene.
One of them was Sebastian, handsome and alive and smiling as he touched my waist. The other, of course, was me.
CHAPTER 29
My fist flew to my mouth as my feet scrambled beneath me, pounding down the hallway and making it to the bathroom just in time. It all came up, dinner and more, deeper down into me, the bitter bile of my true insides. Sweat and tears and snot streamed out, too, and then I leaned against the tub, eyes closed, chest heaving.
That night. That night. I’d pictured that moment so many times in my mind’s eye, a split second after Sebastian and I had agreed to go back to the hotel, when a sudden flash had blinded me. I’d always thought it was an accidental photobomb, that we were in the background of some stranger’s vacation photo, and if the right person noticed and connected the dots, I’d be screwed. There it was, in vivid color: proof that I’d been with Sebastian right before he went missing.
But…Kristen. Kristen had taken it. Kristen had had it all along.
It was a threat, then. A reminder that she had dirt on me. I glanced around for my phone, then remembered it was all the way in my bedroom. But she’d been coy in our text conversation tonight, walking the knife’s edge between sweet and suspect. Something like, Remember what I wrote in the card, believe it—we’re in this together. If I go down, you do too.
I gathered my energy like it was something I could mop up off the floor. On shaking legs, I staggered to my room. The photo was still staring out from my screen and I X’ed out of it. Christ, she’d had it for over a year. She hadn’t deleted it back when we promised not to leave a trace. Instead she’d been waiting to deploy it. As what—collateral? Blackmail?
Another violent shudder rushed through me. Shit. She’d set this mousetrap on my birthday, an entire week ago. Right before I began to wonder if I should sever ties from her for good.
As if she’d known. Claws out. She whipped out the trump card, the proof that I’d never, ever be out from under her thumb.
There was something else thrumming beneath the horror, something brighter, and it suddenly boomed into the forefront: I was oddly satisfied, almost thrilled, to have my answer. I wasn’t paranoid, and my anxiety hadn’t been unfounded. Was Kristen deranged? Disturbed and manipulative, at minimum. She’d killed Sebastian; she’d killed Paolo. Why was I twisting myself into a knot debating if that made her a killer?
The doorbell rang and I stared in the direction of the front door, alert as a meerkat. I flicked off the light and crept into the hallway, hoping whoever it was would give up and go away.
But they rang again. I stood very still and listened as someone thumped on the door, then tried the knob, an insistent jiggle.
My phone chimed in my bedroom and I scuttled toward it—having my phone on my person wasn’t a bad idea. I swiped it off the desk and saw Kristen’s new text: “I can see you turning lights on and off, dummy,” plus a laughing emoji.
I sucked in air and breathed it out. Okay, Emily. Okay, okay, okay. I tucked my phone into my back pocket and waltzed to the front door.
“Hi!” She hugged me, car keys jangling in her hand. “I stopped by my new place to take measurements and thought I’d see if you’re home! Wait, what’s wrong?”
“I…I just threw up.” I scraped my tongue against my teeth. “I think I ate some bad ricotta.” I kept my hand on the door, smiled weakly.
“Oh my God. Do you want me to get you anything? Throwing up is the worst.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine. I just want to lie down. I feel kind of…” Suddenly my head did feel swoopy, like I might pass out. The floor pitched beneath me and I grabbed the wall.
“Are you okay? Here.” She looped an arm under mine. “Do you need a doctor? You look awful.”
“I’m fine. I’m just gonna go to bed.” As if someone had turned on a faucet, my hands were suddenly fizzing hard, tingling and twinkling on the inside. “Thanks for stopping over, but I—” The fizz rushed up into my skull and I doubled over, my shoulder pressed against the wall.
“Keep your head down. You’re okay. Do you wanna sit?”
“I’m fine,” I repeated, eyes squeezed shut. The frothy feeling was beginning to clear. I breathed in, then out. Hyperventilation, that’s what was happening. Not enough oxygen to the brain, or was it carbon dioxide?
“C’mon, I’ll help you to your room.” She pulled me forward and I flashed back to that night at her cottage, her pulling me across a knotted terrain of branches and roots and rocks. Past the rabbit that only a madwoman would kill. I funneled all my attention into my left foot, then my right one. Rhythmic, like canoeing. Like digging a grave.
After a short eternity, we reached the edge of my bed.
“Thanks so much, Kristen. I’ll text you, okay?”
“Feel better.” She turned to leave and my eyes thudded closed. Already, my chest was loosening, the rush in my ears tapering. I would deal with Kristen later, when I’d had some time to think. For now, I had to protect myself.
I rolled onto my side and clutched my pillow, then froze—Kristen was still there, still in my bedroom. Standing over my desk, head down, her back to me.
“Jamie,” she remarked, and her finger touched the scribble on the screen.
All the air rushed out of the room. Oxygen—there was none, a perfect vacuum.
She clicked the mouse. “ ‘Two Dead Following Brookfield House Fire,’ ” she read aloud.
Another click. “ ‘Dear Ms. Schmidt, thank you for your inquiry to Westmoor Behavioral Services.’ ”
Slowly, slowly, she turned to face me.
“Emily, what the fuck.”
CHAPTER 30
“Kristen…”
Her eyes bored into mine. “What is this? Why were you going through my stuff? And why the hell were you talking to Westmoor?”
I kept opening my mouth and then closing it, like a fish dangling from a hook.
“What’s going on, Emily? I’m sick of your lies. I’m sick of your bullshit.” She swung her arm as she said it, sending my laptop and several pens crashing to the floor.
“I…I was just trying to find out…if…”
“What, you think I need to explain myself?” Lightning shot through her eyes. “Okay, fine. I had a fight with my best friend, and then, because I was twelve years old, I scribbled her face out in my photos. As for Westmoor, yes, I spent some time there after the violent and painful death of my parents and the suicide of my best friend in the span of a few weeks. I had a breakdown and needed psychiatric care. And I’ve been pretty goddamn open about it, considering it’s still painful to talk about. I told you about Dr. Brightside.”
“I’m— I just wanted to…”
She shook her head. “Wow. So this is why you’ve been avoiding me like the plague. God, I’m pathetic, trying so hard to make things right with you.”
“Okay, if you’re such a great friend…” I pointed at my computer, upside down on the floor. “Then why the hell are you blackmailing me with a photo of Sebastian and me together? That I needed to solve a damn riddle to find? What kind of devoted best friend does that?”
Her mouth dropped open, then emitted a scoff. “You think I’m blackmailing you?”
“We said we’d delete everything from the trip! And I did!” I was gaining steam now. “You lied to me…for a year.”
“Christ, Emily, think about what you’re saying.” Her palms splayed. “How was I supposed to know what would happen next? I took it because he was hot and you rarely bring guys home and I thought you’d thank me later.”
She looked so earnest, with the frustrated energy of a five-year-old who needs you to know she’s telling the truth. But…but this was more of her skillful manipulation, right?
“Then why keep it? Why set it up for me to find, for Christ’s sake?”
“Because I was scared.” She clutched her hands together. “You looked ready to crack, Emily. I was so scared of what you might do.”
I flicked a tear away. “So why send it now? How is that not blackmail?”
“I sent it because you kept talking about telling someone. How much you wanted to be open with your new boyfriend or whatever. It’s not blackmail, it’s…a reminder. That there’s a photo tying Sebastian to you. I never, ever want to use it. But I needed to make you see.”
What the hell kind of logic was that? I shook my head. She’s lost her damn mind.
“And also, wow, the nerve,” she went on. “What did you think? That I’m this bloodthirsty psychopath?” She took a step toward the bed, and I scrambled up into a seated position. “You, of all people.”
After all I’ve done for you…after I killed a man to save your life. I braced to hear it, heart pounding.
But instead, she crossed her arms. “After what you did to Sebastian.”
I stared at her for a moment. “Wait, what?”
“Don’t play dumb. I watched you kill him.”
Beneath me, the bed slanted, a boat on rocky seas.
“What are you talking about?” Kristen had hit him with a floor lamp, swift and hard, sent him sprawling onto the floor. But that wasn’t what killed him; that just drew blood, knocked him off his feet. And then…
“Are you kidding me?” she yelped. “You wouldn’t stop kicking him. I had to pull you off him.”
Stop. Stop. Stop. Blood trickling like paint down the floor lamp. Behind me, Kristen’s eyes wide, thunderstruck. Blood mottling her hands, her wrists, her shoes.
“No.” I shook my head, then heard my voice rise into a shout: “No! That’s not how it happened. I…I had to stop you.”
Sebastian’s head on the floor, nestled against a leg of the metal bed frame. I’d looked into Kristen’s furious eyes, and then detected motion before I could even process it.
Three kicks, four, blood staining the metal leg and pooling into the cracks in the laminate floor.
“Stop. Stop. Stop.”
Finally I’d heard Kristen’s pleas, distorted as if we were underwater, scuba diving in the deep. Crying, begging me to stop. And I’d turned, grabbed for her. She lunged toward him, murmuring in horror, but I dragged her away and into a hug, and we’d leaned against each other, shaking.
“No,” I said again, weaker now. “That’s not how it happened. You’re…confusing me.”
“That’s exactly how it happened.” She reached the edge of my bed and stopped. “You killed Sebastian and I’m the reason you’re not in jail for it.”
CHAPTER 31
You killed Sebastian.
No. This wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. This was classic gaslighting—messing with my head, screwing up my memories with the deftness of a grifter. Or a magician, poof—Kristen had made her culpability disappear. My stomach twisted like a towel wrung dry.
But I had to stay alert, I had to be safe. Strategic, for once, like her. And the safest distance between Kristen and myself was as many miles as I could manage.
“Okay,” I said. “Clearly I’m not thinking straight. I—I told you I looked into Jamie when we were Up North. You said your old stuff was in those boxes.” I pressed my damp palms into the comforter.
“I can’t believe you went through my things,” she replied. “Such a violation.”
“I’m sorry. I really am. I forgot about it until…well, finding that photo of Sebastian and me sent me into a tailspin. I guess it was, like, a psychological defense to seeing the picture and just kinda losing it. I went down a rabbit hole.”
“A rabbit hole of what—researching the fire that killed my parents? Contacting my old therapy center? What are you even accusing me of?” Shiny tear tracks ribboned down her cheeks.
Shit—my defense made no sense, not when I’d contacted Westmoor days before finding the Dropbox photo.
But Kristen seemed too worked up to notice. “I don’t know what to say. That someone I love and trust would even have these thoughts about me…” Her hand slid to her midriff, as if I’d stuck a knife there. “I can’t tell you how hurtful it is.”
Guilt pulsed through me, hot shame infusing the cold fear. “I’m sorry.”
She pressed her fingertips to her forehead, then heaved a sigh. “I’m gonna get going.”
Preteen Kristen scribbling out her best friend’s face. Checking into a facility for help with the squall of grief. She’d put forth such a convincing argument, such a consistent account. My head was spinning too quickly to decide if I even bought it. For the moment, I was still scuba diving—treading water until I could figure out what to do next.
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” I said. Her gaze jerked my way. “About Chile or Cambodia. I swear. We’re in this together, and I don’t want either of us kissing our lives goodbye.” I rolled my legs off the bed and rose. “I’m serious. I just want to move on. So don’t worry, okay?”
I crossed to her and she flinched as I neared. I stood awkwardly, my hands hanging in front of my chest, and finally she shrugged.
“Get some rest,” she said. “I’ll let myself out.” I watched as she grew smaller and smaller in the hallway and disappeared into the foyer. She closed the door with a thunk.
I lay corpselike on the bed for a long time, watching light from passing cars streak sideways along the wall. I thought about the photo of Sebastian and me. Why had she saved it, led me to it? Her explanation made sense at first glance, but it didn’t hold up to scrutiny. It was like a star so dim that it disappears when you look right at it. She’d called the picture a reminder. But if she sent it to South African authorities—even if she included my name—I could toss Kristen under suspicion too. She’d been to Westmoor; she was the one with a record. Would she really be that self-destructive, blowing up both of our lives like an extremist with a bomb strapped to her torso?
