After Image, page 17
I squint. That can’t be right. I know Allie didn’t stop drinking that September. Two weeks after the TMZ photos came out, I’d been holding her hair back while she threw up in our bathroom after a party at Christie’s place. A week later, she bailed on Greg’s annual Halloween party to go to Vegas with some friends of hers from Beverly Hills.
“She didn’t tell you the reason?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Allie had a way of avoiding subjects she didn’t want to talk about. And that, I think, was one of them.” He holds eye contact with me, like a man who has nothing to hide.
How much can I believe of what he’s told me? I stare down at the hardwood floor, an uneasy feeling creeping over me. Macnamara knows how to blend in just enough truth with his lies that it’s hard to tell one from the other.
CHAPTER 35
Ruiz and I sit in his Jeep in a parking lot on a bluff overlooking the ocean, eating the burgers we grabbed from a drive-through after we left Macnamara’s. The talk with Macnamara has left me feeling drained, and I’m thankful for the sugary soda, the salty fries.
Ruiz finishes eating before I do and methodically folds up the paper bag the food came in. “So,” he says.
“So.”
“Apparently Isabel knew about this essay.” A deep furrow has appeared between his eyebrows.
“Yeah.”
Outside, the ocean ripples in the wind.
“Isabel never said a thing about an essay during the investigation. In fact, she acted like Allie’s relationship with Macnamara came as a complete shock to her.” He shakes his head. “Why?”
I take another sip of my soda. “I don’t know.”
“If what Macnamara is saying is true, that makes Isabel a pretty compelling suspect.”
Suddenly, the soda tastes too sweet, too cloying. I set down the cup. “You don’t think that Isabel had anything to do with . . .”
Ruiz turns to me. “Think about it. She was trying to silence Allie. Then Allie disappears. That solves her problem pretty neatly.”
My jaw tightens. “But Isabel wasn’t even in LA that week. She was out on Catalina.” Isabel had gone to some party on a yacht anchored near the island. She hadn’t gotten back to the city until Sunday.
“That only means she didn’t do anything herself,” Ruiz says. “It doesn’t rule out her, say, hiring somebody to do something. Maybe she only meant to intimidate Allie. Scare her enough to get her to back down. But things went too far.”
“That’s ridiculous.” But is it? Isn’t that the way the rich do everything? You don’t take care of things yourself. You outsource. “Isabel might’ve had problems with Allie, but she wouldn’t have her killed.” Intimidating her, though . . . I have to admit that I can see that possibility. I can see Isabel taking that step.
“I’m not saying that’s what happened. I’m just saying it’s a possibility. And the Catalina trip—it’s almost too good of an alibi, isn’t it? In all of this, Isabel has been the only person whose alibi has been completely airtight.”
It’s true. Back then, the cops had looked into everyone in Allie’s family. That night, Giles was home alone at his place in Brentwood. Matthew was in Redlands at a conference, but no one had seen him there after 10:00 p.m. That left at least some doubt as to their whereabouts. But Isabel was immediately in the clear.
“You’re saying she planned it that way?”
His expression darkens. “I think she’s a smart lady. And a hell of an actress. She sure was selling us her shock and outrage about Allie and Macnamara’s relationship.”
I remember Isabel sitting on the couch with me in our living room that Christmas, tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear. How charming she could be. How hypnotic. Was everything an act with her?
“What about the therapist?” Ruiz says, switching topics. He must see how much the conversation about Isabel is unsettling me. “Did you buy what Macnamara said about that?” he asks.
I chip at the plastic top of my soda. Do I? I don’t think the TMZ photos made much of a difference to Allie, although she’d been deeply annoyed by the loss of her car. Still, her having a therapist would explain a lot. It was that November when Allie stopped drinking. Started showing up for her classes. Even signing up for Macnamara’s seminar. None of it made sense at the time—but when I factor in some outside influence, the pieces click into place.
“Yes,” I say. “I think that part could be true.”
Ruiz frowns. “Except—when we looked at Allie’s finances, we never saw any payments to a therapist.”
“What if she paid cash? Greg said she had a lot of it during that time.”
Ruiz taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “Mm. Yeah, maybe.”
In the parking lot, a pair of seagulls stand side by side, blinking slowly as the wind rumples their feathers. The silence between Ruiz and me stretches long, a persistent awkwardness that floats between us, like a low-hanging cloud.
I grip the armrest on the door, gathering my nerve. “Ruiz. About what I said, that day in my apartment . . .” I can feel blood rushing to my face. “I’m sorry.”
There’s a long pause; then he says, “I’m the one who should apologize.” His left hand grips the steering wheel. “I hope you know, I never set out to . . . use you. In my mind, it was . . . well. It was complicated.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the horizon.
“You should know,” he says quietly, “that night, it wasn’t about the case. That night, the case was about the furthest thing from my mind.”
There are surfers in the waves below, paddling at an angle to the shore.
Then he says, cautiously, “But listen, Natasha—if we’re going to find this flash drive, figure out what it means, I need to know . . . if there’s anything at all you’ve been holding back . . . even if it doesn’t seem like much.” He swallows. “Now’s the time. It could be important.” He’s being so gentle, so understanding.
Below, a huge wave sweeps the surfers into the shore like they’re plastic toys.
“There’s nothing,” I say. And there’s not. Not really. Something flickers at the back of my mind, but I push it away. Turning to Ruiz, I see the doubt in his face, and say, more firmly: “I promise.” And this time, I almost convince myself.
He watches me for a long moment, as if he’s considering pushing the point. Then, he looks away and says, “Okay. Okay.”
As he turns the key in the ignition, the car shivers into life around us. He begins backing out of the parking lot, and I rub at my eyes. The edges of my vision are starting to blur. At first, I tell myself it’s just an effect of all the bright light, staring into the sun’s reflection on the water. But then my vision darkens down to a narrow tunnel, and the shadows crowd in until all I see is black.
CHAPTER 36
When I get back to my apartment, I close the door firmly behind me and lean my head against its cool surface. The episode in the car lasted only a few minutes, and Ruiz didn’t notice anything was amiss—but I’d spent the remainder of the drive feeling shaky.
Two episodes in a week. Not good. The next time one hits, I might be at work. I might be crossing a street. And what will I do then?
After going into the bathroom, I pull the empty bottle of Inderal out of the medicine cabinet. Then I get out my phone, call Dr. Rajmani’s office, and request an appointment. Now I’ll have to talk to him, and he’ll want to know why, after all this time, I suddenly need more pills. I imagine his reaction if I tell him the truth. This week, I’ve torn down all the careful boundaries he helped me set, to protect me from the investigation.
In the mirror, my reflection stares back at me. I’ve been rubbing at my face, and my makeup has smudged. Underneath the powder and concealer, the old Natasha is peeking out. Pale, freckled. Dark circles under the eyes. This is the Natasha who once sat at the bus stop opposite Roy Tucker’s house for hours, watching his comings and goings, until a police officer came to escort her away.
I’m backsliding. This latest episode is proof of that. As is the way I can’t seem to control my thoughts. Memories of Allie keep slithering in, fleeting moments that suddenly seem significant.
Like the day when she’d draped herself across my bed, dissecting my recent breakup with Josh Takegawa. “He really liked you, you know.” She was eating straight out of a box of Honey Nut Cheerios.
I sat at my desk, trying to focus on my ethics homework. “Really,” I said flatly. “Then why’d he dump me for Maggie Sheehan?”
“Because,” Allie said, popping a Cheerio in her mouth, “you barely talked to him. You were a total ice queen.”
“No, I wasn’t,” I said. “I was just quiet.” Quiet was good. Quiet was safe. If I spoke too much, Josh might figure out—just like Greg and the rest of Allie’s friends had—that I was decidedly uncool. I didn’t listen to the right bands, take the right drugs, or talk with Allie’s effortless combination of sarcasm and sincerity.
“I mean, you’re really awful with guys,” she mused. “It’s pretty fascinating.”
“Thanks a bunch.”
“No, I mean, I am too,” she said, sitting up in a cross-legged position. “Awful, that is. But with me, you can at least see where it comes from. Whereas you”—she pointed a finger at me—“stable home, normal mother; it just doesn’t add up. You should be the most securely attached person in the world.”
I gave up trying to focus on my homework and swung around in my desk chair. “I didn’t realize I’d signed up for psychoanalysis.”
She grinned, as if I’d paid her a compliment, then dusted some crumbs off her chest. “Dr. Allie is in the house.” Then, after a moment: “You should try it.”
“Try what?”
“Therapy. You could really unpack some things.”
Irritated, I pushed my chair away from my desk. “I don’t know why you’re so enthused about therapy for me,” I said. “You told me it was all bullshit.”
She flopped back on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling as if she could see something there that I couldn’t. “Yeah, well, I say a lot of shit.” Her expression was unreadable.
“You certainly do,” I said, tossing my pen at her. It hit her thigh, but it was as if she didn’t even feel it.
“I talk and talk, but I never really say anything. Not really,” she said softly.
I frowned. What was with her today?
She propped herself up on her side, picking at loose threads on the quilt. “I mean, what if I told you something really real? Something true. Do you think you could handle it?” Her eyes were big and black.
I felt my guard go up. Was she looking for another opportunity to critique my style, my personality, my relationships? “Well, only if you’re not going to be a bitch about it,” I said, aiming for the jokey-sarcastic tone she and Greg used with each other.
Her face fell.
“Als. I’m joking,” I said quickly. I’d read her tone wrong. I hadn’t realized she really wanted to tell me something. “Obviously. You can say whatever you want.”
“Yeah, obviously,” she said lightly, sitting up. But whatever that moment had been, it had vanished. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and secured it with a band she had wrapped around her wrist. I tried to regain her attention, but just then she got a call on her phone and the moment was gone.
I never did find out what she was going to say that day.
And now I wonder: When was that, that day she’d been talking about therapy?
In my bedroom, I pull the box of photographs onto my bed and sit next to it, sorting through the prints. What I need is a timeline. That conversation with Allie about therapy—that must have happened in November of 2012. I pull out the snapshots that were taken then, trying to get a sense of what was happening at the time. That party at Greg’s house where I’d taken a sip of Allie’s drink and realized it was sparkling water. The Thanksgiving Allie and I spent at Mom’s house.
I spread more photographs out around me on the comforter. November, December. These were the months I’d been so irritated with Allie. She’d stopped going to Luxe on Saturdays—which was fine by me—but she’d also started canceling our Wednesday night movie plans and disappearing from the apartment for long stretches of time.
Occasionally, I’d try to convince her to drop by one of Christie’s parties or crack open a bottle of wine with me on Friday after classes. But she’d say she was tired, or that she had a deadline for her costume design class. She spent a lot of time in her room with the door closed, muffled music seeping from underneath the door.
During that period, I’d felt unsettled—and hurt. Even when we did hang out like before, watching bad Hallmark movies on the couch or wandering through the Fashion District, it felt different. I could still see Allie, still talk to her, but it was like she was standing behind a glass wall. I was losing her. And I didn’t know why.
I arrange the photos on the bed in chronological order. 2010: Allie and me moving into the apartment in West LA. 2011: Allie and me and Greg standing in line at Luxe, holding the fake IDs Greg had gotten for us.
I’ve looked at these photos a hundred times before. Some of them used to be stuck to the door of our apartment fridge. But I’m seeing them now with new eyes. I’d thought I had such a clear recollection of our college years. But today I see that the pictures don’t line up with my memories.
For instance, I remember Greg and me avoiding each other whenever possible. But here we are with Allie at Café Bijou, at Luxe, in the apartment living room, laughing and talking as if we’re good friends. And Allie—I remember her being at the peak of her party phase in college, having the time of her life. But in the photos, I notice shadows under her eyes, a haunted expression on her face.
The photos of me are especially startling. I usually avoid looking at photos of myself with Allie, because they all seem to fall along the same lines as that terrible photo on the forums—highlighting how far I fell short compared to her.
But in the photos from junior year, I don’t see that Natasha at all. In one, I’m sitting at a table at Café Bijou wearing skinny jeans and an oversize thrift-store sweater, vintage ankle boots, and a pair of Bialucci sunglasses I’d borrowed from Allie. I look almost chic. Like someone with her own distinct personality. Had I looked like that and just not known it?
I scrabble around the bottom of the cardboard box for the last of the photos. These are the larger prints I made for Hadfield’s photography class, the class I’d enrolled in that last semester at LACSA.
They’re a series of black-and-white self-portraits. In some, I’ve zoomed in so close that you can only see my eyes—the neutral-colored eyelashes, the pale streaks in my irises. And I remember how good it had felt back then, to be in the darkroom, to maneuver around in the dim light surrounded by the smell of acrid chemicals. I’d developed these portraits one Saturday when I was alone in the photography lab. In the eerie half-light, I’d watched my features come into view under the wavery liquid and been surprised to find myself beautiful.
CHAPTER 37
December 2012
At the student exhibition for Hadfield’s class, I stood in front of my framed photographs, shifting on my feet as people walked by, taking in the art. Professor Hadfield had arranged the exhibition off campus in this little gallery on Melrose. He said he wanted us to feel what it was like to be real artists.
Earlier in the evening, I’d been thrilled to see my photographs displayed on the bare white walls. But as the evening dragged on, I found myself wilting. The other students had all invited so many people to the show: boyfriends, girlfriends, mothers, uncles, grandparents. But I had only asked Allie. And at the last minute, she’d texted to say she wasn’t going to make it. Stuck in 405 traffic. I’ll make it up to you! she promised. But her text didn’t soothe the sting in my chest. I checked her location on my iPhone. Of course, she wasn’t on the 405; she wasn’t anywhere near it. She was in Los Feliz, where Macnamara lived. It was so like her to lie and not remember she had location sharing on.
As the crowd thinned, I tried to keep my head up, the dwindling crowd highlighting how alone I was.
I had just turned and started to pack up my stuff when a hush fell over the gallery. Looking around, I saw everyone’s heads turning toward the entrance, where Isabel Andersen stood framed in the doorway. She wore jeans and a pale silk blouse, a large leather handbag slung over her shoulder. Although she was chatting with the gallery owner, her eyes scanned the room. When she caught sight of me, she broke into a wide smile and waved. Immediately, the attention in the room swung toward me.
As she walked across the gallery, people averted their eyes and pretended to be having normal conversations with each other. But an unmistakable murmur sprang up in her wake, and a few people not so subtly held up their phones, trying to get a shot of her as she passed.
When she reached me, she kissed me on both cheeks. “Natasha! How lovely to see you.”
Over her shoulder, I saw my classmates suddenly reassessing their level of interest in me.
“Isabel!” I said. “What’re you doing here?” Had she somehow heard about the exhibit and misunderstood, thinking Allie was a part of it?
“Well, don’t you know, Rosa—she owns this place—Rosa told me she saw your name on some of the work being put up this afternoon. And she said, ‘Isn’t that a dear friend of Allie’s?’ I said, ‘Yes, of course!’ And then I just happened to be passing and thought, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to say hello?’”
I flushed, feeling both flattered and confused. Would Isabel really come here just to see me? When was the last time we’d seen each other? Maybe four months earlier, when she’d come over to the apartment to talk to Allie—a conversation that had not gone well. During that visit, I don’t remember the two of us exchanging more than a few words.
She turned to look at my photos, her face lighting up. “And is this your work?”
“Yes,” I said, tugging at the sleeves of my sweater.
