After Image, page 25
I walk into Mom’s office and dig through her desk drawers for a charger. When I find one, I plug in my phone. There’s a long moment when nothing happens; then, after a minute, the Apple logo appears, and I see that the phone is actually powering on, charging. I feel a rush of relief. After a minute, the Home screen appears, pixelated but functional. I leave the phone to charge and turn and examine the room, where I can still sense the old arrangement of Allie’s bedroom furniture against the walls.
Ever since Mom turned this room into her office, it has felt odd to me. Too sparse. Just a desk and a bookshelf and a filing cabinet. Back when Mom packed up Allie’s things, she’d taken Allie’s nameplate off the door, but I can still see the faint outline of where it used to be. I walk over to the door, then press my hand against the outline and trace the letters as I remember them. A big dramatic A followed by smaller lowercase letters in cursive.
Then I stop, my fingers pressed against the door. That lettering. On the key chain, where Allie’s name had been written—that wasn’t Allie’s handwriting. It was this script. The big dramatic A is exactly the same. I spin around. Whoever wrote her name on the key chain was trying to point me here. To her old bedroom.
I run my eyes over the furniture, the walls. The day before Allie went missing, she’d come here, to this house, for only fifteen minutes or so. It has never made sense to me. But what if she didn’t come to the house to see Mom? What if she came here to hide the other half of the flash drive? This would be a safe place, a place she could be sure Isabel would never go.
I walk over to the desk and run my fingers across its surface. There’s nothing of Allie’s in the room anymore. Her belongings have all been packed in boxes, and—what? Returned to Isabel? I can’t remember now. My heart sinks. If the flash drive was once hidden in this room, it’s possible Mom sent it right back to the person Allie wanted to keep it from.
Frustrated, I turn in a circle, scanning the room for possible hiding places. The curtain rods? Under the carpet? Then I come to a stop, my eyes catching on the AC vent. The place where, in the house on Via Montemar, Allie used to stash her liquor, her notebook.
After dragging the desk chair over to the wall, I step onto it and run my hand over the edges of the vent cover. I’ll need a screwdriver to get it off. I jump down, run to the hall closet, and pull out Mom’s toolbox. Once I find the right screwdriver, I rush back to the vent and carefully work the screws loose, then pull back the cover and peer inside. I pass my hand around the inside of the opening, but my fingers only come away covered in dust.
Defeated, I step down off the chair and sit cross-legged on the floor, the screwdriver in one hand. The flash drive isn’t here.
I don’t know how long I sit there like that, my gaze level with the desk chair, staring at the electrical outlet on the wall under the desk. The slots for the electrical plugs stare back at me like little faces, mocking me. Two vertical lines for eyes and a circle for a mouth.
Then I crawl forward and run my hands across the outlet cover. “Shit,” I say under my breath. That face. This was the symbol drawn on the flash drive, the one I’d thought was an emoji.
Fumbling with the screwdriver, I loosen the small screw that holds the outlet cover against the wall. When it falls away in my hand, I push my fingers into the small space behind it. Nothing.
But there are other outlets in the room. I check the one by the filing cabinet. The one by the door. Nothing. I twist around, scanning the rest of the room. There are no others. Then I remember: there should be one more, where Allie’s bedside table used to be. It’s blocked now by the bookshelf. Scrambling to my feet, I walk over to the bookshelf and wrestle it away from the wall, just a few inches, enough so that I can slide my hand behind it.
Then I’m down on my knees, snaking my hand between the shelf and the wall and working the outlet cover loose, scraping my knuckles in the process. This time, when I push my fingers into the gap, they brush up against something small. Something plastic. Carefully, I clasp the object and draw it out, knowing what it is before I set eyes on it.
The other half of Allie’s key chain. The one that holds the USB drive.
CHAPTER 54
Mom’s old desktop computer takes forever to boot up. I sit at her desk, fingers tapping frantically against the mouse. Finally, the screen loads, and I slide the flash drive into the USB port. A little icon pops up on the desktop, the colors bright and cheery.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.” I click on the icon. Only one file is saved on the drive, a document titled “Final draft.” I open the file, and a box pops up, prompting me to enter a password. Fuck. I sit there for a long moment, and then I try entering in the name “Mia Rossi”—in all possible variations. Capitalized, uncapitalized, one word, two words. On my fourth try, the document opens suddenly, black-and-white text filling up the screen.
I swallow, leaning forward to read.
You think you know me. Maybe you’ve read about me in magazines, or maybe we’ve met in the back room at Luxe. Maybe we’re friends, maybe we’ve dated, maybe you even call me family. But you don’t know me. I can say that with certainty because, for most of my life, I’ve done everything I could to not know myself. The Allie you know: that’s someone I created. The spoiled brat, the rebel, the diva, the train wreck. I’m just what you would expect from the daughter of Isabel Andersen. And you have to admit, I’ve played the role to perfection.
It’s a performance I’m in control of. And not in control of. Sometimes I enjoy it; sometimes I loathe it. But it turns out I’m not the actress my mother is. I can’t keep the mask on forever.
I read quickly. Allie is writing about the suicide attempt in Malibu, being found by Marisol, Marisol making her promise to see a therapist. Reading her words is like hearing her voice in the room with me.
So I did the thing I said I’d never do; I went back to therapy. But this time it wasn’t like before, when I was trying to outsmart the person sitting across from me. This time there was nothing I could do but break apart. This time, the only thing I could do was tell the truth.
But you don’t want the truth from me. Not from Allie Andersen, the girl who has everything. And you’re right. I’ve always been spoiled: the best schools, the best clothes, the best cars, the best vacations. Sure, my mother was never around, but I had Matthew. Matthew took care of me. He worshipped me. I wasn’t so stupid that I didn’t know what a special thing that was.
When you get that kind of love from someone, you don’t question it. You just hang on with all you’ve got. Especially if it’s all you’ve got.
So, I didn’t care that Matthew drank. I didn’t care that he spent more time with me than my friends did. And I didn’t care that sometimes he crawled into my bed at night to sleep with his arms around me. That was love. That was what love was like.
In the daytime, Matthew took me everywhere with him. He took photos of me. He made me feel like a star. And I liked being beautiful in his eyes. At night he stayed with me too. And at night, he took different photos, private ones. These ones were just between him and me, he said.
The screen swims in front of my eyes.
By the time I was eleven or twelve, I knew what was happening wasn’t right. But I couldn’t make it stop. So I started drinking. And drinking was such a gift. It made things so much easier. It made living possible. Pills were better, though. Pills made living fun.
My mother said I was pure trouble. She said my antics were all to get attention. And she was right. I wanted attention. Her attention. I wanted her to see. Because she did see the way Matthew was with me. In part, at least, she saw. And then she looked away.
Sometimes, when Isabel was home from a film shoot, I thought: Just tell her. Just say the words out loud. But even when we were in the same room, she felt so far away.
It’s too hard to read this. I move the mouse down the page, scanning the words quickly, as if that will somehow make them less painful. Allie talks about working up the nerve to tell Isabel, after years, daring to tell her the truth. And how Isabel hadn’t believed a word of it.
Instead, she packed me off to an expensive rehab where I would be someone else’s problem. That was when I learned: No one was coming to rescue me. And for that I only had myself to blame. You couldn’t act the way I’d acted and then expect to be believed. I’d lied, I’d stolen, I’d gotten expelled, just for kicks, for fun, to make myself feel something. So if Isabel didn’t believe me, was that really her fault? Or was it mine?
In rehab, they tried to get through to me, they tried to get me to tell them what was wrong. But I wasn’t going to fall for that. I wasn’t going to ask for anyone’s help ever again.
Her voice is so clear, so angry and stubborn, that it seems impossible she’s dead. Here, on the page, she is still alive.
Recently, I gathered up the courage to tell someone about Matthew. Someone I loved, someone I trusted. And he believed me. He said it was important for me to tell my story. He said he’d help me be heard. But in the end, he turned out to be just like everyone else. In the end, I didn’t matter as much to him as his safe little life.
There’s a line under this paragraph, and then several blank spaces before the next ones, as if Allie left the essay and then came back later to add on more.
Matthew called me today. Isabel told him I was writing this essay. She warned him. And that’s how it’s always been, since they were kids, the two of them against the world. Even when the world includes me.
No one will believe you, Matthew said. Don’t do this to yourself. I’m only thinking of you.
And I realized he was right. Who would believe me—Allie Andersen—after everything I’ve done?
So, here’s what I’ve learned: Words don’t matter. I used to think they did, but now I know they don’t. So, I’m hiding this essay somewhere safe. Somewhere they can’t get to it.
But I’m not giving up. Words won’t convince you, but I can give you what you’ve always loved: pictures. I mean, didn’t you love those pictures of me coming out of Luxe, falling all over myself? Those were a big hit. So, let me give you some more. Matthew’s photos, the ones he took of me, the ones he keeps hidden at the cabin.
Maybe you won’t like those as much. Maybe those won’t make it to the front page of a magazine. But I don’t care. I don’t give a shit about what you think. All I want is for you to know is that, after all this time, Allie Andersen is telling the goddamned truth.
My head is pounding. I turn away from the computer screen, blinking rapidly. Leaning forward, I press my hands against my eyes. And in the darkness, images emerge, adjusting and sharpening in my memory.
That first Christmas, Allie sitting as far away from Matthew at the dining table as she could. Allie, hating to visit Isabel’s house so much that she would only go if I was with her, if I never left her side. Allie coming out of the bathroom at Luxe, her pupils dilated to a frightening size.
Finally: Allie standing in my bedroom, holding my modeling photos in her hands. The last time I saw her. The night I’ve tried to forget.
CHAPTER 55
January 2013
That night, I’d been alone in the apartment. Which was why I’d felt safe spreading the modeling photos out on my bedspread, so I could more carefully examine them, see myself through the photographer’s eyes. At some point, though, I left the room to go to the bathroom, and during that time, Allie must’ve come home, because when I came back to my room, she was there, standing beside my bed.
A flash of shock ran through me. “What are you doing here?”
One of the eight-by-tens was in her hand. I stepped forward to grab it from her, but she yanked it out of my reach.
“What the fuck is this?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
She pointed at the logo stamped on the back of the print. “This is Peter’s company. How the fuck do you know Peter? Did Isabel set this up?”
Quickly, I gathered up the other photos on the bed, clutching them against my chest. “So what if she did?”
“‘So what if she did?’” Allie repeated. “Who the hell are you? How long has this been going on, you and Isabel palling around?”
She really couldn’t believe it, that there was something about me she didn’t know. Predictable, reliable Tash.
“We’re not ‘palling around.’ She’s helping me. She’s being nice.”
Allie made an explosive noise. “Don’t you dare say she’s nice.”
“I can say what I want,” I snapped. “Just because you don’t like her doesn’t mean the whole world has to hate her too.” Suddenly, the words were spilling out of me. “I’m allowed to have my own opinions. She’s actually really great.”
All the color drained from Allie’s face. “Oh, Tash. Don’t do this.”
“What do you mean, ‘Don’t do this’?”
“Don’t tell me you’re buying her bullshit. Can’t you see she’s just using you?”
“She’s not!” I said. “God, she’s not the supervillain you make her out to be. She’s helping me. Supporting me. Which is more than you do.” In that moment, I felt the burn of all the times Allie had let me down. Leaving me alone at parties so she could hook up with some guy. Letting Greg mock me, laughing at his jokes. Not coming to my photography show.
Allie pushed her hands through her hair. “Jesus. This is a nightmare.”
“What are you talking about?” I hated the way her face looked, like she was about to cry and it was up to me to comfort her. “This isn’t about you. For once, something is about me.”
She laughed, a slightly hysterical sound. “Oh, come on! You really think she looks at you and sees model material? Wake up.”
I felt like she’d punched me right in the chest. “You know what? Fuck you, Allie. I’m sick of your bullshit. You’re so wrapped up in your own world that you never even stop to think about other people.” I’d never fought with Allie before, not like this. It felt terrible. And wonderful.
She wiped at her eyes, smudging her eyeliner across her temples. “Is that what you think?”
“No, that’s what I know. All you see is yourself. Your problems. Your feelings.” Was that my voice echoing off the apartment walls?
“Is that right?” Allie said. Her voice was suddenly flat, emotionless. “Is that what I’m like?”
“Yes, it is.” I was on a high. So this was what it felt like, to not hold anything back.
“What else?” she asked. She braced herself like she was asking me to hit her in the face. “Tell me. I want to know what you really think.”
“You’re spoiled,” I said. “And selfish.” I was on a roll now; nothing could stop me. “And you lie. All the time. You lied to me about Seabrook. You lied about going to Vegas. And you lied about not being able to make it to my show. And then you wonder why no one trusts you.”
I waited for her to scream at me, to throw something across the room. I was ready.
But nothing happened. She just stood there. Something seemed to leave her body—a breath of air, the last bit of fight. She dropped the photo she was holding and walked past me without saying a word, her shoulder brushing against mine. As I stood in the bedroom, waiting for the argument to continue, I heard the front door close behind her.
CHAPTER 56
It takes a long while for my vision to return. I’m not sure how long exactly, but by the time I can see the desk in front of me again, the office has grown dim. It’s early evening. The essay is still glowing on the computer screen. I lean forward and, with shaking hands, take the flash drive out of the computer and slide it into my pocket.
I need to give the flash drive to Ruiz. But more urgently, I need to get out of here. If Mom comes home and sees me like this, she’ll know something is wrong. And I can’t tell her yet, what I know. What Ruiz and I found at the cabin. What it says in the essay.
I need time to process the truth.
The Uber drops me off outside my apartment building, and I jog up the front steps, shivering in the cold. I take the elevator to the third floor, gripping the flash drive in my pocket. During the car ride over here, I’d texted Ruiz one sentence: I found the essay. I can explain more later. But not now. As soon as I tell Ruiz what’s on the flash drive, it will become real. It will change everything. And I’m not quite ready for that.
When I reach my front door, I see the flyer taped beside the door, covering my doorbell camera. And I laugh at the part of me that once thought the camera was so important, that Allie had actually come to my apartment, that she was still alive. It doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters now.
I twist my key in the lock, push the door open, and step inside. As I shut the door behind me, it takes me a moment to register that the lights are on. I hadn’t left them on when I left this morning.
Turning, I see a figure standing near the bookcase.
“Shit!” I jerk backward, my shoulder blades slamming against the door. It’s Matthew. He stands with his hands in his pockets, looking like he’s just returned from a funeral. “Matthew. How did you . . .”
He holds up his hands in a calm down gesture. “I have a key. Don’t you remember? You gave it to me.”
Yes. When I first moved in, I’d locked myself out of the apartment. I gave a spare key to Matthew in case it happened again.
“What are you doing here?”
Matthew regards me solemnly. He’s not going to pretend he doesn’t know what’s going on. “You’ve been to the cabin,” he says.
My mouth is dry. “Yes.” He looks so much like the Matthew I remember, the one who was so kind to me.
“Why?” He sounds sad, as if I’ve disappointed him somehow.
