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It ends with a precise location, which I realize with a jolt is the alley I followed Daniel down and where I later found him dead. And the confrontation happened only about ten minutes before the staff meeting started. Which means that when I saw Daniel, he was on his way to meet whoever sent this message. He must have noticed me following him and hidden until he could reenter the alley unseen.
I read the message again. Then for a third time.
Whoever sent this message was willing to blackmail Daniel into meeting them. But why?
My brain whirs, images from the video of Lucy that Daniel posted on Instagram clouding my mind. And then it clicks.
If Daniel really had been following Lucy that night, then maybe he saw who killed her. Maybe he even caught it on camera.
I fumble with the phone, almost dropping it from my hands as I hurriedly navigate to Daniel’s photo gallery. As I click on it, the screen is immediately flooded with thumbnail images, all blurry and streaked with neon lights. I start by enlarging the most recent image, a barely visible photo of the beach. I swipe my finger right, and now I’m looking at a grainy selfie, the same neon paint striped across Daniel’s cheeks that I saw the other night, his arm looped around a twentysomething woman with a vibrant red dye job. The five or so photos that follow are largely the same, shots of Daniel and this red-haired woman staring at the camera at different angles, the woman’s lips pursed in some, open and smiling in others. I begin to swipe more rapidly, through photos of nothing more than sand or feet, clearly taken by drunken accident. But after a few moreswipes, my finger freezes, hovering a few centimeters above the screen.
It’s a video, the frame paused on a wide-set image of the beach. I recognize it immediately. It’s the same frame that started the video Daniel had posted on Instagram.
But unlike the version on Instagram, this video has sound.
I press my thumb down, and the video comes to life. I’ve watched it so many times on Instagram since this afternoon that I could narrate as the video progresses. The only difference is Daniel’s voice yelling from behind the camera. “Oi, oi,” he shouts repeatedly to Lucy, despite her attempts to ignore him. “Lucy, love, come dance!”
A weak bass comes tinnily through the phone’s speaker, serving as a soundtrack to the initial blurry scenes of the dance floor. But everything else about the video stays the same: Daniel, behind the camera, making his way through the dance floor until he spots Lucy on the outskirts of the party. The camera lens zooming in, closer and closer, until she takes up the entire screen, her eyes darting nervously, her fingers clenched into fists. I brace myself for the jarring finale to the video, when Lucy stares straight at the camera.
And then it happens: her gaze fixates intensely on the screen. I wait for the video to end, like it did in the version I watched on Instagram, but this time, it doesn’t.
“Come on, Lucy. You know you want to!” Daniel yells through the speaker.
Lucy continues to stare at the screen for another moment or two but then gives Daniel a weak smile and looks away.
“Oi, your loss then,” Daniel grumbles.
But I pause, freezing the screen on Lucy looking off into thedistance, and check the timing on the video below. There are twenty-five seconds left.
I stare at it for a moment, puzzled, before it clicks. Instagram must have cut off part of the video Daniel posted.
Cautiously, I start it again and the video continues, the screen flipping upside down, making a bouncy retreat, as if Daniel began walking away and forgot he was recording. I flip the phone to follow along, and despite the distance, I can still see Lucy’s head moving back and forth as she searches for something unknown, ignoring Daniel and his camera. And then she stops, looking at something off-screen.
I inhale sharply, holding my breath tightly in my chest as she appears to take a step toward whatever—or whomever—she sees. The camera follows her, zooming out to show her talking to someone.
The person is facing away from the camera, and the video shows only their back, but it’s clear based on the broad shoulders and the matted hair that it’s a man. He’s nearly twice Lucy’s height, and I watch, eyes wide, muscles taut, as he bends to whisper in her ear. When he separates from her, returning to his normal height, the video trains again on Lucy, a small smile on her lips, her head nodding in agreement.
I keep watching as he hands Lucy a drink, from which she obediently takes a sip. Then he turns, and Lucy grabs his hand. He begins to lead her away from the dance floor, toward the water, and as he does, he looks around him, as if making sure no one is watching or following them.
“Aw, fuck it, the damn video’s still go—” Daniel mutters.
And with that final commentary, the video ends.
I stare at the screen, my eyes glued to that final image, the man looking just beyond the camera, until a cough racks my entire body. I’d forgotten I’d been holding my breath this whole time.
Quickly, I drag my finger along the bottom of the screen, rewinding the video several seconds, watching again as the man’s face comes into focus. The man who pulled Lucy away from the party during which she apparently died. The man who could have been the last person to see her alive.
I register the matted hair, the yellow T-shirt I saw him wearing on Friday night, the crooked nose.
Doug.
16
CASS
MONDAY
Logan is still sleeping when I wake up the next morning, but for once, he doesn’t seem peaceful. His forehead is scrunched, and one side of his lip keeps twitching.
