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I pick it up and look at it for a second, my skin burning as I take in her smiling face, before setting it back down on the bedside table, a bit more forcefully than I should.
The drawer is tightly packed with what appears to be all Cass’s residual belongings. I pick through it until my fingers brush against something that feels like cardboard at the back. I pull out all the stuff on top to reveal a white box with red lettering. Xanax. The familiar name jolts me. I open the box, quickly surveying the three blister packs, one of which is almost completely empty, before my fingers rest on something heavier. A small gold band tucked at the bottom. I flip it in my fingers, noticing the engraving.Forever Us Two. Their engagement band. But why would Cass keep it here? As if she didn’t want someone to find it?
Despite these questions, the sight of the oblong white pills, each tidily suctioned in its own little bubble, is temporarily distracting, blurring my vision with memories. I can almost taste their chalky texture on my tongue after the apathetic nurse at the college infirmary prescribed them. For a minute, I’m back in my dorm room, collapsed on my bed—where I stayed for weeks. Long enough for my roommate to request a room change and for the school to place me on academic probation. Every day, another handful of pills. Every day, wondering how many I would need to end it all. Always stopping just short of enough, waking up with a dry mouth, a pounding head, and a sense of regret for not forcing down one more.
I don’t know how long I stand there with the box in my hand, allowing the hazy memories to take over. Even now, the sight of those pills invigorates that need from years ago. I force myself to toss the box on the bed and get back to my search of the drawer, finding Cass’s passport buried beneath a half-full bottle of sunscreen and a mildewed paperback detective novel. I open it, knowing exactly what I’ll find, and snap a photo of the identification page with my iPhone.
In a final desperate attempt, I decide to check under the bed, dropping to my knees. The bed frame is too low for me to get a good look, so I lean my arm in the crack, swinging it back and forth.
It connects hard with something. The sound of plastic scraping against the wood floor rings out as the object skids a few inches. I reach in farther, blindly searching for the mystery object, until I feel my fingers grasp it.
I pull it out, and I’m staring at a model of cell phone that I haven’t seen in years. One of those old Nokias that no one other than cheating spouses and drug dealers still use.
But before I can wonder why Cass would have a burner phone under her bed, I hear something from the front of the house. My ears prick and my spine goes ramrod straight. It comes again, the rattle of metal against metal. A key in the door.
Logan must be home. Or Cass has come back again.
Either way, I’m screwed.
I shove the stuff back into the drawer as quickly as I can and slip the phone into the front pocket of my shorts. I whip my head around, trying to size up my options. There’s the bathroom, which is likely the first stop they’ll make. Or the closet, which is filled to the brim with clothes and shoes. Or the patio, with a steep drop to the rocky beach below.
I’m trapped.
22
CASS
I know before I turn the front door handle that Logan is back. The light’s on in our living room, and the window blinds are flicked fully closed. I look down at the doorstep as I approach the house, bracing myself, expecting to see a new envelope there. But it’s empty.
I take a deep breath. I know what I have to do.
Logan walks out from the bedroom when he hears the door. He’s wearing a towel tied loosely around his waist and a T-shirt patterned with droplets of water left from the shower. Without a word, he wraps his arms around me in a big bear hug, and the water on his skin soaks through the thin fabric of my shirt.
His face is laced with concern when we separate.
“I think we need to talk.” His tone is gentle but firm.
I nod. “We do.”
We take a seat on the living-room couch. It feels like something has changed in here, but I can’t put my finger on exactly what. It’s as if there’s a current in the air that wasn’t there before. I let Logan start, because I know what I need to tell him will change everything.
“Cass,” he says, his brow furrowed, his dark blue eyes staring into mine. “What happened the night of the Full Moon Party? Why did I have to cover for you yesterday?”
I take a beat and breathe. “I don’t remember.”
It’s not the response he was expecting. “What do you mean?” he asks. And then it clicks. “Wait. Did you black out?”
“Logan—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“You did? My God, how much did you drink? And then you taught the next day?”
His disappointment is palpable.
“It wasn’t just—” I try, but he doesn’t let me finish.
“And you don’t even know what you did? That was the night Lucy died. You know how bad this looks, right? And I had to cover for you.”
I feel my shoulders straighten, my back muscles clench. The anger that seeped in while I was up on Khrum Yai starts to solidify, heavy in my veins. Where does Logan get off on judging me for drinking too much? He’s a bartender, for God’s sake. He serves shots to inebriated tourists—not to mention Doug—day in and day out. And I distinctly remember him taking generous swallows from that bottle of Thai whisky being passed around the picnic table at Frangipani that night. And now he’s mad about having to cover forme? I found his damn engagement ring next to Lucy’s dead body, and I sure as hell didn’t tell anyone aboutthat.
