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I don’t tell her what ultimately led me to do it. The days I spent after that night at the swim house, refusing to claw myself away from the dirty sheets of my dorm room bed out of fear that I might run into Eric or her or any of the others who sat silent in that living room while it happened. The dozens of calls I made to lawyers who refused to help me. Finally convincing one to take my case, only to hear from her a week later, telling me that she couldn’t find a single witness to support my story, informing me that the girl I’d identified to her on Facebook had said that I’d willingly hooked up with Eric. I sat at my desk after the lawyer hung up, staring at my phone. And then, without fanfare or deliberation, I dug two clean lines along the length of each wrist with a pair of scissors, cleaving my skin into two curtain-like folds.
The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital, my mother next to me, looking more annoyed that she’d had to driveall the way from Kentucky to Hudson than saddened to discover that her only child had tried to kill herself. And then, when I didn’t think it could get any worse, came the transfer to the psych ward. Those three weeks filled with colorless pain, my world reduced to nothing more than gray and the echoes of screams filtering down the halls.
When I was finally released, I took what little money I had in my bank account and booked a one-way flight to Prague, the cheapest to Europe that I could find. I needed to go, to get as far away from everything as possible. In the few days before my flight was scheduled to leave, I stopped at the dollar store and bought stacks of bracelets to cover the two oversized Band-Aids on my wrists. As I traveled, I traded them out for others, souvenirs I gathered in the many cities I worked my way through, always looking for something to help mask the scars.
I watch Cass’s mouth gape open and closed like a fish, and I feel another wave of revulsion run through me.
“Brooke,” she starts, and I know she’s going to try to concoct some half-ass pitiful apology for what I had to go through.
“Stop, just stop,” I snap at her. “Just tell me the truth about Lucy. Why did you kill her?”
“I didn’t. You of all people should know that.”
I watch her spine straighten, the fight in her return.
“If I did,” she continues, “why would I have ever agreed to search her room with you? And why would I have helped you hide from whoever was trying to break in?”
I’ve already thought this through, at least her reason for agreeing to the search. “You wanted to be inside the investigation. To make sure I was only finding the things you wanted me to.”
She stands silent for a second, as if running through her options. “But what possible reason would I have to kill her?”
“I heard you, remember? I heard you tell Logan that you saw him cheat. With Jacinta, who just happened to drop dead hours later. And then you see your precious fiancé talking to another girl at the Full Moon Party. You lose it. You manage to get her a far enough distance down the beach so that no one will notice what you’re doing, and then you strangle her and leave her body in the ocean. Did I get that right?”
Her eyes fill with confusion.
“Oh, right. You don’t remember. How convenient.” I pause. “I mean, come on,” I say, leaning toward her conspiratorially. “There’s really nothing about that night that’s come back to you? Not a thing? You can tell me. We’re friends.” I draw out the last word so that it drips with sarcasm.
I watch her eyes dart quickly to the side, and I know there’s something she’s hiding. There’s something she remembers that she hasn’t told me or Logan or anyone else.
“I don’t remember anything,” she says finally. “But I didn’t kill Lucy. I couldn’t have. I was the one who found her body the next morning. I—I wouldn’t have.”
“Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself,” I say, my anger returning. “I just wish you hadn’t been such a cliché. I mean, the jealous girlfriend, really? Personally, I can’t imagine killing someone foranyreason, let alone one so mundane. But you’re pretty used to that, right? I mean, you’ve done it before. To your own family, no less.”
I watch her cheeks flush and her hands ball up. For a second, I really think she might punch me.
“You have no fucking idea.”
“So tell me,” I order. “Tell me what I’m missing.” I’ve dropped the act. I want to know. Or more than that. Ineedto know. Looking into all this started as a story, one that would serve the dual purpose of getting revenge on Cass and finally starting my career as a journalist. But Lucy’s got under my skin. Those big blue eyes she locked on me that night when she came to me for help. The strength she carried in her delicate frame. Her unwavering confidence. All of that, just thrown away, left to rot in the sea.
Cass stands there, shaking her head, her eyes stone. “Robin was an accident,” she says finally, her voice so quiet it’s barely audible. “My dad was sick. I tried to fix him, to get him the meds he needed. But it all went wrong.”
Something unclenches inside me. I’m getting somewhere finally. She’s going to confess.
“So what about Lucy?” I ask eagerly. “Was that an accident too? Why else would your ring be near her body? And why did you have her phone under your bed?”
“I never took her phone,” Cass says quietly.
“There’s no use denying it. I found it under your bed.” Cass stays silent, her forehead wrinkled, so I switch tactics. “And what about Jacinta? What were you doing the night she died?”
“I was at Frangipani. She was there. But…but then I went home. I’m sure I did.”
Wait. She’ssureshe did? “You don’t remember?”
Her face drops. “I started taking Xanax that day. I think I took too many of them at first…”
She trails off, and I process what she’s saying. Despite all the evidence, a small part of me didn’treallythink my theories could be right, but what Cass is saying basically confirms them.
“Cass,youkilled Jacinta. You lured her up to Khrum Yai and pushed her. And then you strangled Lucy, leaving those bruises on her neck.”
