“I don’t want to wait.”
“It’ll be quick.”
“You’re never quick. You’re the only man I know who takes thirty minutes to make an omelet.”
“It’s gourmet—”
“It’s anomelet, Connor.”
By then, they’ve crossed the landing, and their words are little more than a murmur. When the door closes, they vanish entirely. There’s an easiness to their exchange, a well-worn intimacy, that troubles me, but I shake it off. It makes sense that after finding the notebooks, my alarm bells would be ringing at the slightest hint of duplicity, but that’s not who I want to be. I want to trust people; I want to believe that they’re loyal and honest. And that means notgetting concerned every time Greer jokes around with a handsome man.
As I near the kitchen, the sounds of breakfast become clearer: the grating whirr of the blender, the thump of bread being ejected from the toaster. The muted, conspiratorial chatter. I don’t want to go in there, especially not alone, but I don’t have much of a choice. Staying together is the best way to remain safe. I grit my teeth and start for the kitchen when I notice a closed door off to the left. No name tag, but a security keypad has been installed above the handle.
I dig into my pocket and pull out the sheet of paper.
This must be Connor’s room. If he’s upstairs, then it’ll be unattended for a while—enough time for me to conduct a quick search, find out why this code was written in my notebook. I tap it into the keypad; the button blinks green. Slipping inside, I let the door click shut behind me.
25NICOLA
CONNOR’S ROOMis a testament to cleanliness and organization. Every paper looks like it’s been straightened on his desk with a T-square, every pencil lined up, their tips perfectly parallel and equidistant. Even his sheets have been tucked in at the corners with military precision—their edges so tight, they’re strangling the mattress.
I head straight for his desk and ease the top drawer open, careful not to jostle the items inside. I have a feeling he’d be able to tell if anything were out of place. Inside is his wallet. I thumb open the clasp. Staring back at me is a picture of a man, stockier than Connor but with the same dark hair. He has a lumberjack beard.Had—I’m assuming this must be his brother, the one who died by suicide. I might not care for Connor, but I know what it’s like to blame yourself for someone’s death. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
Flipping the photo reveals another on the back. Greer, at a cocktail party, wearing a sparkly bandeau paired with a men’s boxy blazer and pants. She’s holding a champagne glass in one hand, toasting the camera. Connor stands next to her in a tailored suit, hair slicked back. I stare at her waist, at the way his fingers press into the thin strip of exposed flesh there, holding her tight.
It doesn’t mean anything, I remind myself. There’s no need to get upset. And then, before I do something I’ll regret, I snap the wallet shut.
Middle drawer. Nothing but a few sheets of paper—a confirmation email from Puget Sound First Coaches, the arrival and departure times for all the flights. Zach’s was scheduled to arrive hours before mine; could he have somehow figured that out? Could he have changed his flight so we’d be on the same connection? Just thinking about how carefully he might’ve planned this makes me sick.
I’m about to close this drawer, too, when I notice something metal stuffed into the back corner. I pry it out with my fingernails—its long, delicate chain and, at the end, polished gemstone.
A feeling of déjà vu washes over me; I’m both here and not here. Part of me is back at home, in the upstairs bathroom. From behind the locked door, the television hisses with the nightly news. “Do you know where your children are?” the PSA announcer asks, but I can barely make out the words over the thundering of blood in my ears.
I shake my head to clear it. This necklace seems familiar, but I can’t tell why. I should put it back, but instead, for reasons I don’t completely understand, I tuck it into my pocket.
Footsteps cross in front of the door—the others, on their way back from breakfast. Connor won’t be upstairs for much longer. I should get out of here while I still can. But that final drawer looms in the corner of my vision. Nausea settles, heavy in my gut, as I pull it open.
Nothing.
Well, not nothing—the broken tablet’s in there, along with some spare cables, but nothing related to me. A relieved breath rushes out of me. He doesn’t have them after all; of course he doesn’t. They were probably thrown in the trash years ago. I close the final drawer and am about to leave the room when I remember what he said during the meeting. He lied about having found the notebooks under Zach’smattress, probably because he never asked Hannah where they were actually hidden.
Why under the mattress?
I dig my fingers under the corner of his and haul it upward. An envelope addressed to Connor lies, unassuming, on the box spring. I pull it free before letting the mattress bounce back down. The handwriting on the front is messy, but I recognize the name above the return address:
Justin Billings.
My former classmate from Cooper Union—the audiovisual artist who always tried hitting on Claire during our studio classes. How the fuck does Connor know him? My fingers fumble over the clasp, but eventually, it opens—and then my hand dips inside the envelope, paper scratching against my knuckles, and I’m pulling them out.
The photos. The ones Claire took of me in college.
The top one’s crumpled, white creases spiderwebbing across its glossy surface. Unsurprising; these photos are almost twenty years old. I ignore the contents of the images, focusing instead on their bent corners and water damage. Where has he been storing them for all this time? Tucked away in the attic, probably, somewhere his family wouldn’t be able to find them. He wouldn’t want his children getting ahold of his old pornography stash. That’s what these photos are: not fine art, but slick, sweaty pornography with all the dirtiest bits spread out, right there in the open, for everyone to see. I flip through, trying to inventory them without actually looking at them. It’s like attempting to view an eclipse without looking directly at the sun.
The keypad gives a shrill beep. I almost drop the photos.
Three more beeps follow in quick succession. I look for somewhere to hide, but before I can vanish under the bed or into the closet, there’s a sharp click, and the door swings open.
Connor and I stare at each other. He clocks the open envelope on the mattress, the photos in my hands, before closing the door behind him. It clicks shut, and my heart jumps in response.
