She stares down at the damp cement. I can tell she doesn’t want to betray her convictions, but at the same time, she’s worked her entire life for this professorship. Just when I think she’s going to refuse, she grits out the word “fine” and crosses the road.
Ros remains, alone, on the opposite side, shaking her head. “Look,” she says, “y’all can do whatever you want, but I have my family to think about.” She turns on her heels, heads back toward the bus.
“Hey!” Greer shouts. “Where are you going?”
“To get my stuff.”
She reappears a few minutes later with her rolling suitcase, a duffel bag looped around its handle. She squints toward the mainland. “This road’ll take me to the nearest town, right?”
“It’s a long walk,” Greer warns.
Ros tightens her grip on the handle. “I would walk across this entire goddamned country, if that’s what it took to keep my girls safe.”
And with that, she strides away from us, her suitcase wheelsclick-clicking against the pavement, the bright yellow of her puffer vest growing duller and duller as she recedes into the mist.
“Last chance,” Greer says. “If anyone else wants to leave, I won’t stop you.”
No one moves.
She switches on Audrey’s phone and presses the emergency call button.
“Nine-one-one,” says the muffled voice on the other end of the line. “What’s your emergency?”
“There’s been a car accident on Red River Bridge. Someone’s dead.”
“Ma’am, what’s your name?”
She hesitates, then says, “Greer Woods. I’m here with a group of friends, and we would like to make a statement.”
39GREER
I’VE MADE THIS WALKa hundred times, but never, in all my years of coming here, have I felt nervous. That changes today. The prison guard leads me to a private room where Tom’s already waiting. After he was arrested, we were forced to talk in the visitation room like everyone else—trapped behind thick squares of Plexiglas, our words grainy through telephone receivers. Only after I passed the bar exam and Tom retained me as his counsel were we finally given privacy. The guards could watch us through the window, but they couldn’t listen in on our conversation. It was almost like being home again.
Tom has one knee propped against the table. He hasn’t shaved in a few days; a thick scruff covers his cheeks and chin. His hair has been carefully slicked back with whatever styling product they sell at the commissary. It’s moments like this when I wish I had Nic’s artistic talent. I’d like to capture the way he smiles with all his teeth, including the little hook ones on the left side of his mouth.
“Greer.” He leans forward in his chair. “I’ve missed you.”
“Sorry. Just got back this morning.”
“How was the retreat?”
“Fine.” I slump into the chair opposite him and set my briefcase on the floor.
“That’s not what I’ve heard.”
“Oh?” I shouldn’t be surprised that he already knows, and yet somehow, I am. “And what’ve you heard?”
“That my final victim was killed in a tragic car accident—near your lodge.”
News of her death—and Zach’s—broke yesterday, and while media outlets don’t yet have all the details, the names involved (mine included) are enough to guarantee reporters will be investigating the case for months to come. One of them will eventually track Audrey Banerjee’s movements all the way back to Maine and, like her, will discover the truth about me.
Tom reaches across the table and takes my hands in his. They’re broad, warm, familiar.
“None of what happened was your fault. You know that, right?”
“I should’ve gotten the hand brake fixed.”
“Classic cars,” he says dismissively. “There’s always something wrong with them.”
