I’ve decided I don’t need that Bloody Mary after all. I start running as fast as I can in the opposite direction from where Sunny went amid the fallen branches and debris from the storm. I run inside the pool house where I’ve been staying. I look around at my clothes strewn everywhere, at Brett’s suitcase, open, full of his things. My three suitcases are empty, but I don’t have time to pack. I can replace stuff. I dart into the bathroom and grab my favorite face cream and my toothbrush. I see Brett’s sitting on the counter and get a little pang of sadness, but there’s no time for that. And there’s no time to take anything else with me. I grab my purse, and my keys and my sunglasses.
I got the message loud and clear. Sunny doesn’t need to warn me again. This is her house, and I better get out of here. I use the side path Brett and I discovered when we first arrived and find the ornamental wrought-iron gate. I push it open and hurry to the driveway. My red sports car is where I left it, and, thank God, it’s undamaged.
My hand shakes as I unlock the door and hop behind the wheel. I am suddenly sober, more sober than I’ve been this entire weekend. Dead sober and terrified. I punch the gas, navigating around fallen palm fronds on the circular driveway. I check the rearview mirror as I reach the end of the circle and I’m about to lose sight of Gentry House.
She’s there, standing on the driveway. Her hands are on her hips. She’s watching me. What does she want? Oh my God. I push the gas pedal, urging my car to go faster. I swallow and lean forward. I want to get out of here so badly, I know I’m frantic. I’m in panic mode. I don’t want to think about what she would do to me if she knew the truth. She likely knows the truth, right? She’s dead. I killed her.
I glance up and look into the rearview mirror, and she’s gone. I remind myself to concentrate on the road, knowing trees are down everywhere, but I don’t see it in time. I’m going too fast. I slam on the brakes, but it’s too late.
The last thing I hear is the sound of my own scream before everything goes black.
I’ve decided most people get what they deserve in life. But Sunny didn’t deserve to die. I’ve learned everything I could about her, even reading old newspaper articles, so I could become her, for him. I like to help Ryan with his grief. It was unfair, and he’s still hurting. So, I play along. It’s the least I can do for the love of my life. Today, I’m simply wearing a green dress, like the ones Sunny loved, and abeautiful necklace Ryan gave me when we first started dating. Some people might think it’s odd that our relationship is based on how much I resemble his dead ex-lover. But I don’t mind. I have friends who are dating guys with much less in common. It’s true. Ryan fell in love with me because I look like her, like she looked when she died. Hopefully, he doesn’t expect me to stay this way forever. I mean, I’m not a ghost; I’m alive. Since we’ve been together, I’ve read, listened to Ryan’s memories, examined all the photos of her he has kept all these years. I’m confident I look the part. But after all her old sorority sisters finally leave here, leave our home and go back to wherever they came from, hopefully Ryan will let me be me. Kat.
52
Beth
“What was that noise?” I ask Ryan.
“What?” he says. He’s still pushing me against the window, pressing my shoulder against the cold glass, texting someone on his phone. Finally, the sound of crunching gravel gets his attention. He looks over my head out the window.
“Oh, that was good old Amelia departing rather suddenly. She didn’t even say goodbye. And from what I could see as I watched her hurry to her car and drive off, she left her pile of pink baggage behind, all of it—oh, and she left Brett,” Ryan says. When he laughs a chill runs down my spine. I used to like his laugh. I used to like him. I am fairly certain he’s lost his mind. “She should have at least taken the body with her. I mean, she is the one who brought him here, and neither of them was invited. Rude, if you ask me.”
It’s official. He’s no longer the Ryan I knew. “So, that means the roads are clear now?”
“Maybe. Who knows,” Ryan says.
All I know is I’d rather take my chances out there in the desert than spend another minute in here with a madman. “Oh, great. We can leave too. I’ll be on my way,” I say. I’m nervous, sweaty. I try to wriggle out of his grip, but it’s not working. “Let me go, please.”
“You know, I’ll always remember that night with you,” he says. He leans in close to my face, too close. “Both because the sex was surprisingly good, and then, of course, the shame and regret because of Sunny. What if she had lived? What if she had found out about us? What would have happened? You tempted me. You were an untrue friend. It was all your fault that night, you bitch.”
“We would have told her we were drunk, and we made a terrible mistake,” I say, staring into his eyes. His eyes glisten with threats.
“Wrong answer. We never would have told her. She wouldn’t have gotten over it, ever,” he says.
“It doesn’t matter anymore. Let me go,” I say.
He shoves his phone into his pocket and grabs my other shoulder, spinning me around so I’m facing out the window. What, who is that? Standing on the driveway, her back to us, is a woman with long blond hair wearing a green dress. I shake my head and close my eyes. When I open them, she’s still there. She’s the woman on the postcard, the woman in the photos.
“Who is that?” I ask. My heart pounds in my chest. It can’t be her. She’s dead.
“My girlfriend. Sunny,” Ryan says.
As if on cue, the woman in the green dress turns around. She looks up to the window and smiles.
I’m shaking all over. I don’t know what this is, who she is, but I need to get out of here. I kick Ryan in the groin, bend my knees, drop to the ground fast, and dart away, running to the door.
“Stop, Beth, we’re not finished here,” he says, hobbling in pain trying to catch me.
I reach the door and pull on the handle at the same moment Ryan catches up to me. He grabs my hair with one hand and my waist with the other.
“I told you we aren’t finished,” he says in a growling voice.
“What do you want?” I ask. I feel his breath hot on my face.
“I want you to suffer. I want you to die alone,” he says.
“Sure, OK, it looks like that’s where I’m headed,” I say. “Not going to be a problem.”
