Her heart starts to race as she doubts herself. She begins pacing again, unsure of what to do. She’s tempted to go back to the cemetery, start digging up the grave, demand DNA tests.
She pictures herself covered in dirt as she digs with her bare hands, chunks of grass and soil mixed with blood packed beneath her splitting fingernails. She imagines wedging open the casket with a shovel to find a pile of decomposed bones. Then what? Go to the police station and tell them she just dug up her sister’s grave because she’s convinced her sister isn’t her sister but is actually Harlow Hayes?
They’d probably drag her away to an insane asylum. Or if they did somehow take her seriously, and if she is right, then they’d arrest her sister. Again.
Her stomach lurches at the thought. That her sister might actually be alive. That she might be a killer. Not Jade’s, but possibly Colton’s. And Harlow’s.
Naomi knows all about the drastic things people do to get to the top. What craving fame and fortune do to people. Could Faye have really been so desperate, so delusional, that she killed Harlow? If it were anyone else, Naomi would be convinced that Harlow’s imposter is the killer.
No, she thinks.Not Faye.
She let you believe she died in a horrific way, a cruel voice whispers.Is it really so unbelievable that she killed Harlow too? Would it really be so shocking?
She cries out in frustration, sick of wondering. Of second-guessing everything. Not knowing. She can’t sit around asking herself “What if?” any longer. She can’t keep questioning her sanity. She needs to know the truth. Now.
She scrolls through social media, trying to find clues to where “Harlow Hayes” could be. She checks Instagram, seeing if @HarlowHayesOfficial has posted anything recently. And there it is, a video of her two dogs, Lennon and Ringo, running on the beach. Naomi replays the story, noting the cliffs in the background.
She recognizes those cliffs. “Harlow” is at her beach house in Maine. And soon, Naomi will be too.
*
The Beatles’ “Hey Jude” plays through the radio after Naomi turns the key in the rental car’s ignition. She instinctively reaches to change the channel, but stops herself as the second verse begins. Goosebumps prickle her arms as the words set in. It’s like her mother is singing to her through McCartney’s voice, urging Naomi to “go and get her.”
She peels out onto the road, not caring about the other car she sideswipes as the now ominous-sounding chorus of “na-na-na-nas” propels her toward the heart-wrenching, unfathomable truth.
Part III
VIOLENT ENDS
Oh,please believe me, thiswas not my intention.
A violentend for an honest confession.
– Harlow Hayes, from the albumLegacy
Harlow
Present Day
Sam paces around my two-story living room, looking uncomfortable in his tight blue suit. He holds a glass of Macallan in one hand and gestures wildly with his other. He’s complaining about what I did, but I’m not paying attention. My mind elsewhere, thinking of them. Thinking of you.
“Are you even listening?” he says, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I sigh, balancing my head in my hand as I sit on the sofa, trying to calm Ringo, who’s eyeing Sam warily. Sam’s beady eyes meet mine, and he gives me the warning, patronizing look I’ve come to despise. Like he’s reminding me that he knows “my deep, dark secrets,” so I should… what? Be nicer? More amenable? Afraid?
No.
I smirk, amused by his arrogance. How he thinks he has a hold over me, that I should be genuinely concerned about him turning me in. But his greed makes him predictable. And he already showed his hand the first time, three years ago.
“It was an accident… I’ll take care of it… No one will ever have to know… You’re her… And she’s you… Do you understand?”
I understood.
But what he didn’t understand is that his actions showed me that he’s a man who can see the bigger picture. And in time, he’ll see that I did what needed to be done. That it was better for me, for him, for everyone. He should be thanking me, really.
The vein that’s been pulsing out of his five-finger forehead finally recedes, but just as he chills out, his phone rings. He looks away from me, mumbling things like “I see” and “uh huh” before telling whoever is on the other line that he’ll be right there. I relax into the sofa, glad he’ll be leaving. I can’t stand any more post-arrest crisis PR talk tonight.
“Everything okay?” I ask, studying my gold-flaked manicure.
