And yet, odds are, Ilena won’t see it that way. She won’t want to take the risk.
Mallory pockets her phone. She needs coffee if she’s going to take on Ilena. And then it’s time to schedule appointments for hair and nails, and she should probably get a new suit and maybe shoes, definitely a pair of summer heels, and a bra, this one feels scratchy with more sag than usual. Mallory moves toward the kitchen, confused by the black granite countertop and coffee machine that looks like it was invented by NASA. Though that’s a worthy upgrade since her last visit. She circles the islandto retrieve one of the Simon Pearce mugs, and her foot hits something hard. She looks down to see a thousand-dollar loafer.
“Grayson?” she says more softly, coming around the island. “Gray—”
He’s on the floor, right leg bent at an unnatural angle, body still, eyes open, opaque, and not moving. Not moving.
She should drop to her knees, press her fingers to his neck, trying for a pulse like they do in the movies, but she has no idea where to actually put her fingers, and even if she knew where to put her fingers, how could she put her fingers on him when he’s a greenish, grayish blue? He’s blue.
Grayson Fields is dead.
5
Mallory
Harvard University
Twenty-One YearsBeforethe Outing
“Is he dead?” Mallory asked, staring at the Harvard boy hanging beside the largest dorm room in Straus.
Ilena slid closer and placed a finger under his nose. “Sleeping.” She pursed her lips, anger drawing lines around them. “Such male privilege. As if a woman could ever fall asleepduct-taped to a wall. Arrogant bastard.”
“Still... male arrogance isn’t all bad. I mean, we won the bet.”
“Yeah, we did.” Ilena grinned.
This boy of at least a hundred and fifty pounds with a smattering of freckles and an abundance of hubris underestimated them. All he’d seen were legs, breasts, and flowing hair despite the fact that both Mallory and Ilena had gotten into Harvard just like he had.
When Ilena had given him the terms of the bet—their small dorm room on the first floor in exchange for his double the size of a quad with its own bathroom and two sinks—he’d snickered and held out his hand to shake, ready to be duct-taped toa wall. Ilena was wicked smart and a bit devious. Mallory had underestimated her too. Somehow, Ilena knew that the duct tape would hold. She bet that it would, saying they’d do the boy’s laundry all semester if it didn’t. And now this pompous boy’s new roommate wearing a hoodie so low it skimmed his nose was mumbling under his breath and carrying Ilena’s luggage and Mallory’s box and duffel up these four flights of stairs.
Mallory turned to this girl she couldn’t wait to get to know better. “Let’s say he were dead...”
“Okay,” Ilena said, not skipping a beat, and Mallory thanked the Harvard dorm lottery gods a thousandfold.
“Right, so he’s dead. Are we the kind of friends who’d help each other hide a dead body?”
“Not yet,” Ilena said. “But here’s hoping.”
6
Mallory
Friday Morning
One DayAfterthe Outing
Mallory’s fingers get lost in apricot fur. She strokes in circles, easing the trembling of the cockapoo now curled in her lap but having no effect on her own. Her eyes want to close, yet every time she gives in, she sees his slack jaw and swollen lips and cloudy eyes and her stomach heaves like after she swallowed an ocean of seawater.
The accident happened when she was eleven. She’d been walking the beach with her mom on one of those days when the single-parent guilt proved overwhelming. Her mom had dropped everything so they could hop the subway to the Wonderland stop where sand and waves met grime and seedy parking lots.
She remembers they were halfway down the three-mile stretch when her mom’s eyes fixed on a figure in the distance, tall and lumbering, barely able to maintain his balance, barefoot on the hot grains of sand. Her mother couldn’t look away. Her mom didn’t date, had never had a relationship, instead seemed to be holding on to a man who had left her and their only childwhen that child was so young that she was still wobbly on her own feet. And this was him.
Her dad.
Mallory had been sure of it. She convinced herself thatthiswas the reason they’d come to the beach that day. Mallory was young enough to believe that wanting something could make it so.
Her eleven-year-old self had sprinted into the white break and swam out to where the line of surfers in wetsuits flexed their patience as much as their muscles. Swells do not make Massachusetts their home like they do in California or Hawaii. But Mallory had been lucky. A wave came to her as if she’d commanded it, rising and cresting, the white trails beckoning like fingers. She seized a board out from under a cursing teenager and dug in her skinny arms, the chill of the water no match for her adrenaline.
