Fen
Of course she was alive.I knew that. She was standing in front of me, one, and two, I’d seen her posting in the Festival Freaks discussion community. Not like I stalked her. It’s just, you know. When you see someone’s limp body being carted away in an ambulance at midnight, and your knees are about to buckle because you’re scared out of your goddamn mind that you broke her rib doing the CPR wrong—andyour asshole brother is leaning on you to cover it all up and stop asking questions about her…?
It tends to make you curious.
At least for a while. Then life happened, and I put her in the back of my mind.
Just a little shift from the front to the back. But she was always there, my Ophelia, unconscious in the water, her face all bloody and strangled with hair when I pulled her up to the surface.
I hadn’t fucking forgotten her. I would never. Even with more flesh on her bones and all the hair gone. She looked better now. I liked her petite–Snow White vibe, a little forest fairy, and her leopard-print shoes—a little trashy and loud. But she still hadthat scared-bird look in her eyes like she did when she used to follow Eddie around years ago.
“Do I… we, why…” She squished up her face and started over, speaking hesitantly. “Do you know me?”
“Jane. Jane Marlow? Over at the Larsens’ place.”
She nodded, confused as to why I knew her name.
“You really don’t remember me,” I said, stunned.
“Should I?” Her dog was pawing at the case. She gave it a command and it stopped, but not before she stole a glance at theBUYcounter. She seemed more interested in what my aunt was saying to Mr. Applegate than our conversation.
I ignored the pang of frustration in my chest. “Guess when we last saw each other, you were a little out of it.”
Whoa. The scared bird disappeared. Now Snow White was miffed. “I don’t think so.”
“Pretty sure.”
“You have me confused,” she said, signaling for her dog to sit. “I haven’t been around the lake for a couple years.”
Shit. She really didn’t remember me. “YouareJane, though?”
“Yes, but you are still wrong, apparently,” she said, nodding at my name tag, a little edge to her voice. “Or is that Mr. Wrong?”
I chuckled to myself, but it came out sounding mean. Guess I was angry that she didn’t remember me. I was angry about a lot of things these days. “Let’s try this again,” I said carefully, propping my palms on the edge of the counter. “What can I do for you, Miss Marlow?”
She frowned. “If you think that you’re… look. You don’tscare me. You saw my name on the thing—with the talking reporters. Program. Weather, traffic, and…”
What was wrong with her? Was she on drugs? Shelookedsober.
“The news?” I guessed.
“News,” she enunciated as if she wanted to cut off my head and throw it into the lake. Forget scared bird. She was now angry as hell. And I felt embarrassed that I’d pissed her off without realizing it.
“I don’t need your pity,” she said.
“Okay?” Was there something wrong with her speech? Maybe it wasn’t a sober thing after all. Now I felt doubly embarrassed. And confused.
“I just need your help.”
The way she said this, I heard it as,Don’t treat me differently.So I didn’t.
I leaned over the counter on one elbow. Super casual. “If it’s a signed Taylor Swift album, you’re shit out of luck. I can get you one, but we can’t keep them in stock.” I paused. “Just saying, you’ve got the look of a Swiftie about you.”
Her nose wrinkled. “I’m going to ignore that.”
“Nothing wrong with it.”
“Didn’t say there was. She’s a brilliant songwriter.”
