—
I’m surprised tofind Naomi’s bedroom looks exactly as it was when she was a teenager. Canopy bed. Blue toile wallpaper with cranes and flowers. Poems and sketches of New York City taped to the walls. A sketch of the two of us holding hands at a beach in Santa Cruz. Another of both Margaret and me over Thanksgiving. On a sailing trip. My heart squeezes.
As my fingers wander over her things I can almost hear her raspy voice, chattering, laughing, see the freckles dotting her nose, the tiny crooked tooth, and her mass of brown curls cascading over her shoulders, beautiful and free.
Sinking onto the edge of Naomi’s bed, I put my head in my hands and squeeze my eyes shut. Before I know it, the sky has turned to ink outside the windows.
I’m about ready to either face everyone downstairs or go home, but as I turn to leave, something catches my eye. The bottom drawer of her desk is slightly askew as if the drawer had come off its track. I try the handle, but the drawer doesn’t budge. It seems to be caught on something. I fixate on it, thinking that at least I can repair this one thing.
Prying the desk from the wall, I run my fingers over the back, feeling over a thick layer of dust. Something moves and I yank my hand back as a long-legged spider scuttles away. I shudder.
When I work up the nerve to stick my hand back in there, my fingers brush the corner of something hard. Pulling the desk farther from the wall, I dislodge a leather-bound notebook, and flipping through the pages, I recognize Naomi’s messy handwriting. Notes have been scrawled quickly. Pages torn out. Bullet points with news articles to read and strange notes likeGift money sent? Down payment? Who else knows? Securities Investigation.And a list of names I don’t recognize underHunt Investment Group Sources.
Was she looking into the Hunt scandal? When had she hidden this notebook?Whyhad she hidden it?
I’m scanning the pages when I come across a question written in all caps and underlined twice:WHO KILLED LILA JONES?I gasp and nearly drop the notebook.
Suddenly, I sense there is someone else in here and look up: a woman stands in the doorway. Matthew’s fiancée, Sara, I realize.
We’d met briefly at a Legacy Foundation event but I’d never seen her up close. Even in the dim light, she’s striking. She has on very little makeup, just a bit of mascara over her thick lashes, and has thrown a V-neck sweater over her low-cut black shift dress. Her hair is pulled back off her face and the tops of her cheeks and collarbones are slightly sunburned.
“I came to make sure you were okay,” she says. Her voice sounds sincere, but then I notice the way her lips curl down at the edges with something like disdain. The way she’s watching me is off-putting.
I hide the notebook behind me as she takes a step into the room. I’m not sure what her intentions are…and I doubt she knows my history with her husband, but either way I sense something isn’t right.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I tell her.
She takes another step toward me, and I press myself back against the desk. “Your speech was…unexpected. I’m sure it wasn’t easy, getting up there like that.” Her voice is slow and measured.
My mouth goes dry as I remember my speech—I shouldn’t have stared Matthew down like that—but then I grow defensive. She hasno idea what it’s like to lose a sister like this. She has no right to judgeme.
“No,” I say, after a pause. “No, it wasn’t.”
Sara shuts the door behind her. “I was hoping we could talk. I wanted to ask you something.” As she approaches, I notice that her hands are clenched into fists. When I notice, she relaxes them. Stops a few feet away. “I have a sister, and I couldn’t imagine how it would feel to lose her.” Her voice trails away.
My guard rises and my heart beats faster. “But,” she says, her tone changing, “I noticed you were looking at us when you asked for help, and I want to make sure you know that Matthew and I would like to do what we can to help your family. If there’s a fund we can contribute to…please let us know.”
I’m taken aback. Had she not been listening when I saidSomeone did this? I wasn’t asking for money. Both Nate and I work, and it’s not like losing Naomi will force us to stop. And what’s more strange is her tone, the false sincerity.
I’m about to respond when someone knocks on the door. “Maya? Everything okay?” Nate’s voice. Relief washes over me.
Nate takes a step into the room, and when he sees Sara, he frowns. “Uh, hi, I didn’t realize anyone else was up here. Can I help you with something?” He doesn’t seem to recognize her.
“I was just leaving,” she says quickly, turning and giving him a warm smile. The sudden way her features rearrange is unsettling.
She touches my shoulder gently before leaving, and on her way out, she pauses at the door. “Again, Maya, my deepest condolences.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Naomi
November 2022, six months before her death
Saturday morning, after rehearsal, Itake a shower in the shared bathroom down the hall. Gripped by the sudden urge to call someone, I scan through my old text messages as the hot water fills the room with steam.
My finger hovers over my sister’s name. I want to talk to her, but I can’t tell her about theTimesinvestigation, or the break-in. She’d panic. Who else…I think about Liam, but he’d gone quiet since the night I showed up at his room.
I was hurt, but I wasn’t surprised. He always did this—one minute he’d open up, and the next he’d act like I didn’t exist.
