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She recoils in confusion. “What?”
“What do you get out of helping me?” I wave the envelope at her. “You could be squeezing me for an interview, but you’re notdoing that. You’re handing me evidence that could blow your entire narrative apart and ruin your life in the process. Why?”
It happens slowly, like watching a building collapse in on itself—first the corners of her mouth collapse, then her jaw, then her eyes.
“I’m scared,” she whispers. “Kir…”
My stomach flips. “What about him?”
“It’s too much to explain right now. But he… he wanted to control this story. As soon as he found out about it, he… he…” She wraps her hands around her coffee cup like it might anchor her.
“But you published anyway,” I say.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” she says. “Exposing a murderer, you know? Being brave.” She laughs bitterly and shakes her head. “Then the photos came out of the arrest, Lukas getting led out of the house, and you watching him… I saw you, saw your face, and Iknowthat face, Sunshine. I knew then and there that I might have just destroyed my best friend’s life over a story I don’t even fully understand anymore.”
I study her face. She says she knows me, but I know her, too. Jillian is a killer through and through. She hides things, even from me—the year she disappeared being chief among them. But I have seen all her seams and her little cracked edges. If there’s anyone in the world who can suss out if she’s lying or concealing, it’s me.
I don’t see any of those signs.
All I see is exhaustion. Fear. My best friend, breaking.
“Did Kir put you up to this?”
Jillian’s head snaps up. “What?”
“This whole thing. Is this another one of his games?”
“Rae,no.” She reaches across the table and grabs my wrist. Her fingers are ice-cold. “I haven’t talked to Kir since the article went live. I’ve been staying at my cousin’s place in Jersey, sleeping with my phone under my pillow and a kitchen knife on the nightstand. I’mterrifiedof him.”
I hold her gaze. It looks like it costs her terribly to do it, but she doesn’t look away, either.
“Okay,” I say eventually. “Okay. I believe you.”
She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for days.
I really do believe her. I actually do, even if it’s dumb. It feels like she’s caught out here with me, both trapped in the vicious Lazarev undertow, and neither one of us can figure out how to swim to shore.
I look down at the diary pages. Maybe this is our life raft.
I open up the journal and start to read.
75
LUKAS
EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO
MEMORIAL SLOAN KETTERING
ONCOLOGY DEPT.
PATIENT: Lazareva, Elena
DIAGNOSIS: Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML), refractory
PROGNOSIS:Grim.
It’s quieter in here than it once was. It used to be that Elena was in the kitchen all the time, and whenever Elena was in the kitchen, that meant music was playing—and if music was playing, that meant Elena was dancing.
