A sunshine yellow kettle whistles and Rachel turns away. As she pours the hot water into the mugs, I spot faint raised scars, white as stone, lining the backs of her arms and the nape of her neck. Some are thin, as if someone drew a sewing needle over her skin, and others are thick and fat, scary.
She turns and follows my eyes. “Ah,” she says softly. “Had a bad year after everything. Coulda been worse.”
It never occurred to me that Rachel also suffered, that shehad been a victim of what Graham did or didn’t do. Her only crime was loyalty, I guess. And she paid for it, too.
“Come on,” she says, picking up the steaming mugs and walking past me to the couch. “Let’s get this over with.”
The cushions sag with our weight and I wait for her to start, trying hard not to be the one to fill the silence. Seconds pass, maybe a minute, before Rachel stands again, her fingers tangling themselves together. “Wait a sec,” she says.
She retreats behind the bedroom door and I hear paper rustling, weight shifting from one foot to another. She finally emerges holding a thick envelope, the old-school kind with ruled lines and little cardboard circles bound together with tiny red string.
“Open this,” she says, and hands it to me.
I unwind the thread and slide out a stack of uneven papers. It’s a whole jumble of random shit. Rachel stays quiet and I set the folder aside. I pick up the first page. Graham’s transcript from freshman year. An 87 average. Good thing he didn’t need a scholarship. The next page is a thick piece of cardstock covered in a full-bleed glossy image of Shaila and Graham. Their mouths stretch into wide smiles. His arm wraps around her shoulder and she leans her head against his. Their white teeth glimmer and their navy Gold Coast blazers are perfectly pressed. No grass stains or stray crumbs. I look at their eyes and shiver, dropping the rest of the papers in a mess on the floor.
“Shit,” I say. I’ve never seen this picture. It looks like it was taken at a lacrosse game, like they’re leaning against the bleachers. I was probably only a few feet away.
“Never made it into the yearbook,” Rachel says. Her lips curl up, her attempt at a joke. “But it was always my favorite.”
Shaila stares back at me. She was so young. She wasn’t doneyet. My throat is dry and my fingers clench around the edges of the paper. It’s all so messed up, that Graham’s alive and Shaila’s dead. I want to hurl my mug at Rachel and her smug little face, for bringing me here, taunting me with memories I had tried viciously to forget. I pull at the edges of the photo, wanting to rip Shaila from Graham’s grasp. Then in one crushing tear the sheet gives, leaving me with just Shaila’s smile. I let Graham float to the floor.
“I have other copies,” Rachel says.
That fuels my fury and I leap to my feet, knocking my knee against a mug. It wobbles before crashing to the floor, a river of ceramic shards and sticky liquid. I don’t say sorry because I’m not. Instead, I open my mouth, ready to spit fire. But Rachel has other plans.
“Sit down, Jill.”
And for some reason I do.
“This is what I wanted to show you.” She reaches down into the heap on the floor and pulls out a single sheet of white paper. Black letters dance on the page, but I can’t focus when she places it in my lap.
“What is this?”
“Look,” Rachel says, tucking her feet under her butt. “When they took Graham away, it wasn’t like they examined anyevidence. They took his word for it. One and done. Case closed. They didn’t even test his clothes or look at Ocean Cliff, or anything. You think the Gold Coast police were prepared for amurder? They’re barely able to bust a party up the Cove.”
I remember that, how nothing reallyhappened. The Arnolds showed up at the station with some man in a black suit, a lawyer. It was all so muffled, so adult. And then it was over.
“There wasn’t a question if he did it or not,” Rachel says. “Everyone justassumedhe did because that’s what he said. But he was so blackout. We all were, you know.” She shakes her head. “He didn’t remember any of it. He didn’t give any details. No one asked. And now, he still can’t remember anything. So how could he have done it? There’s just no way.”
I look up and Rachel’s eyes are red. Her lips are pursed, and her hands are wrapped tightly around her mug. She inhales deeply, not glancing at the blooming stain I’ve made on the floor. “I just turned twenty-one,” she says. “Which means I finally have access to my trust. I can pay for the lawyers my parents decided not to get. I can fund Graham’s rebuttal on my own. We’re gonna fight it.” Her voice is scratchy and raw, full of fire. “We’re testing everything. His clothes, some rocks, they’ve all just been sitting in the Gold Coast station in one of those stupid fucking boxes, taking up space. And we just found out something big. Something that could change everything.”
“What?” I whisper.
“You know all that blood on his shirt?” she asks. “That was his. He cut his stomach, deep. Soaked right through. Down to his shorts. But none of it was Shaila’s. It was all Graham’s. He didn’t touch her. Not at all.” She points to the piece of paper in my hand and I look down, finally understanding what I’m holding. The results of the blood test.
I open my mouth to respond but I come up blank. It’s suddenly hot in here. I’m boiling. If I peel my skin away, maybe another layer will be revealed.
Rachel grabs my hands in hers and clenches them both tightly, bringing her angular face close to mine. Her skin is glowy, her pores tiny. I wonder if she’s ever had a pimple.
“He didn’t do it,” she says. “I know he didn’t.”
But I shake my head. How can this be true? The past can’t be rewritten, it just can’t.
“Look,” Rachel says, finally releasing my hands. I pull them back to my body and wrap them around my knees. “You don’t have to believe me just yet. But think about it. Then maybe you’ll want to help us.”
“Help you?” I spit. The idea is insane. Ludicrous. “How would I even do that?”
“You werethere, Jill. You’re the only one who would understand. Who would listen. You loved Shaila as much as Graham did.” Rachel squeezes her eyes shut and thin lines crinkle down her lids. “Adam always said you were fearless. More than the others. That you were smart and steady and good.”
