Then I sprint. First through the thick-wooded grove that divides their property between lawn and forest, so I’m out of sight, away from the security cameras they installed after Shaila died. It’s so dark, I can barely see my feet below me. Fear pounds in my chest, but I tell myself this will all be over soon.I’m almost there. I can see the glow from the moon spotlighting the house a few hundred yards away. I dart through the trees and emerge in the Arnolds’ backyard, an expansive field that fits a pool and a tennis court.
From here, I can see Shaila’s bedroom window, pitch-black, just like the rest of the mansion. I take a deep breath and creep to the far corner of the yard where the cottage sits untouched. The lockbox is still there, mounted on the front door. I keep my gloves on as I key in Shaila’s birthday with shaky fingers. The light changes from red to green and the latch swings open. I gasp.
The key is right where it always was, just waiting to be used.
I grab it and make a break for the side door of the main house, the one that’s hidden and only used for deliveries or the caterers when the Arnolds held fancy cocktail parties. It wasn’t for invited guests. When I reach the entrance, I peel off my jacket and my boots and leave them in a heap outside the house. Can’t track mud or dirt in here.
The key turns and the door unlocks. I wait a beat, for an alarm or... something. But nothing happens. I step inside Shaila’s house. The air is stiff and stale and I wonder when her parents were here last. No one has seen them since the first day of school. Not around town or at the supermarket. That’s normal, though. They stopped socializing after Shaila died.
I tiptoe through the first floor, more out of curiosity than anything else. Everything is as it was the last time I was here three years ago. The good china is still stacked on display in a large wooden cabinet in the grand dining room. The Steinway piano is polished so well I can see my reflection. The spiral staircase is still decorated with red and green holiday-themed runners even though it’s the middle of February.
And Shaila iseverywhere. Her face, captured at her firstcommunion, peers out at me from a painting in the living room. Her fifth grade class photo hangs in the hallway. There she is in her Easter best, grimacing with her parents, on the stairs.
I start up the steps I know by heart, sliding my hand along the banister. I turn right at the landing and creep down the hall. But at her bedroom, I stop.
I press my forehead to the door and feel Shaila behind me, urging me forward.You can do this. You should do this. You have to do this.I twist the hard wooden knob and push, stepping into Shaila’s world. It’s so dark in here that I can’t see a thing. I fumble for my phone and turn on its flashlight, casting a spotlight in front of me. When everything comes into view I gasp. Shaila’s room is exactly the same as the last time I was here.
Her dark wooden bed, the one with the carved spiraling posts, sits in the middle of the room, its massive headboard pushed against the far wall. The lilac silk comforter with delicate buttons sewn into every square is perfectly in place. A stuffed pig, the one Shaila adored in elementary school and then tossed aside when she got her period, sits in front of the pillows staring into space.
My throat feels scratchy and I resist the urge to curl up with Shaila’s duvet to see if it still smells like her. I have a mission and force myself to stay on track, to look for something, anything, that could tell us if she ever told anyone about cheating on Graham. I move first to her walk-in closet, where she often hid half-full liquor bottles and vape cartridges. I rummage through her stack of T-shirts, her volleyball kneepads. No letters. I shut the doors and move to her armoire, but it’s only filled with Shaila’s old Gold Coast uniforms, pressed with starch. They don’t smell anything like her.
I take a few steps toward her dresser, where we stood so many times, painting eyeliner and lipstick on our faces, watching ourselves transform in her mirror. It is still speckled with flecks of red hair dye from the time Shaila insisted on coloring her tips in middle school, just a little, just for fun. I run my fingers over the glass and try to scratch off the dots, but they stay put, stained. Tucked into the corner of the mirror is a photo, a snapshot of Shaila, Nikki, Marla, and me, getting ready for the Spring Fling freshman year. We wore glittery dresses and too much makeup. Shaila had done our hair that night and I had never felt more gorgeous.
My heart pounds looking at our big smiles. Shaila’s arms are wrapped around Nikki and Marla, and I cling to Nikki’s side. We all look so happy. We didn’t know Shaila would be dead within a month.
I open the camera on my phone and take a photo, wanting to remember it forever. Then I extend a hand and pull at the edges, wiggling it out from the corner of the mirror. But it’s stuck, tucked so deeply into the tiny opening. Careful not to tear the picture, I inch it out slowly, bit by bit, until something else comes into view.
A piece of lined notebook paper, folded neatly into a tiny square, over and over onto itself. It was wedged in between the photo and the mirror, causing the photo to stay in place.
But now, with nothing to anchor it, the paper drops. I pick it up and open it with shaking fingers. Shaila’s loopy handwriting is so recognizable, I almost lose my breath. My heartbeat pounds in my ears and I have to steady myself against the dresser as I unfold the page. I scan the words quickly but nothing makes sense, not at first. I force myself to breathe in, then out, and start from the very beginning.
—
April 1
KARA! Something major has happened. I am in love. LOVE!
But... it’s not with Graham. Please don’t hate me. I already hate myself for getting into this situation. It’s torture! You’re the only person I can tell. He said it would ruin everything and that we’d have to end it if people found out. That both of our lives would be O-V-E-R. That he would get in serious trouble. Like massive, life-ruining trouble.
But, oh shit, I am bursting with excitement and tingling sensations. I don’t want to keep this hidden. I want to tell the whole world. My love for him tears through everything. I can’t breathe when we are apart and it kills me when I see him in the hallways or walking around campus and I have to pretend like there’s nothing between us.
It all began one day after school, in the parking lot behind the theater. He told me I was maddening. It was the most remarkable word I’ve ever heard and I can’t believe he used it to describe me. Then he leaned in and touched his lips to mine. They were so soft and tender. I wanted more immediately. But the thing was, I wasn’t embarrassed by my want. He seemed to like it. I guess that comes from experience. Graham always seems so scared by it.
The next time, he asked if I wanted to do it and I said yes. It hurt just a little but he made these moaning sounds in my ears that set me on fire. And then it started to feel incredible. He said I was the softest in the world. That made my brain ache.
I want to tell Jill so bad! She’s the only one who would understand, but in some ways that’s the reason why she can’t find out. We used to talk about losing our virginity constantly, what it would feel like, who we wanted to do it with. She’d be so mad that it already happened and that I didn’t tell her.
I thought it would make me feel bad... or dirty. But it didn’t. It made me feel strong, like I had power, like we were equals. Being drunk is fun, but being with a guy like that is the best high I’ve ever had.
I know I should break up with Graham, but I just... don’t want to. I like him, too. I like the way he looks at me and the way he puts his arm around me in the caf. I like what we have, and how easy it is for our families, and how our relationship makes Rachel like me even more, like I really belong. What am I going to do?
I’m rereading the letter for the third or tenth time when I hear a loud screech. The noise sends me lurching forward into the dresser and my heart lands in my throat. I look toward the window. It was just a branch, scraping against the glass. I try to steady my heartbeat, but I know I need to get out of here fast. It’s too dangerous to stay. I was so stupid to come in the first place.
I fold the piece of paper in half, and then in half again, and slide it into the pocket of my jeans. I creep to the door and turn around, taking one last look at Shaila’s room. The creepy stillness, the secrets she was keeping, it all makes me want to throw up. It’s like she could come home and flop down on the bedspread any second. But she won’t. She’ll never come back. Not to makea mess in here, or to tell me the truth—about who killed her and why exactly she felt the need to keep this massive secret from me. I would have understood. I would have been there for her. Instead she went to Kara Sullivan. Snooty, Upper East Side Kara Sullivan. I blink back tears and bite my lip hard.
I close the door and retrace my steps until I’m on the Arnolds’ back porch, shivering as I zip myself back into my parka and place the key back inside the lockbox. I inhale deeply and look up into the sky. It’s too foggy to see anything tonight, and the backyard is so black, my eyes start to hurt.
I disappear into the darkness.
