Later that night,when I’m alone in my bedroom, the sounds of the cicadas chirping loud outside my window, I can’t seem to fall asleep. A sliver of light from the moon shines through my curtains, and I toss and turn, digging my elbows into my pillow to make it comfortable. But it’s no use. I’m fully awake, all live wires, and I can’t stop thinking about what Olivia asked me.Do you think I’m a good person?
I’ve never thought to ask someone that question, never wondered that about myself. Took it as a given. I wonder what made Olivia ask that.
I squeeze my eyes closed, then let out a long breath and throw the covers back. Even though Millie’s the resident bookworm in this house, reading usually puts me to sleep. My feet hit the fuzzy rug, and I make my way to my desk in the dark, looking for the bag I brought to work. Inside, there’s an Emily Henry book Millie said Ihadto read before the summer was over, and though I haven’t started it, I’ve been carrying it around for weeks. Maybe now’s the time.
Back in bed, I switch on my lamp and flip open the hardcover. But when I do, a postcard falls out and I hold it by the corner. Millie must have used this as a bookmark and left it here.
The image is of a white-sand beach in Anguilla, footprints in the sand. We took a family vacation there with the Silvers two years ago, but I have no idea why Millie would have keptthisas a bookmark. How odd. But when I flip it over, I realize it’s not Millie’s.
There, on the back of the postcard, is Ethan’s loopy, messy handwriting, a short greeting on the left side, and on the right, he had addressed it to Billy Godwin.
I squint, making out the faded words.
BILLY! Made a move with Lucy and it WORKED. Best vacation ever. SEE YOU SOON!
I push my tongue against the back of my front teeth, and I read the words again, trying to get them to make sense. That vacationwas a standard spring break trip, like so many others our families had taken before. We rented two villas and went boogie boarding and sailing, snorkeling to see the multicolored fish. At night, we ate ice cream and watched movies, the six of us piled onto a big sofa as the ceiling fan spun lazily around in circles.
But at the time, Ethan and I had beenfriends. I was still dating Olivia. There had never beena move. There hadn’t beenanythingromantic, just the promise of sun and sweat and French fries as salty as the Caribbean Sea.
Part of me wants to pick up the phone and call Ethan right now and ask him what the hell this is, how it found its way into my bag, this book. But as soon as I hold my phone in my hand, I stop. Ethan has been acting strange all summer, hiding pieces of himself. There’s no way to know that he’ll tell the truth now.
I turn the postcard over, study the handwriting, the address, the soft edges where the cardstock has worn down. Someone kept this for two years, and with a startle, I realize someone slipped this into my bag. Someonewantedme to find this. To see Ethan’s lie.
A pit opens in my stomach, and I press my head back into the pillows, one word bleating in my brain:Who?
Frankie
It’s been three days since they brought Justin Vreeland in, and all morning at the welcome hut, I’ve been trying to overhear snippets of conversation, but the general consensus seems to be “we know nothing.”
So annoying.
“Don’t you think they’d want to put out some public safety announcement telling us what’s going on?” I ask Alex, kicking my feet up on the desk.
“Not really,” he says, his hands moving quickly over a wooden pocket puzzle.
I blow out a raspberry and cross my arms over my chest. “So unfair.”
“Oh my god, lay off.” He tosses me the completed puzzle, and when I catch it, I wiggle it around so I can start from scratch. “I thought you were done with this investigation. It’sover.” His tone is sharp and biting.
“Not until they say they actually got him for Billy.” I lean in toward him. “What’s up with you? You’re totally on edge.”
“No, I’m not,” Alex says, turning away from me. I want to protest, but there’s a knock on the front window of our little hut.
“Hello?” someone calls. “Can I get a little help here?”
I swing my legs around and roll my desk chair over to see a tall Black woman peering into the window. “Hi!” I say. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m checking in for a pickleball lesson.” Her voice is high and bouncy, like she’s had ten cups of coffee before noon. “Ellen Davis.”
I glance up and try to place the woman, with her high cheekbones and coiled locs. She looks so familiar, but I can’t remember where I’ve seen her before.
“Sure,” I say. “Let me check.” I scan the sheet for her name. “Are you a member here?”
“No. I’m a guest. Maybe the reservation’s under their name?” She looks around, then lowers her voice as she leans in. “Vreeland?”
That’s when it clicks. She was standing with Justin and his mom outside the police station last week. I try to catch Alex’s eye to see if he recognizes her, too, but he’s tapping something out on the staff computer.
“Vreeland?” I repeat.
