A notification blinks in the top right corner of the screen, andbefore I can think better of it, I tap it open, revealing an email from someone named Elora Tanner, Esq. I try not to read it. Really, I do. But my eyes scan the screen and there’s nothing I can do to stop myself.
Dear Olivia,
After much back-and-forth, William Godwin’s trust has been transferred into your name. Thank you for your patience. None of us expected Sally and Reid to push back on the clause, but we are pleased for you to move forward without litigation.
I glance up at the hallway and see Olivia’s still ducked inside her bedroom, humming, totally unaware of what I’ve found.
I scroll down and see more details dated from the past month—logistics about the trust, when she can access funds—until I get to a message dated a week after Billy died, when Olivia’s parents wrote:
We hate to bring this up, but is there a timeline in place for William’s funds to be transferred into Olivia’s name?
Sally had responded only three minutes later:
I cannot believe you are asking such a crass question right now. Our lawyer will be in touch.
Something grips my stomach—a prickle of suspicion, of doubt—and I type the lawyer’s name into Olivia’s email, searching for oldmessages. One pops up from months before and I tap it, my eyes moving over the screen furtively.
From: Elora Tanner, Esq.
To: Olivia Godwin
Dear Olivia,
In answer to your question: Now that you are both eighteen, if something were to happen to your cousin William, your grandfather stated that his trust would be transferred to you. And if something happened to you, your trust would be transferred to him. Please let me know if you need additional counsel.
“Ah, found it!” Olivia calls.
I slam the laptop shut and sit back, suddenly aware of every hair on the back of my neck.
“Here we go.” Olivia plops down beside me on the couch. She opens up her fist containing two white pills. “Take them.” I glance down at them, then back at her, smiling and encouraging. “Go on.”
I take the pills from her palm, and when I speak next, I choose my words carefully. “Did you know that Billy’s trust would go to you? If he died?”
“No,” Olivia says. “It was a total surprise.”
A lie.
“Crazy, right?”
“Crazy,” I echo.
“You know what?” I say, standing. “I feel okay, actually. I’m gonna head home.”
“You sure?”
“Mm-hmm. It’s been a day.”
“Do you want to hang out tomorrow after work?”
I pause, taking in Olivia’s striking face, her high cheekbones and her freckled shoulders. It would be so easy to say yes and spend the rest of the summer burying myself in my desire, in possibilities. But the answer is obvious. “I think I need to be on my own for a while,” I say. “But I’ll see you at the office?”
Olivia’s mouth drops open, but I don’t stay to look at her.
I don’t want to know if she planned all this months ago. I don’t want to know if those emails have meaning, or if she simply needed an answer to a question. I’m not Frankie, and I don’t want to know if Billy’s accident was a murder after all. Maybe I can convince myself that no one is responsible for his death except the boat, the current, the power of the Sound.
Maybe itwasall an accident. Maybe that’s the truth that matters most.
I walk out the door and hop on my bike, every pedal taking me farther away from her, from French Moor Drive, and closer to home, to the house full of the people who look at me like I make them whole.Mypeople.
