Autumn’s face appeared on-screen, her eyes wide. “No way! I’ll wash the sheets and clean everything up before she comes home. She has such nice things.” Autumn pulled back from the camera and did a spin, modeling a pale pink robe with small flowers on it.
“Oh no, are you wearing her robe?”
“This old thing?” She twirled again, giggling. “This is not a robe. This is akimono.” She articulated each syllable of the word in an exaggerated Southern drawl. They had bonded during their first year of college, two North Carolina kids from small towns in big-city Washington, DC.
“Well, it’s not yours.”
“It’s one hundred percent silk and I googled it and it’s made by some French brand, and they sell the same exact one at Saks Fifth Avenue for seven hundred dollars.”
“If you get nail polish on it, or salsa, you are good and truly—”
“So come over and stage an intervention,” she interrupted. “We can DoorDash and rewatchThe Good Place. I’ll hang up the robe if you come over.”
“I can’t. I have to study.”
“On a Saturday? You’re such a nerd.”
“I am willing to watch one episode with you, but from the comfort of my own room.”
“That’s a bunch ofbullshirt.”
He laughed. It was the last time he would laugh with Autumn, but he didn’t know that. He didn’t know that the loud chime in the background marked the beginning of the end.
“Wait, hold on.” He watched her rise and disappear from the camera. “Oh shoot.” Her voice was distant. Then Autumn’s head popped into view, startling him. “Sorry, I need to deal with a situation. One of the neighbors is at the door.”
It was the last thing she ever said to him.
The next sound he heard was a single gunshot, followed a few seconds later by another.
Finn froze in place. “Autumn?” he called, moving his face closer to his laptop. “Autumn, are you there?”
He heard someone come into the room, and then his screen went black. Someone had shut her laptop.
Finn keeps his eyes closed and slips his hand into his back pocket, rubbing the tarot card, begging the universe to reveal some new detail to him about that night. Anything that might help him figure out who shot Autumn, who shut her laptop and took it. But nothing comes. After a few moments he opens his eyes. As usual, there is no recovered memory or newly excavated detail. Nothing about standing right here in the shadow of the Prison House has jostled some repressed detail. He isn’t going to solve her murder by ruminating over that night. He glances at his watch.
Time to meet Jo Allard.
He’s walking along the side of the house toward the front when he hears the door open. Finn freezes, half-hidden among the arching branches of a large shrub. It must be a Realtor, showing the house. Or maybe someone doing repairs. He readies an excuse—I thought I saw my neighbor’s cat, Taki,back here. He steps forward into the front yard in time to see a woman descend the steps and head down the path.
He can’t see her face from this angle, only that she is dressed up in a skirt and high heels.
But there’s something off about her. She’s weaving like a drunk. She pauses, then sways.
And before Finn can get to her, she collapses onto the wet grass.
FOUR
This is not my bed.
I touch the mattress beneath me, and my hand sinks into something wet and cold. The dampness soaks through my skirt and hits my skin. I’m not in my room. I’m not in any room. I look up, and the bright morning sun burns my eyes.
The scent of wet earth wafts up, and I realize with horror that I am lying in mud. Rocking a little, I try to stand up, but my dress and the two-inch wedges make it too hard. After a few failed attempts, I see that there’s no avoiding it. I’m going to have to place my hands right in the mud to get leverage. Just as I am about to, a shadow passes above me. I look up to see a figure.
“Are you all right?” a man’s voice asks.
I open my mouth to answer, but no words come out. My throat is dry, my mouth cottony. I’m not all right. I’m outside, sitting on the ground, flat on my butt. What am I doing here? The last thing I remember is walking away from Jo and Daniel’s party. I look down and see I am still wearing the same dress that I wore to the party.
Holding one hand up to shade my eyes, I can make out a young man sporting a short beard and sunglasses. He bends forward, reaching out his hand, and I grab at it, desperate for his help. He pulls me to my feet, where I teeter a bit, cognizant of a thrumming pain in the back of my head.
