Sophie hesitates. “Did you just move in?”
Joey shakes her head. “I’ve been here four years.”
“Four years?” Sophie tries to keep the shock from her voice. She really has no idea how someone could live like this. Sadness grips her.
“The boxes,” says Joey. “That’s stuff I keep meaning to get rid of, but I just haven’t yet.”
Sophie thinks of her own home, with its round-the-clock messes and tufted rugs and plush pillows she sinks into after long days. She thinks of the tiny hands that cup her cheeks before planting bigunsolicited kisses and the burning smell from her oven that tells her the homemade pizza is ready.
“Do you want something to drink?” Joey is still being formal. An awkwardness hangs between them. “Bubbly water?”
Sophie says yes and thanks her. When Joey disappears into the kitchen, she pokes around. She’s looking for a sign of something, anything, that will tell her what Joey has been doing all these years and who she has become. Maybe it’s just Sophie’s way of assuaging her own guilt, but she would love to see photos of Joey with a significant other or a dog or a friend, or maybe proof of a cheerful hobby like baking or cross-stitch. But there’s nothing. In Joey’s room, there’s a closet full of shelves, most of them empty, a few stacked with black running gear. Three pairs of identical trail running sneakers are lined up underneath, and a copy ofOutsidemagazine sits next to her bed. The bed itself is flat with a thin black-and-white striped duvet on top and a phone charger snaked between the headboard and mattress. No pictures anywhere. Sophie’s guilt crystallizes into concern.
She rounds out of the bedroom and into the hall. There’s another room next to the bathroom that’s cracked open slightly. A guest room, most likely. She nudges the door open with her foot.
“Wait,” calls Joey from down the hall. She’s speeding toward Sophie with a clinking cup in her hand. But she’s too late.
Here are all of Joey’s pictures. And then some. They’re taped to the wall. All over the wall, in fact, and they are all faces Sophie recognizes. There are little notes and strings—actual strings—between them. Sophie steps inside the room and spins around, holding her arms out wide, realizing what she’s seeing. “Joey, are you still…?” Her voice breaks, and she doesn’t finish the thought. She can’t finish the thought.
Joey sighs, steps into the room, and forces the drink into Sophie’s hand. “I’ve just been keeping up with it.”
“Are youinvestigating? Oh my god, is this like a true crime thing?” Sophie can’t keep the incredulity out of her voice.
“Of course not. It’s just where I keep the information I’ve learned. Everything I know in one place.”
Sophie turns, takes a sip, and sets her cup down on the desk with control. This is not what she was expecting. Joey seems to be completely consumed by Quinn, even after all this time. Has she even lived at all? Her text suddenly has context, and Sophie feels so utterly sad that she hasn’t been here to help her move on. She tries for measured when she says, “These pictures are from back then. How did you even get them?”
Joey runs her hands over her face and exhales into them, like she’s gearing up for a long story. “I printed them from Facebook years ago.”
Everyone from the town, or just about everyone, is here. Even Sophie’s own face stares back at her from a photo.Disturbingis the word that comes to mind.
“I don’t actively look at this stuff anymore,” Joey says. “I’m not investigating, and I’m not doing any true crime anything. I just can’t bring myself to take it down.”
Based on the message this morning, Sophie doesn’t know if she believes that. Maybe Joey wishes it were true. Maybe seeing someone else here has made her self-conscious, but this is too much. She is absolutely still actively involved in…whatever this is. There’s an uncapped pen on the desk next to a splayed legal pad. Sophie catches sight of Quinn’s name and turns away. She examines the photos on the wall. They’re arranged in unlabeled columns. One note says,Where is The Book of Aspens?Now that she looks, there are several pictures of Quinn—smiling, scowling, jumping, head turned, purple hair flashing. Sophie has to take a deep breath. All of this seems to rule out any chance of Joey having a significant other.
She’s about to ask about the notes but sees embarrassment on Joey’s cheeks that bleeds through her stolid exterior. Sophie falters fora minute. Then, she’s overcome. Instinct plunges her forward without thinking, and she pulls Joey into a hug. Joey’s not skin and bones, but she feels fragile, and Sophie’s afraid to squeeze too hard. She waits several seconds, holding her like this, feeling warmth grow between them.
And then Joey softens, just a little, into her embrace. Her wiry arm muscles slacken and wrap around Sophie’s shoulders. There’s an unsteady breath and then an exhale.
“I’m so sorry,” says Sophie. “I don’t know why it took me so long to get back here. I don’t know why I didn’t come. I—”
“It’s fine,” says Joey.
Sophie nods because her face is suddenly wet with tears, and she doesn’t want to speak in case her voice wobbles. The moment is taut between them, a stay that could hold or snap, depending on the wind. Sophie waits, breathless. She wants to say so many things, to tell Joey about her family, about her life. She wants, most of all, to try to explain why she’s built this formidable wall that’s kept her away from Whisper Ridge. It’s seizing her now, the guilt. If only she’d reached out. If only she’d come back. She should just say what she needs to say. But she doesn’t trust her voice not to shake if she speaks again, so she stays silent and waits for Joey’s response.
“It’s fine,” Joey repeats.
Sophie sniffles, pulls away, and wipes at her face. “What is wrong with me? I should be comforting you.”
Joey shakes her head.
“Yes,” says Sophie. “I’m the one who left. I can’t explain it other than to say that I hate myself for it. I missed you so much. I missed Elena. I missed—” She stops short of saying Quinn’s name.
“It’s okay,” says Joey, with the air of someone who wants to stop blubbering and change the subject. “I didn’t text you this morning because I wanted you to feel guilty. I texted you because”—she blows out air between tight lips—“I want your help.” Joey looks away andstares blankly at the wall of suspects, theories, and questions. Though she hasn’t changed much, her eyes have a hardness to them now.
“We should go,” she says, changing the subject, presumably before Sophie can ask more questions. She turns and strides out the door. Sophie is left in the guest room alone and suddenly feels the memories swell above her head and crest down again. All these faces, this place, these people she’s tried so hard to escape—they surround her like underwater creatures pulling her to the depths.
She wonders how Joey stays afloat.
