A teen was killed in a car crash on the way to her prom. Three other friends were injured. The driver of the other vehicle was in critical condition and had a blood alcohol level well above the legal limit.
There’s a photo by the article of a smiling girl in a pink satin dress. She has a corsage on her left wrist that looks like a butterfly is attacking her. Her date is behind her, his hands near but not touching her waist. They’re standing on the front steps.
I feel like vomiting.
She died on impact.
She died.
She’s dead.
I shake myself. Maybe it’s a mistake. After all, I talked to her. She’s walking, talking, breathing,alive.It’s a mistake, a terrible mistake. She was lost and presumed dead. Maybe there was a car accident, but maybe she injured her head and lost her memory and wandered away from the scene and ended up here... Yes, that’s much more plausible.
Clutching the newspaper, I get to my feet. I’ll show her the newspaper and maybe seeing the article will jog her memory about what really happened. I trudge toward the house.
Both Tiffany and Claire are sitting at the edge of the ocean. Claire has her toes in the surf. Tiffany has her knees drawn up to her chest. Despite Claire chatting at her, Tiffany looks utterly alone.
I hesitate. Maybe it’s better if she doesn’t see the article. Maybe she doesn’t remember because the accident was too traumatic. On the other hand, if this will help her...
Claire sees me first. She points.
Tiffany gets to her feet.
It’s too late to change my mind. She’s seen me. I’m holding the newspaper and my yellow prom dress. It’s only seconds before the two of them reach me, running across the desert sand. The crash of the waves drowns out the sound of their steps.
Tiffany grabs the newspaper out of my hands. She drops down on the ground and opens it. I watch her as Claire tugs on my arm, demanding to know what happened, ecstatic that it worked. I give her the prom dress.
I watch Tiffany as she reads, and I know the instant she reaches the article. Her face drains of all color. Her makeup is stark against her bloodless face. She reads it once, twice, three times. She carefully folds the newspaper.
Claire skips from foot to foot. “What’s it say? Do you remember?”
“I’m dead,” Tiffany says simply. She stands up.
I want to tell her that she’s not. Of course she’s not. She’s right here talking to me. But the emptiness in her eyes... Words die in my throat. I think of when I first met her. One of the first things she said was she wanted to step in front of a train. Later, she fashioned nooses out of rope. A part of her must have known.
She looks at Claire. “Scottsdale. Your parents are in Scottsdale, Arizona.”
She doesn’t say anything else. She takes off at a run toward town. I watch her and don’t try to stop her. I feel Claire’s hand slip into mine.
Chapter Seventeen
A buoy tolls outside my bedroom window, and I wake. Shooting out of bed, I launch myself at the window and look out. Waves lick the baseboards of the house. Whitecaps crest directly beneath me.It’s coming,I think.The void is coming for me!I grip the windowsill as if it will keep me tethered to the ground, safe from the void. The air tastes thick with salt. My mouth feels as dry as the desert that the ocean has eaten.
I step back from the window and try to take deep, calming breaths. It doesn’t help. All it does is make me feel like I’m gasping for air like a waterless goldfish. “Peter?”
He’d slept in my bed again last night, his arms around me, his body warm. I hear the mattress creak and know he’s standing directly behind me. He puts his arms around my waist and draws me against him. I fit against the curve of his chest. “It’s high tide.” His breath is soft against my ear and on my neck.
“The void...”
“...isn’t any closer. Besides, you went in and you came out. You don’t need to be afraid of it.” He pauses. “Of course, it could destroy everything and everyone else, but c’est la vie.”
“I found my prom dress.”
“You told me.”
“Tiffany’s dead.”
“You said that, too.”
