Friends Like These(85)

I rolled down the window, looking where Maeve had pointed for movement, listening for sounds. But the night was still. I didn’t see anyone, anywhere.

“Where?” I asked again.

“I don’t know— I thought I saw someone. But it’s so dark. Maybe I just want to find Keith so badly I’m imagining things.” Maeve reached over and put her hand on my knee. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Derrick.”

“That’s okay. It’s no problem. It’s impossible to see.”

“No, I mean: I’m sorry that I haven’t been completely honest with you,” she said, staring down.

“About what?” My heart had picked up speed.

“I, um, have feelings for you, too. I think I didn’t realize it until this weekend. And it’s just . . . complicated.”

Keep. Calm.

“Bates?” I asked, trying not to sound overeager.

“I don’t even know. I thought I knew what I wanted.” When she looked at me finally, her eyes were gentle, searching. “But I don’t feel sure about anything anymore.”

Maeve reached out then and put her other hand on my cheek. A second later we were kissing, her fingers twisted in my hair as she moved toward me in the driver’s seat, her soft mouth over mine. When she tried to move closer, the steering wheel was in the way. And I wanted nothing more than the feel of her on me. We moved over in an awkward passing of body over body. But soon she was on top of me in the passenger’s seat, her thighs straddling mine, my hands on the curve of her waist as she kissed my neck.

And all I could think about was all the time we’d wasted, pretending that we were just fr—

There was a sudden stabbing pain in my neck. A pop. Then a jolt of an even worse pain, shooting down my arm. Had I been shot? A rushing in my ears. Maeve was slumped over, and she’d stopped kissing me. Someone had shot her, too? Finch and the gun. Keith. Who was he afraid—

I tried to blink, to focus, to move. But I was underwater, held there. Drowning fast. I reached for the door, needed air, to shout, to get above the tide. But there wasn’t enough oxyg—





THREE WEEKS EARLIER


I’m on my way to meet Bates at Minetta Tavern when I get the email. I stop halfway across Washington Square Park to read it.

I know what you did.



Alice’s mom, that’s what I assume. At least at first. She’s been sending us anonymous emails for years, accusing us each time, in slightly different words, of being self-centered, selfish, cruel monsters. We were responsible for Alice’s death because of the things we didn’t do: You were supposed to watch out for her. You were supposed to protect her. You were her best friends.

I always braced myself for Alice’s mom to shoot some extra blame specifically my way— and you, Maeve, the roommate. Back at Vassar, she once tried to saddle me with the responsibility of making sure that Alice stayed on her medication. How could you put that on somebody so young? And I wasn’t a mental health professional. I had no training.

But luckily, all these years later, Alice’s mom has still never singled me out. There’s never been any mention of the roof either. Alice said at the time she hadn’t told her mother about what happened, and that seemed true. Her mother certainly would have brought it up. Her messages were never short on words.

Which is what makes this new email different— only one sentence? And “I know what you did”? That certainly sounds like it’s about the roof. Even the email address— friendslikethese212— is unlike any that Alice’s mom used before. Some of her emails have been from cryptic addresses, but usually they included Alice’s name. I’m actually not sure this new email is from Alice’s mom at all.

I’m only a block away from the restaurant when I google Alice’s mother. Her obituary comes up right away— natural causes related to pancreatic cancer. She only died a few weeks ago, and now this email?

There’s that podcast, The River, too. Somebody at the foundation mentioned the Alice episode, though she had no way of knowing our connection. None of my friends seem to have heard about it. True crime podcasts are a dime a dozen these days. But maybe this email has something to do with that?

Or there is the other possibility. The most obvious one, which I’m trying not to think about as I finally open the door to Minetta Tavern. I step inside, drinking in its elegant Parisian charm. Was this email sent by one of my friends? Did one of them see what really happened on the roof that night, and now here they are— after a decade of silence— threatening me?

I have no choice but to wait and see if someone else mentions getting the same email. It’ll be the only way to know for sure whether it was directed specifically at me.

Finally I spot Bates seated at the bar, an open stool saved there next to him, just for me. Even in his standard-issue trust-fund jeans and sport coat, Bates looks adorable. Because he is adorable, and charming and sweet. I sometimes worry that he’s out of my league, even though I look much better now than I ever have— best shape of my life, my hair and body finally the way I’ve always wanted them to be. Even my features are so much more defined these days, especially my cheekbones. Sometimes even I’d swear that I must have had work done.

But no, nothing nearly that easy. Instead, I’ve worked hard to become the person I am, to forget the past and move on. Not to let negativity or guilt drag me down. That takes real strength. It’s worthy of admiration. It’s worthy of Bates— even if I worry sometimes that he’s not 100 percent convinced, not yet.