The Collective(43)

“Yeah, but . . .”

“Nothing. There are no buts. That kind of attitude—that guilt. Blaming yourself in any way for the actions of horrible men—or boy, in your case. It’s what allows that thing we just dumped in the river to survive and flourish.”

I stare at her. She sounds exactly like Joan. And, in the moonlight, she almost looks like her.

“I’m not kidding, Camille.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“You just remind me of someone I once knew,” I say quietly. “Someone who helped me.”

“Did she pose for Playboy too?”

“I don’t think so.”

Wendy snorts, goes back to the compass. “Then I don’t want to hear about her,” she says.


WE FOLLOW THE rest of the instructions—sixty degrees southeast one mile, a quarter of a mile southwest, the cold air pinching our faces until finally we reach a small hill that leads up to a road, where a solitary car is parked. “That’s gotta be the ride, right?”

I nod, but Wendy grabs my arm.

“Okay, so since we aren’t going to be able to talk once we get there, I’m thinking we should have like . . . a code.”

“Huh?”

“In case something happens. If someone saw us on the dock . . . if one of us gets in trouble.”

I look at her, my face reflected in her glasses. I’ve thought about this during the walk. But I haven’t brought it up. I was the one who opened the trunk, after all. I’ve broken enough rules for the night. “You’re right,” I tell Wendy.

“I mean, I know we can’t talk after this, or see each other again. But . . .”

“Just for emergencies.”

“Yes.”

“I think we should.”

“Okay, good,” she says. “Because I have an idea. If there’s any trouble . . . we post on The Bachelor Reddit thread.”

“And then what?”

“Nothing. We just know something’s gone down.”

“But what if it’s a warning that needs to be explained?”

“Right . . .” She chews her lip, thinking. “Okay. Anti-Alayah means ‘shut up and lie low.’ Pro-Alayah means ‘we need to talk,’ and if it’s safe—only if it’s safe—we meet.”

I nod slowly. “That works.”

“Right?”

“I’ll check the thread first thing in the morning and at five p.m. every day. You do the same. We can meet at the Exit 19 park and ride. Same place your Camry is, so we’ll both know how to get there.”

“Perfect. I feel better now.” She smiles, her teeth chattering. “That had better be our ride. It’s freezing out here.”

We both power walk up the hill, to where the car waits, its headlights flicking on.

The window rolls down. “I’m Susan,” says the driver—a square-jawed, middle-aged woman who also wears all-black, her salt-and-pepper hair in a messy bun.

It’s not her real name, but one devised by 0001—code, more or less, for I’m the one. I’m a sister. It’s safe to get in. When I picked up the frantic young woman in the Bridgeport parking lot, I was Susan too.

Wendy gets in the front passenger seat. I slide into the back.

Susan starts up the car without speaking—a sister who plays by the rules. The radio is tuned to a country station, some yodeling sad sack whining about his “stupid heart” getting broken.

Wendy closes her eyes. Within minutes she’s snoring, and it makes me feel as though she’s been holding this entire night together. And now, at long last, she can finally let go.

I gaze out the window. The sky is clear and dark, with a sparkling sliver of a moon, stars spread out around it like bubbles on the surface of a still black lake. I close my eyes and time my breathing with Wendy’s, that awful scene in my mind again, the trunk drifting open, the man inside. . . . Only, now I see that the scene isn’t awful, because he isn’t a man. He’s a thing, as Wendy said. An evil thing.

And what we did wasn’t murder. It was justice.


“SO?” LUKE SAYS.

I’m still half-asleep, “Barracuda” having jolted me awake, but I try not to sound that way. The clock by my bedside says it’s seven o’clock, and it’s dark outside. Seven p.m.? Seven a.m.? “So . . . how was last night?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Bachelor watch party?”

“Oh . . . right. That.” Last night. So it must be seven p.m. A whole day gone.

“Camille?”

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. I just woke up. I mean . . . I took a little nap.” I squeeze my eyes shut, fragments of my dream floating around in my head. Blood. Wide-open blue eyes. A machete in my hands. Wendy laughing.

“You sound . . . How can I put this tactfully? Unbelievably hungover.”

I exhale hard. “I’m fine.”

“Should I call back another time?”

“No.” I pull myself out of bed, phone at my ear. “No. I can talk.” I switch on the bedside lamp, move over to my desk, flip open my laptop, and put him on speaker. “You want to know the truth?” I tell him, the alibi coming back. “I had a really rough night.”