The Collective(62)

Olivia Weiss. It has to be.

She wears no makeup, and her complexion is chalky, her eyes a dull, watery gray. We catch sight of each other before a woman in a navy-blue sweater dress approaches her and hugs her tightly, the two of them locked together for a long while. I wait until they separate and the woman in the sweater dress makes her way past me and out of the room, trailing expensive perfume and cigarette smoke.

The dark-haired woman is now standing alone, and so I approach her, my hand outstretched awkwardly, as though I’m trying to sell her something. A weird gesture, but she takes my hand anyway.

“Olivia Weiss?” I ask.

Her hand is very cold. “Have we met?” Her speech has a slight slur to it and her lids look heavy, the way mine do if I take an extra antianxiety pill. I’m sure it’s for the same reason. Who could blame her for self-medicating? Her brother and her sister-in-law, both dead of apparent suicides, in a span of three days.

“No,” I tell her. “But I’m sorry for your loss.”

She frowns, then twists her face into a weak smile. It’s easy to read her thoughts: Then what the hell are you doing here?

“My name is Camille Gardener,” I say. “I was the witness. I saw Dr. Duval . . . I was across the street from the cemetery when it happened.”

Her eyes sharpen up a little. “You saw him?”

“I wish I could have stopped it from happening.” It’s only after I’ve said the words that I realize how deeply I mean them, and I want to leave her to her grief, to give up this idea of mine and go home. But if I did, where would that leave me? Trapped in a powerful group I’m not sure I can trust with my own life, let alone with my daughter’s memory. (And what did that mean, anyway, that oath 0001 made me take, back when I’d convinced myself this was just a game? Did it mean that if I go against the group, it will destroy Emily’s memory, all over again?) I need to know who I’ve been dealing with. And for that to happen, I need to find out if 0001 was telling the truth about Duval. “I really do.”

“I do too.” She gazes at my face for a long time, reading the pain in my eyes, taking the bait. “You want a glass of wine?”

“Sure.”

I follow her into her kitchen—an airy space with shabby-chic cupboards and an enormous granite-topped island. A recent remodel, probably. If I were to walk in here under different circumstances, I’d have envied the owner—not so much for her money as for her desire to create a kitchen like this, so perfect for big family gatherings.

She opens the stainless-steel fridge, grabs a bottle of chardonnay that’s half-empty, divvies up the remainder into two red Solo cups, and hands me one. I don’t know that I’ve ever been offered an entire Solo cup full of wine—not since college, anyway. I take a few sips from my cup while she takes a long pull off hers. She says, “You were the last person to see my brother alive.”

“Yes.”

“He just stepped out into traffic, in front of a truck.”

I nod.

“He visits Claire and then he . . .” She takes another huge swallow. “He went through so much. First Claire, and then Natalie. I mean . . . God. He must have been hurting so bad.”

“I know.”

“Well . . . thank you for coming.”

“No, I mean that’s why I came here. Because I think I know how he felt.”

She glances around the room. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I lost my daughter too,” I tell her. “My husband left me. I’ve thought about doing what your brother and sister-in-law did.” Her eyes are dulled but kind. She puts a hand on my shoulder. This is easier than I thought it would be, but then again, all I’m doing is telling the truth. “I nearly did do it once.”

She sips her wine, her eyes narrowing. “I’m so sorry.”

“It happens to some of us. You know how certain people with missing limbs say that it hurts even more after the amputation? That’s what it’s like for some of us who lose children. There’s nothing you can do to make that pain go away and you know that. It’ll just get worse and worse until you can’t feel anything at all.” I take a sip of wine. It’s very sweet, but at least it calms me a little. “There’s nothing you could have done for them. I wanted you to know that. That’s why I came.”

Tears brighten her eyes. She grasps one of my hands in hers. “I’m so sorry for your loss, but you don’t know how much that means,” she says. “They were both acting so strange, and I keep thinking about missed warning signs and . . . God.”

“They were acting strange?”

She gulps down the rest of her wine, sets the cup on the counter, then grasps it for balance as a man walks in. He’s about a foot taller than Olivia, big and broad-shouldered with one of those faces that look as though they’re always smiling. He pulls her into a hug, kisses her forehead. “You okay?”

She looks at me. “This is my husband, Jake,” she says.

“Hey.”

“I’m Camille.”

He scrunches up his face and looks at me for too long. I’m worried he’s about to recognize me from the viral video. “Have we met?”

Olivia says, “She was the witness.”

His eyes widen.