The Last House Guest(16)

Can anyone vouch for you the entire time, Avery?

Parker, Luce, there was a houseful of people. They saw me. I was there.

You could’ve left. They can’t account for every single moment.

But I didn’t. And I told you, she was messaging me. She was fine.

What about Connor Harlow?

What about him?

Would you know his state of mind last night?

I wouldn’t know anything. Me and Connor don’t speak anymore.

“It would mean a lot,” Parker said, “if you would help me here.” Changing tactics to get me on his side.

“I thought you said your parents weren’t coming up for the dedication,” I said, unable to hide the accusation in my voice.

He looked down at his phone, sending a message. “Well, it’s not definite. They probably won’t.” Half paying attention. Half caring. “But better if the others think that. It’ll make everything easier.” Parker always told people what they wanted to hear, and I couldn’t tell which of us he was playing right then.

His lies, either then or now, so effortless.

As, I had believed, their entire lives had been.





CHAPTER 5


When I stepped inside the Point Bed-and-Breakfast, Mr. Sylva smiled politely. In the summer, we kept our faces calm and predictable, a mask, part of the endless charade. Mr. Sylva gave no indication that when we were kids, Faith and I once raced these hallways, our bare feet stomping in time to our laughter, while he called after us, Girls! Be careful! Or that years later, he’d had to call the police to remove me from the premises.

“Good afternoon,” he said. Faith’s father had the look of a fisherman, with a weathered tan and hands gnarled not from hauling in lobster crates but from carpentry, not that anyone could tell the difference. The Sylvas all looked like they were one with the Maine coast, part of the product. Though Mrs. Sylva’s hair had gone gray at her temples last I’d seen, the rest was still a fiery red. And the lines around her face were deeply grooved, like she’d spent years on the balcony, watching the ocean, facing the wind. Faith’s hair was closer to auburn, but it was curly and wild and she never bothered to tame it—perfectly Faith. Whatever they were advertising, people were buying, judging from the looks of the place.

I walked straight to the large oak reception desk in the two-story foyer, placing the envelope on the surface, my scrawling script on the front: Kevin Donaldson. “Hi, Mr. Sylva. I believe the Donaldson family was scheduled to check in sometime today? Would you mind passing this along?”

The doors opened from the kitchen entrance behind the desk, and Faith froze in her steps, the doors swaying behind her. “Oh. I didn’t know anyone was out here.” She cleared her throat, obvious that by anyone, she meant me.

“Hi, Faith. Welcome back.” Her loose T-shirt hung from one shoulder, so I could see the jut of her collarbone. Black leggings and black slip-ons and her hair in a ponytail. At a quick glance, she could still be that girl sneaking into the kitchen for a midnight snack during weekend sleepovers, who roamed the property barefoot both inside and out with a literal spring to her step—like she was waiting for the starting gun. But she’d gotten skinnier since I’d seen her last. From the way she was looking me over, she was probably assessing the changes in me, too.

“Thanks.” She quickly pivoted toward the front desk. “Mom needs the numbers for lunch when you get a chance.”

Mr. Sylva nodded, and Faith disappeared behind the swinging doors once more. I’d heard she’d finished her graduate program, moved back, and was poised to take over the bed-and-breakfast as soon as her parents retired.

“Must be nice to have her home again,” I said.

“It is. You’ll have to stop by to visit and catch up sometime when she’s not so busy.”

“Definitely.” Pleasantries. He didn’t mean them, and neither did I.

Footsteps echoed from the hall above, and I looked up on instinct, catching nothing but shadows at the top of the curved double staircase.

The main house was enormous and had expanded steadily with time; I used to think it was a castle. There were arched doorways, hidden window seats, closets within closets. A wooden rail along the cliffs out back made of raw lumber. Balconies looming dangerously close to the edge of the overlook, saltwater mist perpetually coating the railings. Faith had lived there, too, up on the top floor, a converted attic space where we all passed around a bottle for the first time in middle school.

For a second I remembered Connor as he was back then, how he could never seem to stand still. How he could disappear while you were turned away, only to walk in the door just when you noticed he was gone. This feeling that he was living an entire second life in the pause, while the rest of us were stuck in slow motion.

Mr. Sylva’s gaze followed mine to the staircase landing, and as the footsteps retreated, he leaned closer, lowering his voice. “The Donaldsons have already settled in. Seemed a bit shaken, to be honest. What happened up there, Avery?” He jutted his chin to the side, in the direction of the rentals on the overlook. They were within walking distance, though not plainly in sight.

“Don’t know,” I said, peering up at the empty, shadowed hall once more. “I’m off to take a look.”



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