The Last House Guest(23)

Had she been afraid as she stood at the entrance to my room? Had her face faltered, like she was waiting for me to come with her? To ask her what was wrong?

I clicked on the email icon, but her work account had been deactivated in the year since her death. She had a second, personal account that was overstuffed with nothing of relevance—spam, sale alerts, recurrent appointment reminders that she’d never gotten the chance to cancel. Anything prior to her death was no longer accessible. I tried not to do anything permanent or traceable on her phone, like clicking any of the unread emails open. But there was no harm in looking.

I checked her photos next, a page of thumbnails that had not been deleted. I sat on my desk chair, scrolling through them while the phone was still gaining charge. Scenic pictures taken around Littleport: a winding mountain road in a tunnel of trees, the docks, the bluffs, Breaker Beach at dusk. I’d never gotten the sense that she’d been interested in photography, but Littleport had a way of doing that to people. Inspiring you to see more, to crack open your soul and look again.

Scrolling back further, I saw more pictures of a personal variety: Sadie with the ocean behind her; Sadie and Luce at the pool; Parker and Luce across the table from her, out to dinner somewhere. Clinking glasses. Laughing.

I stopped scrolling. An image of a man, familiar in a way that stopped my heart.

Sunglasses on, hands behind his head, lying back, shirtless and tan. Connor, on his boat. Sadie, standing above him to get the shot.

Maybe these photos had been accessible from elsewhere by the police. Maybe this was why the police kept asking about Connor. About the two of them together. He could deny it all he wanted, but here he was.



* * *




SADIE HAD KNOWN CONNOR’S name almost as long as she’d known mine. But as far as I was aware, they had never spoken before. That first summer, while Sadie’s world was opening up to me, she was looking at mine with a sort of unrestrained curiosity.

Her eyes lit up at my stories—the more outrageous, the better. It became addictive, taking these pieces of that dark, lonely winter and re-forming them for her benefit.

How I spent the winter in a stupor, like time had frozen. How I drank like I was searching for something, so sure I would find it, the deeper I sank. How I fought my friends, pushing them away, the stupid, reckless things I did. Trusting no one and losing everyone’s trust in return.

For a long time, I was forgiven my transgressions—it was grief, and wasn’t I a tragic cliché, stuck in a loop of anger and bitterness? But people must’ve realized what I too soon understood: that grief did not create anything that had not existed before. It only heightened what was already there. Removing the binds that once shielded me.

Here, then, was the true Avery Greer.

But Sadie didn’t see it that way. Or she did, but she didn’t mind it. Didn’t think I was something to shy away from.

We’d spend late afternoons sitting on the patio of Harbor Club, overlooking the docks and the streets of downtown, ordering lemonade and watching the people meandering the grid of shops below. Sadie always added extra packets of sugar as she drank, even though I could already see the granules floating, impossible to dissolve.

She’d point someone out below whenever they caught her eye: Stella Bryant. Our parents are friends, so she’s over all the time. Insufferable, truly. And another: Olsen, one of Parker’s friends. Kissed him when I was fourteen, and he’s been scared to talk to me ever since. Come to think of it, I still have no idea what his first name is.

Once she pointed her straw over the edge of the railing, toward the dock. Who’s that?

Who?

She rolled her eyes. The guy you keep looking at.

She didn’t blink, and neither did I, until I sighed, leaning back in my chair. Connor Harlow. Friend turned fling turned terrible idea.

Oh, she said, her face lighting up as she leaned closer, chin in hands. Come on, don’t stop there. Tell me everything.

I skipped the worst part, about who I became over the past winter. The things about myself I’d rather not know. I skipped how he had been my oldest friend, my best friend, the role she was currently replacing. Typical story. Slept with him once, before I knew it was a bad idea. I cringed. And then once more, after I already knew it. She laughed, loud and surprising. And then, I continued, because self-destruction knows no bounds, he found me on the beach with his friend the next week.

She blinked twice, her eyes sparkling. Well, hello there. Nice to meet you. I’m Sadie.

I laughed. And then, I told her, fueled by her response, I showed up drunk at our friends’ house. The Point B&B, you know it? I mean out-of-my-mind drunk, looking for him. Convinced he and my friend Faith were bonding over my current state. And when Faith tried to get me to calm down, I made such a scene, her parents called the police.

Sadie’s mouth formed a perfect O. She was delighted.

One more part, the punch line of my life: The police arrived just in time to see me push Faith. She tripped backward on one of those pool hoses, you know? Broke her arm. The whole thing was a mess.

The confession was worth it just to see Sadie’s face. Were you arrested? she asked, her eyes unnaturally wide.

No. Small town, and Faith didn’t press charges. A warning. An accident. I added air quotes to accident, even though it was. I hadn’t meant to hurt Faith, not that I could remember the details that well. Still, it turned out the general population was much less forgiving when physical assault was involved.