The Last House Guest(58)

And suddenly, I understood what had made him call me back. It wasn’t the email I’d sent or his concern about the properties. It was the lights going off at night; the flashlight I’d seen on the bluffs. The fact that he also suspected something was happening up there.

“Yes,” I said, “it’s happened a few times. The grid going out. I’ve had to reset the fuse box. You should probably have that looked at.”

“All right, well, thank you. Is there anything else?”

What have you risked, Avery? He’d asked me that, too, when he called me into his office. When he gave me Sadie’s job. Because I knew he understood. I had risked my place in their world. I had gambled my friendship with Sadie. Where I was for where I might be.

There were no gains without some great risk to yourself. And now I was desperate to hold on to what I was losing.

“I wanted to explain about Bianca. About—”

“That’s really not necessary, Avery.” His voice remained even and controlled, and I felt my pulse slowing, my fingers relaxing. “Listen,” he continued, “we appreciate your help through this very difficult year. The truth is, I don’t think we would’ve been able to keep things going without you. Not like you’ve done for us. But we’ll be moving the responsibilities to one of the management companies for the next season.”

I waited for a beat, two, seeing if he would continue, if his words were leading anywhere else—a new position, a new opportunity. But the silence stretched so long, he had to call my name again, just to make sure I was still there.

“I see,” I said. I was being fired. A quick one-two. My home and my job, both gone.

And then his voice did change. Something lower, more personal, more powerful. “I took a chance on you. Thought you had something different, worth the time and energy. But it seems I overestimated you—my fault, really. A weakness of my own, I suppose.”

The sting was sharp and deep—I could imagine him saying those same words to Sadie as she stood on the other side of his desk in the office upstairs, when he took her job and gave it to me. I didn’t respond, because there was a line between drive and desperation, and he respected only the former.

It was all I could do to keep my breath steady, bite my tongue—as I had learned. And then he was back, even-toned and professional, expecting me to keep on going. “I’ve had a look at the schedules, and this is just about the last week of the season, isn’t that right?”

“It is,” I said. Next week was Labor Day weekend, and the town would clear out soon after.

“Right. Let’s go ahead and close out the year, then. At the end of the season, we’ll repay you for your time.” And then he hung up. I listened to the empty air, even though the call had disconnected.

How had I not seen this coming? Three steps ago, when Parker arrived. Two, when Bianca kicked me out. One, the flash drive file on my computer. Sadie, trying to show me something. Waiting for me to notice her. In the entrance to my room, in her blue dress and brown sweater, and those gold strappy sandals, worn out and left behind.

I felt something surging in my bones. The same thing I felt when I pushed Faith, when Connor found me with someone else—some prelude to destruction. I’d felt it again when Greg had called me Sadie’s monster. But wasn’t I? Who could understand, better than me, the push and pull that guided her life? That set the path for her death?

The laptop light turned green, the screen flickering as it booted back up. I shivered, heard the echo of Connor’s warning, telling me to stop. Because he understood the danger immediately. A hidden file and Sadie dead. Something potentially worth killing over.



* * *




I SAT AT THE kitchen table, trying to make sense of things.

It was possible this wasn’t even about something in Littleport. First step, I could find out if the routing number was for one of our local banks. Even if it wasn’t, that didn’t necessarily mean anything—there were plenty of national chains and online banks. But it was a place to start. There were two local banks in town, and I was a client at one. I had already checked last night—the number didn’t match the routing number in my checkbook.

I drummed my fingers on the surface. Thought about calling Connor, Hey, which bank do you use? Can you tell me your routing number? I wondered if I could call the bank, but it was Sunday, and they were closed.

I pushed back from my seat at the kitchen table. My grandmother had used the other bank. She’d added my name directly to her account so that, when she died, I didn’t have to wait for any will to be sorted out—I had direct access to the money, not that there was much. But I knew I had this information somewhere. In that box, I’d kept all the paperwork transferring our assets. Everything that had been hers, and my parents’ before, becoming mine.

The paperwork still existed. I dug through that box until I found the old file.

Inside, I found a canceled check—the one I used to transfer the money from my grandmother’s account to mine.

I brought the check to the computer, reading the numbers off, double-checking.

The paper was shaking in my hand. Yes, yes, they matched. This was the bank. A Littleport branch.

But I couldn’t stop looking. Back and forth. The screen. The checkbook. Back to the screen.

I leaned closer, holding my breath. Reading them twice.