The Lies They Tell(57)
They sat, listening to sounds carrying over from the pool, splashing and children’s laughter. Reese’s phone chirped, and Pearl watched him navigate who knew how many browser windows at once. “So. How’s the apartment hunt going?”
Reese didn’t look up. “I’ve got a line on something.”
“Here in town?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Good.” She tried not to show how relieved she was; there wasn’t much in the way of year-round housing in Tenney’s Harbor, where landlords could charge three times normal rates for a summer rental. “Sure you can afford it?” He looked at her from under his brows, and she held up her hands. “Okay. You’re the king of tips. All hail Reese.”
“Damn straight.” He stuck the phone in his pocket and stood, giving her a shot in the arm. “Time’s up. Let’s roll.”
The boys came in later, sitting in the same formation they had on that first day: Tristan close to the lobby exit, Akil in the middle, Bridges with his back to the room. They were seated in the section nearest the patio doors, and Pearl was glad for the distance, keeping her head down, trying to kill the final ten minutes of her shift without having to face Tristan so soon after last night.
At one point, when she came out of the kitchen, she couldn’t avoid Bridges’s gaze. He smiled, waved a little; Akil continued sucking down his iced coffee, ignoring her. They didn’t know about her visit to Tristan’s house. Akil would be smirking and whispering, and Bridges—the guilt hit her, then, with unexpected force—would probably be too angry to look at her. Apparently, the flow of gossip only went one way in their group.
Tristan watched her for a moment, then went back to pushing the food around his plate. She couldn’t guess at what he was feeling, but for her part, she was right back in that moment, faced with the open door again, the big bed in the dark, spartan room. And the choice still seemed impossible.
She punched out, left by the back way. Knowing she was taking a chance, she texted Tristan. Sorry about last night. She hesitated. It seemed like a good time to leave.
There was a long pause; she was in her car with the engine running before his response popped up, maybe waiting for a moment when Akil wasn’t right by his side: I wish you’d stayed.
The woods surrounding the Garrison house were thick with life, birdsong, the lush green overgrowth of summer.
Pearl had left her car parked on the Cove Road turnaround again and walked in, in case Tristan should show up. A squirrel chittered at her as she approached the fence and wrapped her hands around the bars, looking up at the house with its burn scars and socketed windows.
She walked aimlessly, lost in thought, running her fingers along the bars until she reached the front gate. It was massive, like the entrance to the Emerald City. Nobody else had security like this on Millionaires’ Row—fences, yes, alarm systems, but not a fortress. What, or who, had the Garrisons been so worried about keeping out, right from the first day they moved to Tenney’s Harbor?
Pearl rattled the gate on a whim. It moved, sliding a few inches forward over the grass. Surprised, she shoved harder, then walked the gate open wide enough to slip through.
Tristan had left it unlocked with the same half awareness that allowed him to leave keys in ignitions and hundred-thousand-dollar boats floating at deserted island docks. Knew he’d left it open, but couldn’t be bothered to retrace his steps and remedy it. Even from here, she could see the big black combination lock hanging from the front door handle, the signs declaring private property.
She followed the walk, grass and weeds creeping up through the slate slabs. She imagined Bridges’s and Akil’s feet passing this way, sometimes Hadley’s, sometimes Quinn’s, when the house was still pristine New England white from foundation to eaves, the clapboards touched up by Dad’s paint roller each spring. Imagined music pounding from inside and silhouettes passing by the silk drapes on the nights when Tristan had thrown his epic parties, inviting the rest of the summer kids to tear the place down.
Some of the blinds were missing from the kitchen windows, and she cupped her hands against the glass, peering in, a little apprehensive about what she might see. Cupboards, marble countertops, a stainless-steel fridge twice the width of their Kenmore at home. Cream-colored floor tiles smeared with ash, which someone had made a halfhearted attempt to sweep up. A few grim artifacts: a cup and bowl on the draining board, a cardigan hanging from a hook by the side door.
Pearl dragged over a planter to use as a step stool to see into the parlor. A Christmas tree stand lay on its side in the corner—of course, the ten-foot balsam would’ve been there, framed in the three-paned bay window, probably with white lights and carefully coordinated ornaments; no construction-paper-and-glitter creations from childhood like the kind Dad faithfully hung on their tree each year. There was a bald rectangle above the mantel and another on the floor, where a painting and throw rug had been removed. Through the doorway on the right, the base of the center stairway was visible. The steps were blackened, strewn with ash and chunks of plaster.
She climbed down and walked the circumference of the house, looking up at the bare second-story windows, most of them smoked dark, like the glass panel in a gas boiler. She remembered from the Time article diagram that Cassidy’s room was adjacent to her parents’, with an arched window that looked out over the backyard and woods.