We Were Never Here(51)

“He wanted to explore the world, to live life without regrets,” Elena said.



I looked up. Kristen was still reading, stone-faced.

Each revelation was like a bass drum, struck. Boom: Paolo was American. Boom: Paolo came from a wealthy family, one with the resources to not stop until they’d gotten justice. Boom: This news might grip the nation, handsome Paolo as the next photogenic Natalee Holloway. Shit.

And Paolo had a family. A sister. Jesus. Now they weren’t shadowy stand-ins in my imagination; they had names, voices, lives. Suddenly all I wanted was to google the sister, learn everything I could about this poor sibling-less Elena, jam my thumb onto the bruise. Why isn’t there a term for someone who’s lost their brother or sister? There are orphans and widows and widowers. This seemed worse.

Finally Kristen stopped reading. She blew a breath out through pursed lips, then tapped her screen.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Replying to Nana. Then my phone goes off again. Yours too.”

“Christ.” I held down the right buttons, then tossed my dead phone onto the table like it disgusted me. “It’s a lot, right?”

    “It’s not ideal.”

“Not ideal?”

“Nothing about the autopsy. The cause of death or state of decomposition. And now they’ll probably start asking around in all the touristy towns. I still think we’re fine, since he hadn’t even had time to check into a hotel, but—”

“He’s American, Kristen. The freaking American consulate is involved.”

“I know—I can’t believe he didn’t mention that.”

“He had a sister.” I slapped at my phone. The guilt I’d been holding back breached the dam and gushed into my stomach. “He had a family. And they’re grieving, Kristen. Because of us.”

She looked bewildered. “Hitler had a mom too. That didn’t make him less terrible.”

“They found him! It took them less than two weeks! And his family’s loaded! We’re so screwed.”

She looked right at me, holding eye contact even as my gaze flitted around the room. “Emily, it’s fine.”

“How is it fine?” I realized my breath was high in my chest, tight and quick. My throat felt like it was shrinking and I stood, rummaged in my purse, and closed my lips around my inhaler. Began the sweet countdown from ten to one.

“Are you okay? You want some water?”

“I’m not okay.” I sat down roughly. “How are you so calm?”

“Because we were smart. Because we did everything right.” She splatted her palm onto the table. “They found him in a town we were never seen in. We don’t even know exactly where we were. And the body must have deteriorated—they don’t know exactly when it happened. There’s nothing tying us to it.”

I wanted to believe her. But she hadn’t been the one to spearhead this operation. And when I was the one in charge, something always went wrong. “How do you know we did everything right? You were freaking out the whole night!” I counted the loose ends on my fingers: “Someone could have seen our car, or seen us getting the shovels or putting them away—there was that light. Or someone remembers us from the bar. Or maybe we left something of his behind in the suite—it was dark, and we were hustling. We didn’t even have proper cleaning supplies. Or, or what if the rental car had built-in GPS or satellite tracking or something, and they can track where we—”

    “Emily.” Her hazel eyes bored into me, so calm and earnest, greenish in the evening light. “Those things aren’t true. We didn’t leave anything in the suite. Nobody was tracking our car. And no one saw us doing anything. But even if they did, you’re forgetting the most important reason I’m not worried.”

My eyes felt like storm clouds—heavy drops threatened to fall. “And what’s that?”

She lifted my phone and held the dark screen out to me at face level. I frowned at it, then shook my head, confused.

“No—look into it,” she said. My focus shifted to the ebony mirror, streaked with oil and with a spidery crack webbing out of the left corner. Then my focus slipped one level deeper, and I saw the image, like a Magic Eye picture: myself, my own face, young and sweet-looking. We used to joke that while Kristen had Resting Bitch Face, I had Resting Happy Face—strangers always stopped me to ask for directions, and men on the street never told me to smile (instead finding other egress for their harassment). I understood: This was not the face of a murderer. I rolled my lips inward and leaned away.

“Now, we’ll turn our phones back on and you’ll check your work emails and that’s the end of that. Okay?”

Her nonchalance unnerved me, and repulsion fluttered in my torso. But the urge to strain away from her felt different this time. Less primal, more cerebral.

I gazed at the antler chandelier, then nodded, because there was nothing more to say. But for once, her confidence wasn’t reassuring. It felt obstinate, unearned.

And it couldn’t drown out the loudest line from that article, the phrase already looping in my brain: desperate for answers.

Kristen, of all people, should know that desperate souls stop at nothing to get what they want.