We Were Never Here(72)

    Another violent shudder rushed through me. Shit. She’d set this mousetrap on my birthday, an entire week ago. Right before I began to wonder if I should sever ties from her for good.

As if she’d known. Claws out. She whipped out the trump card, the proof that I’d never, ever be out from under her thumb.

There was something else thrumming beneath the horror, something brighter, and it suddenly boomed into the forefront: I was oddly satisfied, almost thrilled, to have my answer. I wasn’t paranoid, and my anxiety hadn’t been unfounded. Was Kristen deranged? Disturbed and manipulative, at minimum. She’d killed Sebastian; she’d killed Paolo. Why was I twisting myself into a knot debating if that made her a killer?

The doorbell rang and I stared in the direction of the front door, alert as a meerkat. I flicked off the light and crept into the hallway, hoping whoever it was would give up and go away.

But they rang again. I stood very still and listened as someone thumped on the door, then tried the knob, an insistent jiggle.

My phone chimed in my bedroom and I scuttled toward it—having my phone on my person wasn’t a bad idea. I swiped it off the desk and saw Kristen’s new text: “I can see you turning lights on and off, dummy,” plus a laughing emoji.

I sucked in air and breathed it out. Okay, Emily. Okay, okay, okay. I tucked my phone into my back pocket and waltzed to the front door.

“Hi!” She hugged me, car keys jangling in her hand. “I stopped by my new place to take measurements and thought I’d see if you’re home! Wait, what’s wrong?”

“I…I just threw up.” I scraped my tongue against my teeth. “I think I ate some bad ricotta.” I kept my hand on the door, smiled weakly.

“Oh my God. Do you want me to get you anything? Throwing up is the worst.”

    “Thanks, but I’m fine. I just want to lie down. I feel kind of…” Suddenly my head did feel swoopy, like I might pass out. The floor pitched beneath me and I grabbed the wall.

“Are you okay? Here.” She looped an arm under mine. “Do you need a doctor? You look awful.”

“I’m fine. I’m just gonna go to bed.” As if someone had turned on a faucet, my hands were suddenly fizzing hard, tingling and twinkling on the inside. “Thanks for stopping over, but I—” The fizz rushed up into my skull and I doubled over, my shoulder pressed against the wall.

“Keep your head down. You’re okay. Do you wanna sit?”

“I’m fine,” I repeated, eyes squeezed shut. The frothy feeling was beginning to clear. I breathed in, then out. Hyperventilation, that’s what was happening. Not enough oxygen to the brain, or was it carbon dioxide?

“C’mon, I’ll help you to your room.” She pulled me forward and I flashed back to that night at her cottage, her pulling me across a knotted terrain of branches and roots and rocks. Past the rabbit that only a madwoman would kill. I funneled all my attention into my left foot, then my right one. Rhythmic, like canoeing. Like digging a grave.

After a short eternity, we reached the edge of my bed.

“Thanks so much, Kristen. I’ll text you, okay?”

“Feel better.” She turned to leave and my eyes thudded closed. Already, my chest was loosening, the rush in my ears tapering. I would deal with Kristen later, when I’d had some time to think. For now, I had to protect myself.

I rolled onto my side and clutched my pillow, then froze—Kristen was still there, still in my bedroom. Standing over my desk, head down, her back to me.

“Jamie,” she remarked, and her finger touched the scribble on the screen.

All the air rushed out of the room. Oxygen—there was none, a perfect vacuum.

    She clicked the mouse. “?‘Two Dead Following Brookfield House Fire,’?” she read aloud.

Another click. “?‘Dear Ms. Schmidt, thank you for your inquiry to Westmoor Behavioral Services.’?”

Slowly, slowly, she turned to face me.

“Emily, what the fuck.”





CHAPTER 30


“Kristen…”

Her eyes bored into mine. “What is this? Why were you going through my stuff? And why the hell were you talking to Westmoor?”

I kept opening my mouth and then closing it, like a fish dangling from a hook.

“What’s going on, Emily? I’m sick of your lies. I’m sick of your bullshit.” She swung her arm as she said it, sending my laptop and several pens crashing to the floor.

“I…I was just trying to find out…if…”

“What, you think I need to explain myself?” Lightning shot through her eyes. “Okay, fine. I had a fight with my best friend, and then, because I was twelve years old, I scribbled her face out in my photos. As for Westmoor, yes, I spent some time there after the violent and painful death of my parents and the suicide of my best friend in the span of a few weeks. I had a breakdown and needed psychiatric care. And I’ve been pretty goddamn open about it, considering it’s still painful to talk about. I told you about Dr. Brightside.”

“I’m— I just wanted to…”

She shook her head. “Wow. So this is why you’ve been avoiding me like the plague. God, I’m pathetic, trying so hard to make things right with you.”