We Were Never Here(88)

They say your life flashes before you right before you die, but in that instant, as Kristen’s death wafted before us both, what crashed through me was all the good times we’d had: splashing into Lake Michigan, the water brisk on our bare skin; studying for econ finals late into the night, crunching through tall bags of Pirate’s Booty and laughing until our sides hurt; getting ready for nights out in Milwaukee, borrowing each other’s lipstick and earrings and spangly tops; unforgettable experiences in Uganda, Vietnam, even Cambodia.

Even Quiteria. “That’s us,” Kristen had said, pointing toward the horizon. “See those two little stars? You can tell.”

And I’d squinted at them, understanding. “You’re the one on the left, the pinkish one.”

And she’d clutched my arm, giddy and free. “I was going to say the same thing!”

    A voice in my head, almost a whisper, wiser than my own: This isn’t you.

The spell broke and I rushed to the cliff’s edge. It took me a second to spot her—the top of her head was a few feet down, and she was gripping a withered shrub.

She looked up at me, her eyes like bright marbles: “Emily, please!”

I flung myself onto the dirt and reached for her. My fingers didn’t come close and she whimpered, unwilling to let go of the plant. Her toes scuffed against the dirt, trying to find purchase, but they just slid along the sloped earth.

I kneeled and whipped off my backpack, then slammed my belly back into the ground and dangled the rucksack from its top loop. Kristen ducked as the dirt and rocks I’d disturbed tumbled over her, and then she looked up again, eyes wild.

“Grab a strap!” I screamed. Dust and stones dug into my other arm, my knees.

She groaned and made a swipe for it. “I’m gonna fall,” she cried. Her free hand clawed around the shrub again, and she leaned her face against the hill, breathing hard.

I pressed my own cheek into the ground and hung the bag as low as I could, letting out a groan.

“Lower!” she shrieked, and I felt my arm grow another inch, my whole body one tensed muscle, superhuman, like the mom who lifts a car to free her child.

The cotton loop jerked and I tightened my knuckles in the nick of time. “I’ve got you,” I called, then rolled away from the ledge, away from the drop, away from the danger, feeling Kristen’s weight coming with me. I spun onto my side and her hand appeared, a dramatic thwock, the exhausted but triumphant smack of a reanimated corpse emerging from the grave.

“Help me!” she choked out, and I scrambled back to the edge. I reached for her other hand and she flailed, her nails skinning long lines into my wrists. Then we grabbed each other’s forearms, two death grips. I leaned into the road, gravel tumbling, both of us groaning with the effort. She heaved her knee up with that CrossFit-toned core, and I pulled her onto the trail.

    “Kristen.” We both got to our feet, facing each other. It was a marker of trust, I decided in one of those microsecond calculations, that she remained with her back to the hill, confident I wouldn’t push her again. I heard something behind and to the right of me, a low hum under the birdsong and rustling breeze, but I didn’t turn to look; our eyes bored into each other’s.

“Emily.” Blood leaked like tears from a scratch on her cheek. Her sweaty forehead had converted reddish dust to mud, a sheen of ochre. The hum grew louder, closer. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“I—I didn’t mean to,” I said, knee-jerk. Then I realized what that tone in her voice was: admiration. “Er, I don’t know what came over me.”

The hum was almost a roar now, climbing in pitch, and I realized it was a car, racing up the road we’d taken here. I flicked my gaze that way, and Kristen reached out and touched my biceps, gently pulling me away from the car, closer to her. She leaned her face in tenderly and her mouth approached my neck, my jaw, and finally, my ear.

The car tore around the corner and I could just hear her murmur over the engine: “Well, I do.”

She paused exactly long enough for confusion to bang through me—her timing was precise, intentional. She shoved hard, and I stumbled back, directly into the vehicle’s path.

I screamed and flung my arms over my face, but the driver was quick: A squeal of brakes and the crunch of tires, and the SUV lurched to the side, spraying me with gravel and a gust of gas-scented wind. It careened toward Kristen and, behind her, a forty-foot drop and an endless chasm of negative space.

I peeked out between my forearms, and the pieces snapped together all at once, the sudden realization like a gong crash. Thrilling, the dopamine gush of Figuring It Out, of solving a brainteaser or one of Kristen’s riddles or the last clue in a tricky escape room.

    Eureka: The SUV was our rental.

The driver was Aaron.

And as I watched, frozen in horror, my best friend, my boyfriend, and the car I’d rented as part of a package Orbitz deal all toppled, headfirst, over the cliff.





CHAPTER 40


    AUTOPSY RESULTS REVEAL SLAIN AMERICAN BACKPACKER DIED OF HEAD INJURY

Paolo García, the 24-year-old Spanish-American backpacker whose remains were found in a remote mountain region in Chile, died from blunt-force trauma to his head, according to an autopsy report exclusively obtained by The Gaze.