Open House(39)

“Could she tell you who did it?” he asked, his voice so hard she barely recognized it.

“Tim, calm down,” her mom said, putting a hand on Haley’s shoulder. “She’s upset enough.”

Haley glanced up at her dad. His gaze was still so intense. “No,” Haley said. “She doesn’t remember.”

Her dad seemed satisfied with this response, but then he made a fist and pounded it against the quilt. He shook his head slowly. “It has to be related,” he said, his light eyes wild. “She was Emma’s best friend. How many women do you think have violent crimes committed against them in this town? How can it be a coincidence?”

Haley turned to her mom. “I agree with Dad,” she said carefully.

Liv’s expression looked both scared and hopeful at the same time. “Do the police think so?” she asked.

“If they do, they didn’t say anything to me,” Haley said. “They questioned all of us—me, Dean, my professor Brad, and his wife, Priya—but at least to me, they didn’t mention anything about how this could be connected to Emma.”

“Did you say Priya?” Liv asked, sitting up a little straighter.

Haley nodded.

“Your sister had an art teacher named Priya at Yarrow.”

My wife, the artist. How many times had Brad referred to her that way in class? “This woman is an artist,” Haley blurted. “I don’t know much about her, but I know that.”

Her dad looked from Liv to Haley. “This is bigger than that stupid bracelet,” he said. “This is something real. And Emma could still be out there.”

Stop it, Haley thought, sinking farther into Emma’s pillows. Please, just stop saying that.

“Oh, honey,” Liv said carefully. “She’s not, she’s just not.” But she didn’t look at Haley’s dad—she didn’t comfort him. Haley wanted to pick up the slack, to make her dad feel better, but she couldn’t. He infuriated her when he talked like this. “Don’t you think we want to believe that, too, Dad?” Haley asked.

“Then why don’t you, dammit?” he asked. He looked so out of place sitting there on the bed among Emma’s stuffed animals. What had been the point of getting rid of Emma’s old bed if they were going to keep the stuffed animals? It was insane. Maybe they all were insane, grasping at straws, believing they could ever make any of this hurt less.

Haley swiped at the tears running over her cheeks. No—no. She wouldn’t be tricked. “Dad, please. Emma is dead,” she said, and the air suddenly felt too hot and still with the forbidden word between them. “You have to know it,” she went on, her voice softer now. “Please. It’s so much harder to pretend she’s not.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s harder, Haley?” he asked, his voice choked. “Are you really going to decide that for me? Can you? Can you know what I’ve done?”

Haley’s mom put her hands over her face, and into her palms she said, “Don’t. I beg you, Tim, please don’t.”





THIRTY-ONE

Emma

Ten years ago

I don’t stop running through the woods until I hear my name, which might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Don’t the vast majority of murderers know their victims?

“Emma!”

There it is again, but I can’t recognize the person because it sounds like he’s trying to hush his voice. It has to be Brad—who else? Still, I edge my way off the trail into the brush. I stand there, not moving a muscle, and I try to tell myself I’m completely safe, but the only thing scarier than the dark trail is the even darker woods that surround it.

“Emma!” the voice calls again.

Something prickly brushes against my leg, and I pray it isn’t alive. I let out a squeal. “Brad?” I call, hoping hard that it’s him.

It is. He rounds the trail, and as he comes closer, I can see the grimace on his face. “Why are you running?” he asks. “What are you doing back there?”

“Hiding,” I say, and then I start laughing way too loud, sounding completely insane. Another animal cries out—a coyote, I think.

“You said to meet you at marker two,” Brad says, a little out of breath. He’s not really in great shape.

“Sorry,” I say, but now I’m suddenly feeling annoyed. “I got scared and ran away a little, okay? Things happen.”

“Whatever,” he says, but it sounds too young, like he’s trying to talk in my language but can’t. He’s tired and lost, I realize as I look at him. Maybe we both are. It’s quiet for a moment, and he steps a little closer. He reaches out to touch my waist, and I think about how close his hand is to the baby.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my girlfriend,” he says.

“Your fiancée,” I correct him. “Priya is your fiancée.”

“Yes. My fiancée. Sorry, I hate that word.”

I shift my weight away from him, wondering if he can see the whites of my eyes rolling in the dark.

“Did you tell her?” he asks, his voice lower.

“That we’ve been sleeping together?” I want him to have to say it, but of course he doesn’t. “I didn’t tell her,” I say. “But I’m guessing she figured it out. Haven’t you talked to her?”