Open House(4)

Anything could have happened to that girl.

It made Haley shudder. And now Noah and Josie were ten years older, married, and running a real estate business in town. Emma had loved them so much, which is why Haley tried to love them, too, but it was weird seeing them and being forced to interact. All Haley could do was picture Noah, Josie, and Emma ten years ago lounging on the quad at Yarrow, Emma and Josie wearing cut-off shorts and Noah in his lacrosse jersey. Dean had done his undergrad at Yarrow, too, and though he hadn’t been friendly with Emma, Noah, or Josie during his years there, he was acquainted with them, and all these things put together meant it would be a snub not to use them as real estate agents. It’s a small town, Haley, Dean had said when he dialed Noah and Josie’s number, let’s not start off on the wrong foot. Dean cared about things like that, about making a good impression.

Haley turned up the music even louder, letting her eyes settle on the coffee shop’s blue neon sign: MOSAIC. She was pretty sure the owners were going for something swanky that looked different from all the other shops that lined the classic-looking Main Street, but it looked too futuristic, and it put a hard pit in her stomach, which made no sense when her future was supposed to look so bright, so safe. Just last night Haley and Dean had scrolled through wedding save-the-date cards and laughed about the pictures they could use to populate the blank spaces left for personalized photos. Anyway, what’s the point of these save-the-dates? Haley had blurted when Dean opened up an option with cherry blossoms scattered along the borders. If someone isn’t close enough to know when we’re planning the wedding, do we really care if they come?

Dean had bristled, jiggling the computer mouse back and forth. But really, Haley had been thinking about Emma and feeling righteously pissed that her sister wouldn’t be there when Dean’s random, double-cheek-kissing aunts would. Still, maybe what she’d said had been too harsh. Dean had accused her of that before.

Haley loved Dean, she really did. He was the only man who’d ever truly understood her, definitely the only man who’d ever loved her in the way she wanted to be loved. She was still adjusting to being engaged at twenty-six when none of her friends from Stanford were, and when the guys she’d dated there were still binge drinking and pulling all-nighters at work. She’d never been the type of person who fantasized about a someday wedding; when she was little she never even sent her Barbies on dates, only to surgery, and when her mother found them all cut up, she got freaked out and threw them away.

Haley turned off the radio, exhaled. It was now or never. She opened the car door, got out, and slammed it shut. Everything sounded louder in this kind of cold.

Haley started toward the coffee shop and zipped her black bomber jacket higher. She was careful on the icy pavement, her mind flashing to her cadaver again. She could see Susie’s still body lying on that table. Susie, like Emma, entered her mind uninvited all the time; Haley couldn’t seem to stop either of them. Thinking about them—and about whatever peril they’d somehow gotten themselves into—kept her sharp.

There was a thin line of scar tissue that ran along Susie’s forehead into her hairline, and Haley was always coming up with ways she could have gotten it. (A fall on black ice? A sibling who played too roughly?) In Haley’s dreams—the ones she was pretty sure most people would call nightmares—Emma came often and always with new maladies that she needed Haley to fix. Sometimes when Haley was between sleep and wakefulness, Emma sat on the edge of her bed. Sister, she always said, followed by things like help me . . . look closer . . . figure me out, but Haley wasn’t sure if Emma meant she was supposed to figure everything out now, or if she was talking about ten years ago. Of all the ways her sister haunted her, it was the images of how Emma could have died that Haley hated the most. She felt certain that her sister had fallen through the night sky: she could practically see it, hear it, and even smell the crisp winter air scented with evergreens. Sometimes—though she’d never admitted this to anyone—she felt Emma reverberating through her own body like the aftermath of a slap, like the ghost of her sister lived inside her and wanted the truth known.

Haley pressed her hands against the door to the café. The ice-cold glass felt like relief, and she shoved it forward and stepped inside. Smart-looking people chattered and unwrapped muffins from eco-friendly paper shells. An espresso machine hissed and made Haley startle. “Over here!” Josie called to her, pulling out a chair. Josie was glossy and beautiful, just like Emma used to be. Her blond hair rolled in waves over her shoulders, and her sparkling blue eyes were the color of pool water. Her skin was smooth and olive, a shade darker than most other blonds, and it made her look so healthy and alive, and like it was the middle of summer instead of freezing January. Haley sat quickly—it was a good way to avoid having to shake hands and get germs—and yanked off her knit cap. “Is this one mine?” she asked, gesturing to an untouched coffee on the table.

“All yours,” Noah said. His light, thick hair was mussed from the wind. He, too, was rather good looking, and seeing them together was a little comical: they looked like they belonged in Hollywood, not inside an East Coast coffee shop discussing real estate. It had been like this when they were in college, too; the two of them were gorgeous and vibrant when most of the students looked tired and puffy. Even Emma had lavender half-moons beneath her eyes in those weeks before she disappeared. Josie had twice pointed that out to Haley back then, growing agitated when she tried to tell Haley how worried she was about Emma, but Haley was still so young that she had no idea what to do with something like that. Why hadn’t Josie told a real adult?