People Like Us(67)

“Then do it.”

An image materializes in my head of Spencer pushing Maddy underwater, and it sucks the air out of my lungs. I cross my arms over my stomach and lean forward, trying to mask my inability to breathe. Slow inhale. Long exhale. “Unless Maddy and Jessica were killed by different people.”

Nola shakes her head. “They weren’t. The revenge blog proves it.”

“Anyone could have written the blog. Any seven people could have written the blog.” I’m talking too fast. But she doesn’t seem to notice. I keep counting my inhales and exhales.

“God, Kay, who are you trying to protect?”

I freeze for a moment, and then realize it’s a rhetorical question. “No one. I just think we need to keep an open mind.”

She sighs and rests her head on my shoulder. “Spencer has a stronger motive. But it’s up to you who to question first.”

I tap my fingers on my knees. “Greg thinks it’s a student and it all comes down to whether Jessica got into a fight on the night of the murder.” I don’t mention who the student is.

“That would be convenient for him. But all signs point to him or Spencer.” She squeezes my hand. “You can do this.”

I wonder. “One problem. I may not get a confession from either of them.”

Nola clears her throat. “You were framed.”

“So?”

She looks me in the eye. “So all bets are off. If you become absolutely positive that you know who’s framing you, I say frame them back. There’s nothing shady about framing someone for something they actually did. It’s not really framing. It’s just planting evidence to make sure they get caught for it. To lead the police toward him and away from you.”

“You’re serious.”

“You lied to the police for Todd. Why not to save yourself? Playing nice isn’t working, Kay. The bad guys can’t win this time.”

For a moment we stare at each other, and the silence is thick and painful. Then the air between us vanishes, and Nola’s lips are on mine. This time I kiss back, and even though I don’t feel that magnetic pull I felt with Brie and Spencer, I am warm and happy, and it feels good to relax and smile into her mouth. She caresses the back of my neck and slides closer, slipping her arm around my back and wrapping one leg around me.

I glance around, but she squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry, my parents are off tennising or teaing or something that involves leaving the house. The empty, empty house they fought so hard for.”

I kiss her again, trying to push our conversation out of my head.

She bites my lower lip and slides down to the floor, pulling me on top of her. She runs her hands up and down my sides and for a moment every bad feeling that’s held me captive in the past month floats away. She kisses my neck and then my shoulders and then stretches my bra strap aside.

I sigh and roll over onto my back, and she brushes her lips against mine. Another kiss and my head swims. She pulls my arms over my head and kisses me deeply. I feel safe. Safe and sweet and delicious. But with every passing second, I feel a rising anxiety in the pit of my stomach, like I did the first time we kissed. It doesn’t feel the same as those quick, crucial moments when Brie and I swirled together in Spencer’s room, or the thousand times he and I flung ourselves at each other.

“Are you happy?” she murmurs, and tastes my lips.

I look up at her, unsure what to say, and then push up slightly on my elbows.

“Do you wish I was Brie?”

My body suddenly feels like ice water has been poured over it. Nola stiffens suddenly and rolls away. I look up, and Mrs. Kent is standing in the doorway, a tennis racket in her hand, a strange expression on her face.

“Sandwiches and lemonade in the solarium,” she says, and then disappears up the staircase.

Nola straightens her shirt and pants and smooths her hair. “You have a choice to make,” she says primly, as if the kiss had never happened. “Spencer or Greg.”





23


The next day, Nola tries to convince me to accompany her into town to buy a better microphone to record the confessions, but I fake cramps and stay behind for a nap. I really just need a break from the investigation. I thought that was what this week was supposed to be. I also need time to clear my head after yesterday’s kiss and Nola’s bizarrely timed question about Brie. I watch from her window as she gets into her mother’s car, backs out of the driveway and through the security gate, and disappears down the long winding road that lines the cliff side. Both of her parents have left again and Marla has the day off, so the house is empty and silent.

I head downstairs, grab a grapefruit-flavored soda, and wander into the game room, but I halt when the sun catches me straight on through the glass walls, reflecting my image back at me. I almost don’t recognize myself. I’ve lost weight and muscle tone in the past month. Since the night Maddy died and I got sick, I haven’t even been running. I’m pale as a ghost—and that’s to be expected this time of year—but the dark gray shadows under my eyes make me look gaunt. I look ill, not just cold-and-flu ill, but the way my mother looked that year when she was helpless to do anything but hang on to life and not let go. For me. I look like I’ve been worn down to a wisp.

I step slowly toward the window, but as I draw near, the sun becomes blinding and I disappear. It’s chilling, like the moment in a ghost story when the ghost realizes they’ve been dead from the very beginning. But I’m not. I’m just unrecognizable, with hair that’s become a ratty tangle of unspooled yarn, skin I haven’t taken care of, a body I haven’t been conditioning. I back up a few steps until my reflection comes back into focus again and shake my hair out. That’s one thing I can change. Right now. And not have to deal with for a long while. I walk purposefully to the kitchen and rummage through the drawers until I find a pair of scissors, which I take up to Nola’s bathroom.