The Lion's Den(83)
“Amythest.” I shake my head. “You just said yourself that he’s connected to gangsters.”
“Yeah, he is. Not her. And he likes me. I’m younger, fresher pussy.” She snickers.
“I just think, if it’s a rich guy you want, there are plenty of them, and I’m sure you could have any one you want,” I implore. “Maybe a younger, richer one even.”
I’m not sure exactly why I’m trying to talk her out of it. At this point, I would love for her to steal John from Summer. It would be the ultimate revenge, and Summer sure as hell deserves it. But the whole thing makes me uneasy for Amythest.
“I woulda let it go if she’d been cool, but she’s not, and she needs to learn her lesson.” She checks the time on her phone. “I gotta go. Dinner’s in five. I’ll come down after to give you the report.” She breezes out the door.
I open the closet and throw my suitcase on the bed, my limbs still viscous from the draining adrenaline. What a colossal mistake coming on this trip turned out to be. At least I’ll be home tomorrow. I never want to see Summer again.
(twenty-two days ago)
Los Angeles
The day after Summer returned from Rhonda’s, I accompanied her to the Sheriff’s Department to make a report. We’d both spent the night at Wendy’s and hadn’t slept a wink for searching desperately online for clues, coming up with alternatives to what might have happened to Eric. I’d taken the task of sweeping his social media, stealthily deleting all the comments and likes between us, though I did leave our WhatsApp thread, knowing it was encrypted. I messaged him again and again through it, hoping against hope that he’d respond to me. But as the hours wore on, my hope evaporated and guilt for having doubted Summer began to creep in.
At the precinct, I let her do the talking. I tried my best to act like a normal supportive friend, but my facade was gossamer-thin, the tears I couldn’t shed in front of her threatening to breach the flimsy barrier at any moment. Given how gutted I felt, I had to accept I’d cared more about Eric than I’d ever allowed myself to understand. But I pushed the thoughts away. It was too late now. Anyway, if nothing else, the events of the past few days had made it painfully clear it was Summer he’d loved after all. I was a fool for ever believing otherwise.
We sat uneasily in the antiseptic pale-green-and-gray lobby with the other unfortunates who found themselves in the waiting room of a police station on a Tuesday afternoon. A woman in the corner wouldn’t stop muttering to herself about God and the laws of karma, the chairs were uncomfortable, and I felt like my heart was made of lead. After what seemed like an eternity, the desk agent called Summer’s name, and I waited for another eternity while she made her report to an officer in a room down the hall.
By the time Summer emerged puffy-eyed, it was getting dark.
“Can you stay with me at the beach house?” she implored. “John doesn’t come back until Friday, and I don’t want to be alone.”
I did want to be alone. But she needed me, and after everything, I felt I owed it to her. Plus, maybe it would be good to have to hide the depths of my distress for a few more days. “Of course,” I agreed.
She’d picked me up on the way to the station, but after making the report, she was tired and asked me to drive the convertible Porsche she’d borrowed from John’s garage out to Malibu. She put the top down and leaned her head back, letting the wind whip her hair as we cruised through the canyon and up the coast to the house. When we arrived, she withdrew to her room immediately and closed the door behind her. So much for needing my company.
I trudged up the stairs to the guest room, where I finally undammed the tears I’d been holding back for twenty-four hours. I couldn’t imagine the pain Eric must have been in to do what he did, but I still didn’t believe that pain had anything to do with his relationship with Summer, regardless of what he may or may not have told her about his mother’s suicide. So, what then? Was he suffering from depression? Or had he been diagnosed with some terrible disease I didn’t know about? I kept thinking that if I’d known what he was dealing with, I could have done something. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. I wanted to press rewind, go back and save him somehow—but that was impossible.
When I finally slept, my dreams were disrupted by horrific images of Eric killing himself in violent ways: a shotgun under his chin, brains splattered on the shower wall; a silent fall from the Golden Gate Bridge, his imperceptible splash into the frigid water beneath; a handful of pills and a bottle of Jack, vomit foaming from his mouth.
I woke panting and lay staring at the ceiling, wishing the past few days had only been a dream. I revisited the hour we spent together on the roof the night I first met him, then the rainy winter day in his loft, remembering the light in his eyes, imagining different outcomes. If Summer had never come into the picture, what might have happened? Would he still be alive?
Again I cried myself to sleep, plunging into nightmares that he was drowning while I swam after him in the ocean, pulled farther and farther out to sea by the riptide. Summer waved at us from the shore, then turned her back and walked away.
The next morning, I woke up late to find a voice mail from Dylan saying to call him as soon as possible. My throat was tight as I dialed the number, but it only rang and rang. Downstairs, I poured myself a cup of coffee and joined Summer out on the deck.