They Wish They Were Us(35)

“I have other copies,” Rachel says.

That fuels my fury and I leap to my feet, knocking my knee against a mug. It wobbles before crashing to the floor, a river of ceramic shards and sticky liquid. I don’t say sorry because I’m not. Instead, I open my mouth, ready to spit fire. But Rachel has other plans.

“Sit down, Jill.”

And for some reason I do.

“This is what I wanted to show you.” She reaches down into the heap on the floor and pulls out a single sheet of white paper. Black letters dance on the page, but I can’t focus when she places it in my lap.

“What is this?”

“Look,” Rachel says, tucking her feet under her butt. “When they took Graham away, it wasn’t like they examined any evidence. They took his word for it. One and done. Case closed. They didn’t even test his clothes or look at Ocean Cliff, or anything. You think the Gold Coast police were prepared for a murder? They’re barely able to bust a party up the Cove.”

I remember that, how nothing really happened. The Arnolds showed up at the station with some man in a black suit, a lawyer. It was all so muffled, so adult. And then it was over.

“There wasn’t a question if he did it or not,” Rachel says. “Everyone just assumed he did because that’s what he said. But he was so blackout. We all were, you know.” She shakes her head. “He didn’t remember any of it. He didn’t give any details. No one asked. And now, he still can’t remember anything. So how could he have done it? There’s just no way.”

I look up and Rachel’s eyes are red. Her lips are pursed, and her hands are wrapped tightly around her mug. She inhales deeply, not glancing at the blooming stain I’ve made on the floor. “I just turned twenty-one,” she says. “Which means I finally have access to my trust. I can pay for the lawyers my parents decided not to get. I can fund Graham’s rebuttal on my own. We’re gonna fight it.” Her voice is scratchy and raw, full of fire. “We’re testing everything. His clothes, some rocks, they’ve all just been sitting in the Gold Coast station in one of those stupid fucking boxes, taking up space. And we just found out something big. Something that could change everything.”

“What?” I whisper.

“You know all that blood on his shirt?” she asks. “That was his. He cut his stomach, deep. Soaked right through. Down to his shorts. But none of it was Shaila’s. It was all Graham’s. He didn’t touch her. Not at all.” She points to the piece of paper in my hand and I look down, finally understanding what I’m holding. The results of the blood test.

I open my mouth to respond but I come up blank. It’s suddenly hot in here. I’m boiling. If I peel my skin away, maybe another layer will be revealed.

Rachel grabs my hands in hers and clenches them both tightly, bringing her angular face close to mine. Her skin is glowy, her pores tiny. I wonder if she’s ever had a pimple.

“He didn’t do it,” she says. “I know he didn’t.”

But I shake my head. How can this be true? The past can’t be rewritten, it just can’t.

“Look,” Rachel says, finally releasing my hands. I pull them back to my body and wrap them around my knees. “You don’t have to believe me just yet. But think about it. Then maybe you’ll want to help us.”

“Help you?” I spit. The idea is insane. Ludicrous. “How would I even do that?”

“You were there, Jill. You’re the only one who would understand. Who would listen. You loved Shaila as much as Graham did.” Rachel squeezes her eyes shut and thin lines crinkle down her lids. “Adam always said you were fearless. More than the others. That you were smart and steady and good.”

My stomach flips with the thought of Rachel and Adam talking about me all those years ago. What else did he say? Did he really believe all that? Then I remember what he said at Diane’s. Rachel is nuts.

“You’re the only one who would want justice for her,” she continues. “Who would be willing to fight for it. Just think about it.”

The room feels small, like a dollhouse. Her apartment is closing in on me and I notice for the first time that there are no windows in her living room. I wonder how people live in New York City. These homes aren’t made for that. They’re made for survival. “I need to go,” I say.

I push open her flimsy door and start down the stairs. Rachel calls behind me. “Just think about it.”

I don’t stop until I reach the bottom floor, where I twist the tarnished metal doorknob and suddenly, finally, break free. Her street smells of city garbage and sticky beer, but I breathe in deeply, trying to swallow as much air as I can, to shock my system, to know the last hour wasn’t a dream.

I’m miles from the train station, even farther from home, but I start walking. Anywhere that’s far away from clinical terms like evidence and ragged, hollow half possibilities.

I turn her words over in my head until they become bland mush, and then again until I start to see her motives clearly. Rachel doesn’t want justice for Shaila. She wants it for Graham. And if I believe her, it means someone else we know is guilty. Which truth is worse?





TEN





IT’S EASY TO pretend that Rachel never hit me up. That she didn’t plant life-altering theories inside my brain. That she’s still cemented in my mind as Adam’s ex, the sister of a killer, the enemy—not a potential coconspirator.