Lies You Never Told Me(48)

I see a dark silhouette look out at me. Then my phone chimes.

Coming. Meet me in the back.

I pace along the side of the pool, rigid with anger. The succulents in Mrs. Daley’s garden scrape against my shins. For hours I’ve been roiling, furious, planning what I’d say to her, planning what I’d do. But when she steps out onto the patio, I’m at a loss for words.

The first thing I notice is what she’s wearing. It’d be hard not to notice. She’s in a short, sheer pink thing, trimmed in lace. I’ve seen Sasha in her pajamas a few times—she usually wears tank tops and shorts, nothing like this. Beneath the thin fabric I can see the outline of her navel, the swell of her breasts. She’s not wearing underwear. She’s straightened her hair, and it hangs like a heavy curtain around her shoulders, her skin blue in the pool’s light. There’s something surreal about her new look, almost uncanny, like seeing a doll made to look like a real-life person.

“Stay. The hell. Away from me,” I hiss, throwing the camera at her feet. She doesn’t even look at it.

“Hi, yourself,” she whispers. She takes a few steps toward me, grabs my arm, and tries to drag me toward the pool house. “Come on, I don’t want to wake up my parents.”

“I don’t care.” I shake her off. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Stay out of my house. Stay out of my life, you crazy psycho bitch.”

Tears fill her eyes. Her hand falls away.

“All I want is for us to be together,” she says. “Why don’t you want me anymore?”

It’s the last thing I expect her to say. Sasha Daley doesn’t beg. She demands; she commands. I gawk at her, my mind spiraling through all the things I could say. Because you kidnapped my little sister. Because you keep sending me threatening Snaps. Because you tried to frame me for destroying your locker. But a sick feeling creeps up inside me, and I can’t quite get the words out. Because suddenly I realize why the hair is so strange.

It’s Catherine’s hair. Catherine’s style. She’s cut and dyed and styled her hair like Catherine.

Somehow this is scarier than everything else she’s done—because this makes no sense at all. This isn’t rage, or some play to get attention. This is something else entirely.

Mascara runs down her cheeks in slick black ribbons. She takes a shuddering breath. One strap of her nightie slithers off her shoulder, and she doesn’t bother to fix it.

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” she says. “I need you.” She steps closer to me, reaching for me. I shift away from her.

“Sasha, I am not yours anymore.” My voice shakes slightly, but I try to keep it steady, firm. “I don’t love you. I don’t want you. I’m sorry this is . . . I’m sorry you’re hurt.” For a half moment I mean it. “But you have to get over it. Because we are never going to be together again.”

She draws in her breath in a hiss. I tense, almost waiting for her to strike. But she doesn’t. She reaches up to touch my face.

“We’ll see about that,” she whispers.

“Look at you. You can’t change my mind—not even when you’re playing someone else.”

Her face twists into a sneer. “Your little sister was so easy to grab. And who did the cops believe? Fuck, Gabe, your own parents didn’t believe you. I told her next time I’d take her to my lake house. Take her out in a boat. She was really excited. I told her there were mermaids at the bottom of the lake.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Maybe I’ll show her.”

The anger surges up in me again. I grab her wrist and pull her hand down, away from my face.

“If you come near my family again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand me?”

She laughs then, her lips stretched wide. I let go of her hand, a shudder of revulsion traveling along my skin. I start edging my way back to the gate. She doesn’t follow, but she watches me every step of the way.

The wind picks up, rippling the silk against her skin. The last I see of her, she’s tilting her face up toward the moon, and in its pale light I can see that she’s smiling.





TWENTY-SIX


    Elyse




Opening night.

I pace back and forth in the wings. Oksana’s gold brocade dress feels too tight across my chest. I can already feel the sweat pooling at the small of my back; meanwhile, my mouth is bone dry. I ball up the excess fabric of the Renaissance-style sleeves, squeezing them in my hands. I’m going to pass out. They’ll all be waiting for me on stage, and I’ll be flat on my face behind the curtains.

I glance around me. Frankie’s dancing from foot to foot, trying to stay loose. Oksana’s doing a quick repair on Laura’s dress; Trajan has his eyes closed and is mouthing his lines. For once it occurs to me: It’s not just me that’s nervous. Somehow that makes me feel better.

“Places,” Aiden says. He’s wearing a headset in order to talk to the kids in the lighting booth. He looks down at his clipboard. “Curtain’s in two.”

He pauses next to me, close enough that our shoulders nudge against each other.

“You’re going to be fantastic,” he whispers.

I smile up at him, but I don’t have time to respond. Beyond the curtain I hear the audience go quiet as the lights go down. Aiden disappears, off to give instructions or encouragement to someone else.