The Villa(30)

BEX: Exactly. Also, not only did he leave his wife and, like, abscond to Europe with a literal child, he also took her stepsister with them! Who was also sixteen! Pierce! What the fuck!

KALI: I get that we can’t exactly endorse murder on this show, but I’m not gonna lie, hearing about this dude makes me feel … a little murder-y?

BEX: For. Sure. Which is now where our murderer comes in.

KALI: Our alleged murderer.

BEX: Right, our alleg—but he was convicted? So, I don’t think we have to say alleged?

KALI: Good point. Our convicted murderer, then.

BEX: Yes, our convicted murderer, one John Dorchester who apparently everyone called Johnnie.

KALI: Awww, Johnnie. Like he was in the T-Birds.

BEX: [laughs] Yes, Johnnie. Poor Johnnie. This was a bad summer for you, bro!

KALI: Just a real shit show of a summer vacation for good ol’ Johnnie.



—transcript of Episode 206 of Two Girls, One Murder: “When in Rome (Don’t Do Murder)”





CHAPTER SEVEN





“You have to admit, long as we’ve been friends, this is a first for us.”

I pull one earbud out of my ear, pausing the podcast I was listening to. “What?”

Chess sits next to me on a wooden bench seat, draped in yet more bizarrely unwrinkled linen. Her hair frames her face, setting off a pair of jade statement earrings, and I wish I’d thrown on something a little nicer than the cotton floral jumpsuit and ballet flats I’d chosen.

“I said,” Chess says, reaching over to take out my other earbud, “This is a first! In our friendship.”

I look around me as we climb higher and higher toward the walled part of Orvieto. We’d decided that after nearly two weeks bumming around the villa and the local countryside, it was finally time to tackle the city itself.

“Doing touristy things?” I ask. “Because we did Panama City Beach for spring break in 2006, although I can’t blame you for not remembering that given the sheer amount of Jose Cuervo consumed.”

Nudging my foot with the toe of one leather sandal, Chess pushes her sunglasses up on top of her head. “I’m referring to this,” she says, gesturing out the window. “Riding a funicular.”

“That is true,” I agree, nodding. “Whole new mode of transport for us.”

“Planes, trains, automobiles, and funiculars,” Chess adds, and I laugh.

“Maybe you can use that as one of your new book titles. Ride That Funicular, Girl!”

“A Funicular That Only Goes Up.”

“Girls Just Wanna Have Funiculars.”

Chess laughs at that, a real laugh, and I lean against her for a second, feeling relieved. Things had mostly gone back to normal after that tense moment at the table the other day, but I’ve felt the memory of it hanging there between us, a dark cloud neither of us wants to mention. Today is the first day I’ve finally started to feel like we’re back on track, back to being Em and Chess.

“So, what have you been listening to so intently?” she asks now, gesturing at my phone, and I sheepishly hold it up.

“Murder podcast.”

She reads the title—Two Girls, One Murder—and rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, I know those women. We were at the same women in tech conference once. Completely obnoxious, deeply L.A.”

I’m not sure what that actually means—the L.A. part, that is, I get the obnoxious bit—but I nod along anyway. “They’re not always my favorites,” I say, “but there are only a couple of podcasts about the murder at the villa, and this one is a lot better than the three-part series by Fedora Dude that I told you about.”

Chess’s earrings jingle as she swings her head to look at me. “That’s two,” she says, holding up two fingers. “You are now halfway through your allotted murder mentions.”

Laughing, I wrap my own fingers around hers, pulling her hand down as the funicular shudders to a stop. “You’re going to have to give me some leeway on it because it’s actually super interesting, Chess.”

“Super macabre,” she counters, and I can’t argue with that.

I don’t tell her that I already finished reading Lilith Rising, that I actually read it all in one day, and that ever since I saw that M carved into the window upstairs, I’ve been thinking about the book and the woman who wrote it.

“Think of it this way,” I tell Chess as we step off the funicular and into a picturesque piazza. “We’re now part of the history of this house, and that whole thing was also part of the history of the house, so it’s almost like we owe it to … I don’t know, fate or history or something to learn more about other people who stayed there.”

Chess gives me a skeptical look. “I like how you’ve summed up a brutal murder with”—she makes air quotes—“‘that whole thing.’”

Then she turns, taking in the view around us, making me stop and appreciate it, too. It’s another sunny day, all electric-blue sky and puffy white clouds, and from up here, the entire valley below spreads before us.

I rest my arms against an ornate metal railing, taking a deep breath, and next to me, Chess does the same. “Best idea,” she says, and I nod.

“Best.”