forefront of local residents’ minds. A small motorboat belonging to Catherine Hunt, also of Herron Mills, was reported missing that same night, and police have long suspected the two events may be connected. …
I stumble into the bathroom and lose my two bites of toast into the toilet bowl.
When I crawl back into bed, I’m afraid to close my eyes. The bees are back, swirling around the inside of my skull until all I can hear is a dull, ringing wail. Three days after she messaged me, Zoe disappeared. And now, a boat. A body.
In my mind, I’m on the balcony at Windermere again. It’s winter; fat flakes swirl all around, and on the railing a white ribbon of snow is starting to gather. The night is cold and crisp; the house lights are out, but up above, a round moon glows through the treetops, and the sky is dotted with stars. Zoe’s there, in a gold dress with a billowy taffeta skirt. Her hair is twisted up in a high knot; she looks like a ballerina.
Kaylee’s there too, huddled into her puffy winter coat and clutching a highball glass. She raises her glass toward me in a toast, and it sparkles golden in the moonlight. Then she drains it in one gulp before slipping through the door, into Windermere.
I look down at myself. I’m wearing my ugly brown winter boots and the navy peacoat I’ve had since tenth grade. Beneath my coat is a party dress.
“Aren’t you cold?” I ask Zoe. Kaylee and I are all bundled up, but she’s only wearing a summery dress. Zoe laughs, the sound a shower of stardust in the night.
“Dance with me, Anna.” She twirls once, twice, her slippers making delicate circles in the snow. Then she reaches out, and I take her hands in mine, one arm crossed over the other in a long X. She’s laughing, and then I’m laughing, and we’re both twirling, ballerinas in the crisp winter night. We spin and spin, and then I feel my feet slipping on the snow.
“Anna!” she screams, and her hands slip out of mine, two birds bursting into flight. And then Zoe, too, is flying, the backs of her knees glancing off the balcony rail, her gold dress soaring into the moonlit night, and I’m falling back, back, onto the balcony, my back striking the ground, then my head, and everything fading into blackness.
I squeeze my eyes shut, press my fists into the lids until I see stars. It would be so easy to dismiss everything I just saw as the work of my overactive imagination.
But I can’t.
* * *
The sun is streaming bright and hot through the pool house windows. It’s late. My phone is buzzing on the kitchen counter, a text message reminder. Something tells me it’s been buzzing for a while. I drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom, where I stick my head under the faucet and gulp mouthfuls of cold water. I can’t get enough. I drink and drink until my stomach hurts. My phone buzzes again, drawing me into the kitchen. The texts are from Caden.
You probably know already, Zoe’s dad identified her body.
I’m leaving the police station now.
This text is a courtesy, Anna. The police are going to be coming to Clovelly Cottage this afternoon.
I don’t understand it, but I know you know something. You need to talk to the police.
I close out of the texts and look at the time. 1:20 p.m. I’ve been sleeping for over twenty-four hours. I can’t believe Emilia let me sleep so long. My chest tightens with a fresh rush of guilt.
In the bedroom, I grab my sketchbook and watercolor pencils from the table. Then I flip through to a clean page and begin to draw, letting my memory guide me.
My hand flies across the paper in confident, bold strokes. It’s a sketch of the famous Waterhouse painting of the Lady of Shalott, a painting I’ve copied dozens of times before. I don’t even need to look at the original; I can copy it from memory. But instead of Waterhouse’s red-haired lady, the woman in the boat is Zoe. My watercolors capture her raven hair, olive skin, the boat her watery grave.
I breathe.
For the first time in days, everything is perfectly, brilliantly clear. I’ve been moving through a dense gray fog, and suddenly the sun is out. I understand it now—what my brain’s been trying to tell me.
Caden’s already notified the police. No sense in waiting for