went through so much trouble, so much theater, when she could’ve simply called. Oh, Heather, guess what? You’re not a murderer. Sorry to leave you hanging for so long. Sure, I might not have believed her at first, but it would’ve been easy enough for her to prove she was who she said. Remember our club? The serial killers? Please be fucking kind?
I cross my arms again, drum an arpeggio on my sleeve. After all the dramatics, she shows up, and then … nothing? It makes no sense. I was right there. I waved, for god’s sake. Did she chicken out? That doesn’t seem like the Becca I knew. Then again, it’s been a long time. But something doesn’t feel right. The dead squirrel? The Chevy? Were they random events, pranks, not connected to her at all? And what of her mom’s death? Would she have …?
It’s too much to unpack.
But now I know why her body was never found. I wasn’t a “super-clever-best-hiding-spot-for-a-grave-ever” kind of kid. I definitely remember burying the knife and running home, but after, there’s a gray area. I assumed it was one piece my mind hid too deep to find. When you don’t know the whole story, you piece it together, fill in the gaps.
That last night, we were in the basement on a cold floor. I thought I killed her, so my mind made her dead. I remember staying beside her for a long time, but what’s a long time to a kid? A few minutes at best? I tap my fingers even harder.
And when I went back, she must’ve been pretending. That’s all. She was smart and clever. She could’ve fooled me if she wanted to. And after I left her there alone, what the hell happened? Did she get up? Was she cold and hurt and scared? If so, even if she didn’t want to go home, why didn’t she come to my house? How did she survive the knife wound? Where did she go? What did she do? Did someone else save her? And if so, who? Why didn’t she ever let me know? Too many goddamn questions. It bugs me.
Red Lady, Red Lady.
I got caught up in her, too, believed she was real. Now I know better. Mass hysteria crops up now and again in all parts of the world. The dancing plague, the Tanganyika laughter epidemic, the West Bank fainting epidemic. All documented. It explains the coughing, the blood in the kitchen, the cramps. The writing in my books, in the sugar, all messages to myself, borne of guilt and helplessness. I didn’t remember writing them because I didn’t want to. That’s why I still can’t remember some things.
But I do remember that Becca really thought she’d save her.
I shake out of my stare, releasing an airy grunt. There’s a pang in my chest, not for what I don’t know, but for what I don’t have, for what I haven’t had since that summer. Not even Ryan knows me the way Becca did. All the good, the bad, the ugly, all the parts that made me me. She’s still inside, that twelve-year-old girl, still reaching out a hand in the darkness, still whispering best friends forever.
Please be kind …
Becca’s not dead.
And Ryan is gone.
I pace the first floor again. I can’t stay here right now. Can’t sit in the house by myself. Not tonight. It’s all too much. I grab my keys and my jacket and slip on my shoes. I have no destination in mind, but after driving aimlessly around downtown Annapolis, I pull into an available spot on Main Street near Kilwins Ice Cream Shop. With a scoop of sea salt caramel, I sit in a rickety chair out front, then make my way to City Dock. A wooden boardwalk surrounds the water on three sides, a parking lot and the Harbormaster’s Office flanking one side and restaurants the other, a wide promenade at the end.
The night’s a cool one, but a few bars have their doors open, letting out music and chatter. People are milling around, occupying the boardwalk benches, looking at the expensive boats moored along the waterway known as Ego Alley or sitting near the Kunta Kinte-Alex Haley Memorial at the harbor’s head.
I keep my pace slow. At the end of the promenade I stand, overlooking the creek, watching the water slosh around the pilings. Now and again glances fix on me, linger, then dart away. I see worry, pity, alarm. Then I feel