Maybe she’s trying to mess with my head. If so, she’s succeeding. For the life of me, I can’t come up with a reason why Rachel would want to punish me for Becca all these years later. The Rachel I remember was timid, a follower. She was best friends with Gia, so any sort of jealousy of my friendship with Becca seems absurd. And if she saw something, there’s no way she could’ve kept quiet. She would’ve shouted or shrieked or something. Unless she was too shocked. Maybe she didn’t even realize what she saw?
I shake my head. That’s even more absurd.
We’re close to the exit for Benfield Boulevard when brake lights flash. I crane my neck and see police cars and an ambulance. Traffic merges to the leftmost lane and it’s a disaster, everyone trying at once. Horns beeping, then blaring. Inching forward, I keep one eye on Rachel’s vehicle, the other on the road and the cars. Four cars between us becomes five, then eight, then a dozen, then so many it’s ludicrous. A sea of red, all surging closer to the accident, a tractor trailer and a sedan, all mashed to hell.
My skin feels two sizes too small and I stink of adrenaline. Sour and ripe. I can’t see Rachel’s Audi anymore. She’s too far ahead. The accident’s fresh enough that the cop’s still putting out cones to separate us from the road debris. If I’d been a half mile behind where I was, I’d be stuck for hours. As it stands, it’s awful enough, but we’re still moving. No way to get ahead, though, to close the distance between me and Rachel.
When it’s my turn around the cones, I hit the gas hard, but it’s no use at all. I’ve lost her.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
My phone chimes and I grab it, never mind the state’s no-handheld law. A message from Ellie.
“Fuck,” I say again, but this time it’s barely a whisper. I’m going to be late.
* * *
Two psychologists, a teacher, and an accountant walk into a bar: the opening to a bad joke. Yet here we are, walking into Davis’ Pub for dinner. An Annapolis institution, it was originally a general store in the twenties. In the forties it became a lounge; in the late eighties, a pub. The food is good and cheap, but an appearance on Guy Fieri’s Diners, Drive-ins and Dives in 2012 opened the door to tourists, so to speak, and helped its popularity.
The four of us, all friends from college, sit at a table in the back. Nicole and I, the psychologists, take the booth side, while Kelly and Jenn, high school teacher and accountant, respectively, take the chairs. A routine we have down to a science. Nicole’s traded her usual tailored silks for jeans. Jenn and I are wearing jeans, too, but Kelly’s in Lululemons and sneakers.
I came close to bowing out tonight, but Ryan was catching the latest World War II movie with Sean, his youngest brother. And tonight’s a good thing, seeing friends who’ve only ever known me as an adult. But I feel off-kilter, waiting for them to see there’s something wrong with me. That I’m wrong. I know I’m no different today than I was before the necklace arrived. Same guilty hands. Same guilty heart. Hiding in plain sight. Yet before, the truth belonged to me and me alone.
We order drinks and two crab pretzels to share, another routine. None of us need to scan the menu, but we do anyway. Nicole scratches above her right ear, fingertip disappearing into her hair, while she reads. Jenn twists the end of her French braid, and Kelly scowls, no doubt stressing over her diet, not that she needs to worry, not with her meticulous habit of counting calories and six days a week of power yoga.
Jenn starts a story about her son’s school science project. I catch Nicole’s distant expression, and we share a secret smirk. She often quips that we spend so much time seeing messed-up kids that we’re too terrified we’ll screw up our own to have them. We both pretend she’s wrong.
The pretzels arrive, and when we’re down to the last few bites, Nicole says, “Did you hear about the girl’s body they found in Towson?”
I drop my fork. Luckily, Kelly’s loud “Yeah” offers aural camouflage, but my blood rushes in my ears. I haven’t watched the news, haven’t heard anything, and my tongue sticks to my soft palate. Not like this. Please.
“It’s the one