The Girl from Widow Hills - Megan Miranda Page 0,84

TROUBLED GIRL.

I wondered how many times Jonah had tried to contact me before realizing I’d blocked his number. If he was angry at being shut out so definitively. If he was drunk when he gave that quote, as he seemed to be more and more often. Or if he was trying to spin the story his way before he got pulled into it on his own.

He wasn’t dumb. He understood, just as I did, that you had to frame the story first.

I could’ve pulled up that photo of the two of us on my couch, captioned it: A troubled girl and her professor. And then blasted it across social media.

He had no idea the damage I could do.

I KNEW WHAT I could expect if I went home. Since the emails had begun, it wouldn’t take long for the letters to start showing up at my house. And then reporters waiting near my home. Asking for a quote or a picture. It would only multiply as the hours turned over.

After work, I found myself driving out to the campgrounds where Elyse had been found. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. If I, like Nathan, was hoping to feel something just by mere proximity.

It was still light out, but the thick foliage on the mountain road made it seem later than it was, the path from the lot to the campground completely shaded. I stepped out of the car, and it already felt ten degrees cooler.

Right away, I could tell where she’d been found. One of the cabins had yellow tape covering the door, along with a notice to keep out. The rest of the lot was empty—her death must’ve scared the others away.

A sign at the welcome center cabin said: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

I didn’t need to get any closer. Whatever I’d been looking for, I wasn’t going to get it here. All I felt was a coldness, an emptiness. A growing guilt. A lump in my throat, and I didn’t even know whom to contact to say, Yes, she was my friend. She was good to me, and I miss her, too.

I paced the gravel lot, then turned back toward my car. Inside, I pulled out Nathan’s card and called the number he’d written on the back.

“This is Nathan,” he answered. I didn’t think he had my cell, so I was probably coming through as a random number.

“Hi, it’s Liv,” I said. And then I didn’t know where to go from that. Why had I called him? As an excuse to avoid returning home?

“What happened?” he asked, like he could hear it in my voice.

“My friend died.” The words tumbling out, like a confession. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m calling you. I was nearby, and I guess I wanted to see if you wanted to finish that beer.”

A pause. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do. Come on over.”

———

HE WAS WAITING FOR me in the lobby this time. Sprawled on a double couch across from the fireplace with the television hanging above, turned to the national news. The broadcast was talking about the weather, a heat wave in the middle of the country; no murders, no breaking news.

Nathan had already grabbed two bottles of beer—the same kind as yesterday—and they sat on the coffee table in front of him. He stood when he saw me, held one of the bottles out toward me. “Thought we could take these to go,” he said. “I’ve got a suite with a table and a sofa down the hall, if that suits you.”

I nodded, following him. I liked his confidence. How he laid out all the facts at the start so I wouldn’t question his motives. How he managed to ask my opinion at the same time he gave his own.

His suite was at the end of the hall, the corner room. We entered into a small open space that functioned as both living and kitchen area. “Slightly more comfortable than the café. Less so than the lobby, but at least we’ve got some privacy here.”

The television was on the same news station as in the lobby, but the sound was low, like white noise.

“It’s good,” I said. “It works.” I sat on one end of the pullout sofa, and he took the other, shifting slightly so he was facing me.

“So tell me. What happened with your friend?”

I took a deep pull of the beer, swallowed to force the lump down my throat. “Her name’s Elyse. She overdosed.” I shook my