Jo suspected that was why the police had been sent to clean out Rosamund’s gym locker just a few short hours after she’d been declared dead. Her husband was worried that she’d stashed something in it. Jo wondered if he was hoping they would return with something specific—or if he’d be relieved when they didn’t.
Jo went locker by locker. She opened the ones without locks—finding nothing more than an occasional tampon or pair of shower shoes. Whenever she came across a combination lock, she checked the locker number against the rental list. She’d brought the pad of Post-its with the idea of marking each locker that wasn’t officially rented but was still being used. In the end, there were only two, and one of them held a pair of riding shoes she’d purchased as a surprise gift for Lucy, who’d soon be heading to summer sleepaway camp. The second locker was in an unpopular spot in the middle of a bottom row. The lock was a simple five-letter-combination sort that would be no match for a pair of bolt cutters. Jo pulled out her phone to text an employee to run out and pick up a pair at the hardware store. Then she stopped midsentence and put the phone down on a nearby bench. She squatted in front of the lock and dialed the letters until they read FAITH. Then she closed her eyes, gripped the base of the lock, and pulled downward. When the lock opened, Jo fell back on her ass in surprise.
Before she’d had time to fully recover, she was on her knees and inching forward. Jo peeked inside the locker and immediately slammed it shut again. Her fingers were trembling so violently that she could barely replace the lock. Then she grabbed her phone and fled to the opposite end of the changing room. She wanted to be as far as possible from what she’d just seen.
“Nessa,” she said when her friend answered. “Get Harriett and come to the gym.”
“I’m in the middle of—”
“Leave your daughters in charge of the reception,” Jo said. “You need to get over here right away.”
Then she hung up the phone and went outside to wait. Ten minutes later, she was still pacing back and forth when her friends pulled into the parking lot.
“Come with me,” she told them.
Nessa caught Harriett’s eye. She’d never seen Jo in such a state.
“Rosamund Harding died this morning,” Jo said as she marched through the gym. “They say she crashed her car into a pole. Her husband had the police come collect her things from her locker. After the cops were gone, I started wondering if she might have been using another locker off the books.” Jo pointed down at locker 165. “This one was never officially rented. There’s no way to know whose stuff is inside. Except for one thing.” She showed them the combination lock that read FAITH.
“Whoa,” Harriett said.
“Exactly,” Jo agreed. “There’s more.”
She pulled off the lock and took a step back.
Nessa hesitated. “Tell me there’s not a severed head in there,” she pleaded.
“Just look,” Jo ordered.
Nessa stepped forward and opened the locker. Inside was a Polaroid of a naked girl. She stared blankly at the camera, her eyes wide with terror and her arms held out to the sides as if someone had ordered her not to cover herself. “Oh my God.” Nessa dropped down onto a bench. “Is that her?”
Harriett, wearing a pair of latex gloves she’d found in the supply closet, was the one to pull the photo out. “It’s her,” she announced.
The girl in the picture was the one they’d just buried.
Nessa rubbed at her eyes as if trying to scrub away the image they’d seen. “Why would your client have a picture like that?”
“I think her husband took it,” Jo said. “Rosamund must have found it and—”
“Jo?” Harriett interrupted. “Hold on for one second. Where did those flowers come from?”
All three heads swiveled toward the enormous vase of white lilies that stood on one corner of the changing room counter. They were identical to the ones Harriett had received at her house.
“I don’t know.” Jo felt the blood drain from her face. She hadn’t noticed the flowers until that moment. She stuck her head out of the changing room door and called for Heather, who immediately rushed over. “Do you know where that bouquet came from?” Jo asked.
“No idea. When they arrived, I asked Art, but he said he hadn’t sent them. So I put them in here. I can’t believe they still look that good. They’ve lasted for over a week.”
“What day did the delivery come?” Harriett asked.
“Memorial Day,” Heather answered.
Rosamund Harding Wasn’t Herself
Rosamund lay very still as the two women walked toward her across the beach. She wasn’t convinced they were real. And if they weren’t real, what the hell could they be? Her heart fluttered inside her chest. One of them looked like the lady from the gym. But that didn’t make any sense. Why would she be here? And why did she keep getting closer?
Rosamund slid on her sunglasses and shut her eyes. The dark could be trusted. The dark was real.
She opened her eyes, and her heart hurled itself against her ribs. The women were only a few yards away, and Spencer wasn’t home. There was no one around to say they were figments of her imagination. No one could tell her the sound of their footsteps was all in her head. For once, Rosamund had to figure it out for herself.
It was a sign, she decided. She’d put that picture inside the locker for safekeeping. Now the woman who ran the gym had shown up. She’d saved Rosamund once—she might be able to do it again.
Chertov came out of the house, and he looked angry. That meant he could see them, too. That meant they were real. She had one chance to get a message to the gym lady before the bodyguard caught her. So Rosamund plucked an apple out of the bowl on the table and carved the word that had been stuck in her head.
People always said they couldn’t imagine what she had gone through. Rosamund knew they weren’t being sincere. Of course they could fucking imagine it. What happened to her was their worst nightmare. You get right to the brink of glory and fame. The girl who takes your cash at the supermarket loses her shit when she realizes that’s you on the cover of People magazine. Famous brands literally beg to sponsor you. Nike has a campaign just waiting to roll. You’ve got your own line of swimsuits and lingerie ready to launch right after the games. Then poof! One day you slip on a patch of ice and tear a ligament. Suddenly everything you’ve worked for your whole life is gone.
Of course people could imagine it. They just didn’t want to. Because no one wants to admit their world is that fragile. No one wants to think that in less than a year, they could go from being America’s sweetheart to a drug-addled drunk. But they could. Rosamund never bothered to point that out. She was content to sink into her own private abyss. She didn’t crave anyone else’s company.