A Flicker in the Dark

“Then why didn’t you? I told you about my family.”

“That’s exactly why,” he says, tugging at the ends of his hair. He sounds frustrated now, like we’re arguing over the dishes. “I always knew who you were, Chloe. I knew the second I saw you in that lobby. And then that day at the bar, you weren’t bringing it up, and I didn’t want to bring it up for you. That’s not the kind of thing you should be forced into saying.”

Those little nudges, the way he couldn’t seem to stop staring. I think about that night on the couch, and my face flushes with blood.

“You let me tell you everything and you acted like you didn’t already know.”

I can’t help but feel angry as the magnitude of his lies settles over me. At the things he had made me believe, the way he had made me feel.

“What was I supposed to say? Stop you mid-sentence? Oh yeah, Dick Davis. He gave me the idea to fake my sister’s murder.” He snorts a little self-deprecating laugh, then almost as suddenly, his face goes serious again. “I didn’t want you to think that everything up until that moment had been a lie.”

I remember that night so vividly, the way I had felt lighter after that, after telling him everything. My insides raw but clean, a verbal purging to get the sickness out. His finger on my chin, tilting it up. Those words for the first time. I love you.

“Wasn’t it, though?”

Daniel sighs, rests his hands on his thighs. “I don’t blame you. For being mad. You have every right. But I’m not a murderer, Chloe. I can’t even believe you’d think that.”

“Then what are you doing with my father?”

He stares at me. His eyes look tired, like they’ve been drilling straight into the sun.

“If all of this has an innocent explanation, if you have nothing to hide, then why have you been visiting him?” I continue. “How do you know him?”

I watch him deflate a little, like he’s sprung a leak somewhere. An old balloon hovering self-consciously in the corner, shriveling into nothing. Then he reaches his hand into his pocket, pulls out a long, silver necklace. I watch his thumb polish the pearl in the center, making tiny little circles, over and over. It feels tender, like rubbing a rabbit’s foot charm or the cheek of a newborn, soft and juicy like an overripe peach. I have a flash of Lacey rubbing her rosary in my office, back and forth, up and down.

Finally, he speaks.





CHAPTER FORTY-SIX




I’m sitting at my kitchen island, an open bottle of red aerating between two full glasses. I’m twisting one in my hand, rubbing the delicate stem back and forth between my fingers. To my left, an orange bottle, the cap unscrewed.

I glance at the clock on the wall, the hour hand pointing at seven. The overgrown branches from the magnolia tree outside are scratching at my window, nails against glass. I can almost feel the knock on my door before I hear it, that moment of anticipatory silence hanging heavy in the air like the seconds after a lightning strike as you wait for the thunder to roll though. Then that quick, closed-fisted pounding—always the same, unique like a fingerprint—followed by a familiar voice.

“Chlo, it’s me. Let me in.”

“It’s open,” I yell back, my eyes staring straight ahead. I hear the creak of the door, the double chimes from my alarm. My brother’s heavy footsteps as he steps inside, closing it behind him. He walks over to the island, kisses my temple before I feel his posture stiffen.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, sensing his eyes on the pills. “I’m fine.”

He exhales, pulls out the barstool next to mine and takes a seat. We’re quiet for a while, a game of dare. Each of us waiting for the other to go first.

“Look, I know these last couple weeks have been hard on you.” He gives in, placing his hands on the counter. “They’ve been hard on me, too.”

I don’t respond.

“How are you holding up?”

I lift my wine, my lips grazing the edge of the glass. I hold them there and watch as my breath comes out in little puffs before disappearing again.

“I killed someone,” I say at last. “How do you think I’m holding up?”

“I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”

I nod, take a sip, put my glass down on the counter. Then I turn toward Cooper. “Are you really going to make me drink alone?”

He stares at me, his eyes searching my face like he’s looking for something. Something familiar. When he can’t find it, he reaches for the second glass and takes a sip himself. He exhales, stretches his neck.

“I’m sorry about Daniel. I know you loved him. I just always knew there was something about him…” He stops, hesitates. “Whatever, it’s over now. I’m just glad you’re safe.”

I wait silently as Cooper takes another few sips, the alcohol starting to course through his veins, loosen his muscles, until I look at him again, my eyes square on his.

“Tell me about Tyler Price.”

I watch a shock wave ripple across his expression, only for a second. A tremor like a miniature earthquake before he pulls himself together again, his face like stone.

“What do you mean? I can tell you what I saw in the news.”

“No.” I shake my head. “No, I want to know what he was really like. After all, you knew him. You were friends.”

He’s staring at me, his eyes darting back down to the pills again.

“Chloe, you’re not making any sense. I’ve never met that guy. Yeah, he was from home, but he was a nobody. A loner.”

“A loner,” I repeat, twisting the stem in my hands, the rotating glass making a rhythmic swoosh against the marble. “Right. Then how did he get into Riverside?”

I think back to that morning with my mother, at seeing Aaron’s name on the visitor pad. I had been so angry, the prospect of them letting a stranger into her room. I had been so angry that I hadn’t been listening, the words hadn’t registered.

Sweetheart, we don’t let people in who aren’t authorized.

“God, I keep telling you to stop taking these fuckin’ things,” he says, reaching for the bottle. He picks it up, and I can sense the weightlessness in his hands. “Jesus, did you take all of them?”

“It’s not the pills, Cooper. Fuck the pills.”

He looks at me the same way he looked at me twenty years ago, when I had stared at my father on the television screen, hawked those words through my teeth like dip spit, gritty and foul. Fucking coward.

“You knew him, Cooper. You knew everybody.”

I picture Tyler as a teenager, scrawny and awkward, almost always alone. A faceless, nameless body trailing my brother around the Crawfish Festival, following him home, waiting outside his window. Doing his bidding. After all, my brother was a friend to everyone. He made them feel warm and safe and accepted.

I think back to my conversation with Tyler on the water now, talking about Lena. How she was nice to me; how she looked after me.

That’s a friend, he had said, nodding. Knowing. The best kind, if you ask me.

“You reached out to him,” I say. “You sought him out. You brought him here.”

Cooper is staring at me now, his mouth hanging open like a cabinet with a loose hinge. I can see the words lodged in his throat like an unchewed chunk of bread, and that’s how I know that I’m right. Because Cooper always has something to say. He always has the words, the right words.

You’re my baby sister, Chloe. I want the best for you.

“Chloe,” he whispers, his eyes wide. I notice it now—the pulsing in his neck, the way he rubs his fingers together, slick with sweat. “What the fuck are you talking about? Why would I do that?”

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