As they headed to the beach, Emily mentally reviewed the places in the house they’d searched. There was nothing in the kitchen, nothing in the bedrooms, nothing in the closets. But what about that vanilla-stinky garage? They’d only poked their heads in. Sure, the place had looked empty . . . but maybe it wasn’t.
It haunted her as they played in the waves and listened to music through Spencer’s iPod speakers. It plagued her as they changed for dinner. It needled her as they ate fresh seafood and ordered margaritas and tried to act upbeat. Her friends kept trying to pull her into the conversation, but she could only reply with stiff, one-word answers. We have to go back, she wanted to tell them. Something is there. I just know it.
But she knew her friends wouldn’t go back to that house. They’d already taken a huge risk breaking in this afternoon. They were taking a huge risk even being there. No. If she wanted to satisfy her hunch, she would have to do it alone.
They tumbled into their shared hotel room that night and turned on the TV to Comedy Central. Emily bided her time, watching as each of her friends had settled into bed, Spencer turning on the AC, Hanna pulling her eye mask over her face. After a while, the room grew silent, and someone turned down the TV volume. Emily waited an extra half hour to make sure they were all asleep, then crept out of the hotel room, key in hand.
The walk to Betty Maxwell’s house took fifteen minutes, her flip-flops smacking loudly on the sidewalk in the quiet night. It had to be about two in the morning, and Emily worried a cop car might stop her, wondering what she was doing out so late. But luck was on her side. She didn’t see any cars at all.
The beach house was eerier after dark, the walls creaking, strange shadows skittering in the corners, an odd clanking sound coming from somewhere in the back. Armed with a flashlight, Emily headed straight to the garage. It still smelled strongly of vanilla—of Ali. She stepped into the dark, small space, leftover sand gritting under her flip-flops. Hands shaking, she felt around the metal shelves along the garage walls, desperate to find something other than dust bunnies. Her fingers grazed spider webs. She pressed against the cinder-block walls, hoping for a loose brick that was concealing something secret. In the corner of the garage was an industrial-looking tool chest; she opened it and felt to the very back, but there was nothing inside.
Then she saw the trash can.
It was just a normal blue trash can with Cape May’s city logo on the front, but Emily heard warning bells go off in her mind. She scampered over to it, lifted the plastic lid, and shone the flashlight inside. There were no bags in there, and the bottom was dark. But then the light caught the edge of something crusted along the bottom. Emily reached as far down as she could, unpeeling the piece of paper from the plastic. She pulled it out, barely able to breathe. It was an envelope smeared with dried oil. It should have smelled like trash, but it, too, smelled like vanilla.
She ran back inside, placed it on the kitchen island, and shone her flashlight over it. There was no addressee, just Betty Maxwell’s house number and the Cape May ZIP code. In the corner, though, was a return address. Someone had written, Day, 8901 Hyacinth Drive, Cocoa Beach, FL.
Emily turned the envelope over. It had already been opened; whatever was inside had been removed. The vanilla smell was so strong it made her dizzy. Had Ali received this? Who was Day? The name seemed significant, for some reason, but Emily couldn’t recall why.
She was so wrapped up in thought that she barely remembered the walk back to the hotel. This was definitely, definitely a clue. Should she tell the others? Or would they reprimand her for going back, then shoot her down? They wouldn’t actually believe it was anything, would they?
Certainly not that the envelope was worth traveling to Cocoa Beach, Florida to follow up on. But Emily just . . . felt something, a premonition stronger than any she’d ever had. She needed to see what this was. She had to go there. It would mean abandoning her friends—and the trial. But as much as she hated to do that, she knew this was probably their last shot. She would just have to go without them.
She didn’t want anyone knowing about it, though—not her friends, not her family, not the cops. She couldn’t afford to be looking over her shoulder the whole time. And she didn’t want Ali to see her coming. How could she manage that?
She slipped back into the hotel room and took her place next to Hanna on the bed, her mind churning. And then, all at once, it came to her. It was so easy: Ali had already done it, after all. She’d faked her murder, and everyone believed it. If Emily faked her suicide, everyone would believe it, too.