“I know you don’t care about this, but I implore you to consider what’s best for Lucy,” Dad says.
“How do you mean?” Ben asks. He drank far less wine than the rest of us. His voice is much clearer than Dad’s.
“She’s told her story several times. It doesn’t need to be repeated.” Dad’s already frustrated.
“She’s never told her story.”
“Of course she has.”
“Not directly. It was always filtered through the police or you and her mom or her lawyer or the media. No one has ever heard directly from her.”
“But why do you think that was?”
“Because you were protecting her?”
“Yes!”
“And that’s what you’re doing now?” Ben asks. I wonder whether Dad hears the skepticism in his voice.
“Of course.”
“I’d love to interview you, if you’d like to go into more detail,” Ben says.
“I’m not doing an interview,” Dad snaps. He starts to turn, and I quickly backtrack a few steps. I wait until he’s coming out of the room to start down the hallway again. He frowns as he passes me.
Ben is typing on his phone as I grab a box and head to the table for the mason jars.
He looks up, and then walks over to grab a few of the jars. Our eyes meet as he puts them in the box.
My story is still being filtered through him. I wonder whether he realizes that. Savvy’s story is being filtered through him. Through everyone he’s interviewed who has sanded off the edges of the real girl to present the world with a perfect victim.
“I’ll see you Monday,” he says softly. He heads to the door but pauses, looking over his shoulder at me. “You know I’m only interested in finding the truth, right? For Savannah.”
“I know.”
He nods and starts to walk away.
“Wait, Ben.”
He looks back at me.
“That’s what I want too,” I say. “The truth.”
In my head, the voice snorts.
“To figure out what happened to her,” I amend. “I’m going to help you figure it out, no matter what those dumbasses say.” I gesture vaguely to the table, where the dumbasses (my family) were seated a few minutes ago.
Ben smiles. “I’m glad to hear it. We’ll figure out the truth together, Lucy.”
I swallow nervously as he waves, then turns and walks away. I listen to his footsteps fade.
The truth.
“The truth doesn’t matter.” The voice—Savvy’s voice—is so clear now, clearer than it’s been in years.
It’s always been Savvy talking to me. Since the first few days after she died, when her screams were so loud I thought my head was going to explode, to later, when she quieted to a murderous constant companion.
To now, when she’s apparently had enough of me ignoring her.
“Let’s kill—”
I close my eyes, willing the memory away, but it won’t go. She’s been there for days now, on the edge of every thought I have, yelling at me to notice her.
The memory forms, bright and clear, like it sharpened over the years instead of fading.
LUCY
FIVE YEARS AGO
“I know the truth doesn’t matter,” I said. I was sitting at the empty bar, the sounds of laughter from the staff coming distantly from the kitchen. The restaurant had just opened, and the dining room was deserted. It was just me and Savvy.
She stood across from me on the other side of the bar, leaning her forearms against the counter. She was in a tank top that showed her tattoos—flowers on one arm, and Harley Quinn on the other. She had a thing for supervillains. No one ever mentions that. Maybe they think it’s not important.
She was beautiful—big, downturned eyes, and dark blond hair tied up in a messy bun. Her eye makeup was nearly always smudged. I was pretty sure she rarely remembered to take it off at night. She just touched it up the next day and called it good.
A guy once said to her, “You look like the fun kind of mess.” Rude, but not wrong.
I, on the other hand, was a mess and not even a little bit fun.
I had a bruise on my cheek. It was small. I could easily cover it with makeup, but I’d wanted Matt to see it and feel bad. He hadn’t. Instead, he pointedly held up his hand to show where I’d scratched him.
Savvy was right. It wouldn’t matter if I said I’d scratched him because I was defending myself. That he started it.
Well, no, he’d dispute that. Matt would say I started it, by screaming at him again. “Don’t start shit you can’t finish,” he’d always say.
“He said he’d tell my parents about me pushing him down the stairs if I went to stay with them,” I said.
“You didn’t push him down the stairs,” Savvy said.
I hadn’t, but I was fairly certain that Matt actually thought I had. He’d said the lie so many times he’d started to believe it himself.
Hell, I was starting to believe it. The (fake?) memory of me violently shoving him now plays next to the (true?) memory of me flailing out my arms in anger and of him tripping because he was drunk again.
“But the truth doesn’t matter,” she said again.
“I should have controlled my temper,” I said softly. I should have just cried. Taken the hits and crawled away to show my scars. I should have been a better victim. The truth doesn’t matter if you fight back.
“I have an idea.” Savvy leaned closer to me. She met my eyes. Her mouth was set in a hard line, her gaze steely and serious. “Let’s kill your husband.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LUCY
Nina calls me the day after Grandma’s party.
“You seriously invited Ben to your grandma’s birthday party?” she says, by way of greeting.
I stretch out on my bed. The sun filters in through the blinds, already high in the sky. I’m hiding from my parents in my room like a teenager. “My grandma invited him. Wait, how did you know that?”
“Three different people called me and told me that he showed up at the birthday party and caused a scene.”
“He didn’t so much cause a scene as sit there and enjoy the chaos that his presence caused.”
“Oh, dear lord.”
“Honestly, I’m sad I didn’t film it.”
I would have liked to replay that smug little smile of Ben’s. That wasn’t a superhero smile. That was the grin of a man who liked to watch shit burn.
“You’re really going to do an interview with him?”
“Yeah. I’m helping to fill in some gaps for him.”
“I’m not sure if that’s brilliant or stupid, Lucy.”
“Same.”
She laughs. “You want to come for dinner tonight? Emmett wants to join us, and he doesn’t work on Sundays.”
“Sure.” I need an excuse to get out of the house.
“Great. I’ll text you the address.”
* * *
Nina Garcia lives in what I’d always considered to be the most boring part of Plumpton. A builder had quickly erected a clump of homes on the northwest side of town, all of which looked vaguely similar. Driving down the street is like the beginning of a horror movie. It’s too perfect to be real.
I park my car on the street and climb out.
I guess I was wrong about Nina—she actually meant it when she said I should come over to see her kids. She always was just a little bit too nice for her own good.
A small, dark-haired child with something blue smeared across his mouth opens the door after I knock.
“Hello,” I say.
He says nothing. He just stares. I’ve always admired the way kids unabashedly stare at you. They don’t care whether you’re uncomfortable. Kids have zero fucks to give about your feelings.
“Mijo, go find your brother.” Nina appears and ushers the giggling child away. “Sorry. He loves answering doors. He’s been obsessed with it lately.” She steps back, sweeping her arm out. “Come in, come in.”
She’s wearing a casual green dress, her soft curls loose around her face. I’d never noticed Nina and Emmett taking much romantic interest in each other when we were younger, but I can see why they’ve hooked up now. They’re both just very pretty.
I can’t help but think that Nina is here to torture me. She’s the living embodiment of what I could have been, if I’d had an hourglass figure and a touch more common sense.