“I wish it was him,” I had said, ignoring her completely. Goose bumps spraying across my skin and my voice as sharp as a blade. Lucy cocked her head and I watched as the understanding dawned on her slowly. I had been thinking of Levi, of course, visions of him and Eliza staggering around that night on my phone. Their lips slick with vodka and spit and their fingers twisted together, knuckles white in the dark. “It should have been him.”
I flip to my side, eyes wide and stinging. Now that I’m coming down, I try to talk myself into believing what Lucy had said: there are so many explanations that could make sense. Maybe Levi really was in the shed, one of the other brothers sending him on some obscure errand like fetching lighter fluid that didn’t exist, laughing behind his back as he fumbled around, frantic, too afraid to come back without it. It was the kind of stupid thing they did to the freshmen; the kind of thing meant to embarrass and belittle. Or maybe he really was fixing something in the house, fiddling with one of the many broken things we had to hound the boys about: the shoddy heater that wasn’t a problem in the summer, but now, in October, made our toes stiff when we walked barefoot across the floor. The leak in Sloane’s ceiling that still wasn’t fixed or, like Lucy had said, the running toilet tank that, now that I think about it, I haven’t heard all night.
I close my eyes, exhaling long and hard. It was a bad trip, that’s all. A foreign chemical that managed to hotwire my brain, revving up the worst of my fears.
But then, just as my body starts to unwind, I hear the faintest sound.
I sit up quick, trying to determine where it came from. It seemed like it was both inside and outside at the exact same time: a muted thump, like a fist pounding or foot kicking … or the hard, fast slap of a door slamming shut.
I click on the lamp on my bedside table, holding my breath as I listen. I hear it once more, in my room but also out of it: a muffled shuffling, close but quiet, so I fling off the covers and get out of bed, creeping my way toward my closed bedroom door.
“Lucy?” I whisper, even though I know, from down the hall, she can’t hear me. She’s probably asleep, anyway. It’s four in the morning. “Luce, is that you?”
I can feel my heart in my throat as I pray for a response—she’s in the bathroom, maybe, grabbing a glass of water—but instead of her voice, I hear it again. That sound.
A thump, a groan. A single dry cough.
“Shit,” I whisper, the palms of my hands prickling with damp. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Even if what Lucy said is true, there is no logical explanation for why anyone should be entering our house at four in the morning. Suddenly, the thought comes to me like a punch to the chest: What if Levi was listening to Lucy and me talking when he was in the shed? She had been wondering about Eliza, after all. Pushing me along, asking me questions. I didn’t say anything bad out there, I didn’t say anything wrong, but still. He had looked so strange once he emerged, like he had heard us. Heard every word.
“There was an argument,” I had said.
He wouldn’t have liked that.
I hear it again, something resembling a dry heave, and before I can think twice, I fling open the door and step into the hallway, the sudden pitch-black of it throwing me off-balance. I take a few steps out of my bedroom, but before I get far, my bare feet brush against something on the floor, warm and wet, and I immediately jump back, squinting at whatever it is on the ground.
“What the hell?” I whisper, kneeling down. Suddenly, a familiar scent fills my nostrils: vomit, warm and sharp, something fermenting on the floor. My eyes are starting to adjust now and I can see that it’s a piece of clothing, a costume, bright green fabric with torn-up edges.
I glance to the right, toward the bathroom, and see a dark figure slumped on the floor.
“Nicole?” I ask, realization dawning on me as I run toward the bathroom and turn on the light. After Levi showed up, I had forgotten all about her. Lucas said she was drunk, too drunk, but that Trevor was taking care of her … but now I remember Trevor, too, walking out back to boss around the pledges.
“Nicole,” I say again, reaching out to shake her shoulder. She’s half naked, huddled on the tile with a puddle of red bile beneath her. I turn back toward the hallway, looking at her dress. She must have gotten sick, peeling it off before stumbling to the toilet, falling asleep.
“Come on,” I say, digging my arms into her armpits, hard, trying to help her stand. I don’t think she was in here when I went into my bedroom earlier, but at the same time, I can’t be sure. It was dark and I was disoriented, basically beelining from the kitchen straight into my bed. “Nicole, come on. Let’s get in bed.”
She groans, her head flopped to the side like a newborn baby, a crust of dried spit stuck to her lip.
“No,” she mutters, holding up her arms before they flop back down again, gummy and boneless. That’s when I see the marks on her wrist: little bruises like fingers, faint but there, and there’s something familiar about the placement of them. Something about it I’ve seen before. “Stop.”
“Come on,” I say, trying to brush away the memory, focus on this. “Let’s go.”
“No,” she says again, but she lets me lift her—really, she has no choice—the entire weight of her leaning into my side, body limp like a dragged corpse.
I look down at the toilet, chunks of bright red vomit sitting stagnant in the water, and flush it with my free hand before bringing her back into my bedroom, wiping her face and tucking her in bed. I stare at her for a second, taking in the way the back of her hair is rough and matted, the frantic twitch of her lips like she’s already lost in some kind of dream. Then I curl in beside her and listen to the steady sound of her breathing, trying not to think about the fact that it couldn’t have been her I heard moving around earlier. She’s practically comatose.
That, and I can hear the tank running.
CHAPTER 29
AFTER
“Detective Frank is here.”
I look up at Sloane, two wide eyes peeking through my doorway. Lucy has been gone for over two weeks now and they’re here with a warrant, like we knew they would be.
“Okay,” I say. “Be right out.”
I flip my book closed and toss it onto my bed, steeling myself for these next few hours, even though we knew it was only a matter of time. We knew they would want to explore every aspect of her, peeling back her privacy and poking around. Sticking their fingers into all of it.
I walk into the living room to find everyone else already there: Sloane and Nicole on the couch, side by side, with Detective Frank standing in the center. There are a few officers with him, eyes perusing the room. The place is practically empty now, most of our belongings sealed up in boxes, but we tried to clean up as best we could, anticipating their arrival. We’ve been watching the news.
“I’m going to be straight with you,” Frank says, eyes on me as I walk to the couch and take a seat next to Nicole. “Your roommate’s last known activity was right here, in this house, two days before her employer called and reported her missing.”
I think of us in this room again, smoke whirling around as Lucy picked up that knife, my reflection gleaming in the metal. The way she had gotten up and gone outside, leaving her phone behind. I know they’re going to find it today. It’s dead now, it’s been dead for a while, stashed under her bed, beneath her clothes, just like we planned.
“So I’m going to ask one more time,” he continues, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “If you know where your friend is, you need to tell us.”
“We don’t know where she is,” Sloane says, practically pleading, but it’s all an act. I know it’s an act. We’ve rehearsed this so many times. “We weren’t concerned before but we’re worried now, too, okay? We’ve been trying to call, but—”
“But her phone is off,” he interrupts. “Or dead. We know.”
“You said you questioned her about Levi,” Nicole says. “Maybe she took off because she didn’t know what else to do. She acts tough, but she’s only human like the rest of us.”
Detective Frank looks at Nicole for a beat too long, bored with her monologue.
“She was probably terrified,” she adds weakly.