Goldilocks was strong. Determined. She’d dragged herself a ways before collapsing in front of Mr. Kirkpatrick’s house. Blood bubbled from her mouth. She convulsed. Dad believed she was dying. How could he call 9-1-1? There was evidence all over Ina’s car. I heard my mom begin to cry. He had thought about himself, his family, Ina, the Marlos. He didn’t consider what he’d be doing to Goldilocks’s family. At that point I heard Mom, voice shaking with fury, “Don’t ever say you did this for us again.”
Dad wrapped his hands around Goldilocks’s thin neck. Closed his eyes. Squeezed. He had realized the folly of loading her up, driving her when he could be stopped by a traffic cop on the highway, where a camera could catch him, where campers on the beach might spy him. He threw her in the back of the car, drove to the Marlos’ house, carried her through the orchard, placed her on the rock, and made her look like some cult fetishist’s kill. No one would ever look at Viv’s family. No one would ever look at anyone on Driftwood.
“Izzie found her. Our baby found her dead body,” Mom said.
“Ina was supposed to find her. Ina was supposed to go up there in a day or two, after she’d taken the car out of town to be repaired. The girls were supposed to be at the beach that day.”
I hadn’t remembered that. But yes, originally Graham, Viv, and I were going to throw the watermelon out to sea, to see if it could float.
The days that came after were confusing and numb. My senses were off—vision poor and ears ringing, like I’d survived an explosion. I’d catch the gentle roar of Harry’s last breath every now and then. Whip around, expect to see him. It hurt too much to be with Graham and Viv. The three of us in the barn was too nightmarishly diminished.
Despite our refusals to confess, the authorities’ investigation moved forward. Graham’s fingerprints were found on the skeleton. The butcher who sold us the blood recognized Harry’s picture on the news and called the police. A home surveillance camera caught what was clearly the bottom half of Viv’s face. I burned the damning Polaroids. Conner, Rachel, and Trent fingered us for the four who’d started it all. Jess and Campbell continued to deny that there was any such secret group. Amanda’s lawyer wouldn’t allow her to comment.
There were many police interviews, though after that first night I don’t remember much from my time with Seven Hills’s illustrious officers. When I wasn’t considering the irony that the cops were working so diligently to solve our case when they hadn’t done anything for Goldilocks, I sat thinking about Harry. Wondering what he’d do in the situation and, unable to guess, I drifted off with my eyes open. They weren’t sure what to make of me. The police strongly suspected us of grand collusion. They treated us as idiot kids and then as evasive masterminds. The reality lay somewhere in the middle.
A secret society, an idol, iconography, blood rituals, sacrifices, bonfires, pranks, arson, damage of private property, and all that blood. It was a lot to attribute to a bunch of kids who’d never been in trouble before.
There are parts of my time spent with the police that stick with me. The bitter, burnt coffee they poured in Styrofoam cups. I stopped drinking chai and took my coffee with honey the way Harry had liked it. How exhausted I was despite spending most of my time asleep at home or asleep at the police station or drinking coffee. I was delirious, had trouble with basic questions like, You hungry for lunch or can we keep going? I never shared our secrets; I never said a thing about the Order. It was all I had left of us. My eyelids were in a perpetual slow drop like Harry’s were in my memory. Unlike his, mine wouldn’t just close for good. I went to sleep, I woke up, I remembered that my universe was short.
Dad moved out during that time. Mom said it was best we not tell anyone about what he and Ina did. I kept his secret, not because I agreed, or because I thought I wouldn’t survive losing him, but for Viv. I would never take Viv’s mom away from her.
Mom sat quietly alone a lot, but there was a hopefulness to her sadness, like she could see the end of it up ahead. Not me. Food lost its flavor, all but the metallic taste of coffee. Music lost its relevance; they were never lyrics for me, but a kind of secret language meant for people whose lives involved happiness, or even sadness that could be quantified. Contained in a three-minute song.
The videos we’d been taking came close to being our undoing. The police got permission to confiscate our cell phones. Graham had the wherewithal to delete the videos from the shared folder before they came for his, but a tech officer was able to find them on the cloud. I thought about Graham’s obsession with watching the clouds for rain—he’d been so close.
The police printed up transcripts of each video and confronted us with them. They expected a prisoner’s dilemma scenario where the three of us raced to confess in hopes of garnering good favor and leniency before the other two could. We kept silent. No comment. Heartbroken tears over Harry in the interview room.
Things were looking bad even still.
The threat was nebulous. Different days, different shapes. Our parents were scared we’d be charged with something serious—conspiracy, manslaughter, arson. What did we care? The last laugh Viv and I had was over whether or not they’d send us to the same prison. Maybe we could convince them that we were mentally unfit and end up sharing a padded room forever?
Then Graham left the country. His mother took a position teaching in Beirut; they were gone within twenty-four hours of him telling Viv and me.
“I don’t deserve to know anyone—to know anything,” Graham told me, “but I especially don’t deserve to know you. To love you. Not when Harry can’t.” Good-bye.
Graham was in Beirut when we learned we weren’t going to be charged with any crimes. Seven Hills had received too much negative attention. For weeks, reports of suspected teenage vigilantes going by the alias of IV had tantalized high schools everywhere. After Harry’s death, accounts of Conner’s harassment were shared by other students. A lot of people had witnessed Conner’s cruelty against Harry.
The story of Goldilocks’s death was everywhere. National news organizations alleged a coverup and corruption in Seven Hills. Charging a bunch of kids who’d drawn attention to the murder wasn’t going to help make Seven Hills PD look innocent. They dropped it; they dropped us. Instead they pursued Conner for Harry’s death.
Viv and I will be called to testify by the prosecution. It will be the first time in nine months that we’re in the same room. Viv was accepted to UCLA’s performing arts department. I heard that she decided that school would be a waste and instead is auditioning for work in Los Angeles.
The last time we spoke was a week before Christmas of senior year.
“Maybe someday the sadness won’t feel like it’s chewing us up? Maybe someday I can use it, like some actors use traumatic experiences?” she sighed wistfully over the phone.