“What happened?”
“I borrowed Marcus’s Cherokee. I was so stupid—I looked at my cell when I was driving. I slid off the road and hit a tree. Should I call the cops? I’m scared I’ll get in trouble.”
“Just stay there. I’ll come get you.”
I wait, hunched over in the Cherokee with my arms wrapped around my legs, shivering and staring at my phone while worrying that he’ll get lost, or that some other driver will come along and see the Cherokee in the ditch and then they’ll call the cops. Forty-five excruciating minutes later, I finally hear a car door slamming, then his voice calling.
“Sophie?”
I push open the door, climb out, my legs cramped and stiff. “I’m over here!” I push my way through the brush and slide down into the ditch, try to get to my feet.
Footsteps on gravel—sounds like he’s running. Then he’s standing in front of me, his face pale and his hand reaching to help me out of the ditch. I grab at it.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry for everything. I was such a bitch. I just—”
“Don’t worry about that right now.” He pulls me up until we are face-to-face, brushes glass out of my hair, then cups my cheek. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”
“I didn’t mean to have an accident.”
“That’s not what I mean.” He steps closer, presses his cold lips against mine. His mouth is warm, soft, and we kiss desperately. Finally we separate, but keep our hands gripped together.
“The tree is still covering the road,” he says. “How far away is the lake house?”
“I’m not sure. I got lost.”
“Can you walk?”
I nod. He tucks my hand into his pocket and we make our way back up the hill. I don’t care if it takes two hours to walk back. I don’t care if Mom and Marcus yell at me. I have Jared.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
LINDSEY
It’s almost ten and Sophie still isn’t back. Marcus is fishing on the lake—he wants to catch some trout for dinner. I had planned on reading my book and enjoying another cup of coffee, but I’m watching Marcus from the window, the bright red of his life jacket, the flick of his wrist as he casts the line. He hasn’t acted any different since my confession, just in a hurry to get out on the lake before he “missed the bite,” but I still feel exposed, vulnerable.
I walk back to my book, which is still open on the couch where I was sitting. I pick it up, put it down again. Listen for the sound of Sophie parking the Cherokee, her boots coming down the stairs, think how she’ll burst through the door with flushed cheeks and apologies, but there’s only silence. If she doesn’t come home soon, we may have to borrow a neighbor’s car.
I get up and hunt for cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink, wash every surface, including the floors, the cupboard doors, and the inside of the fridge. Why is she taking so long? If something happened to her, would anybody know where to find us? I head into the master bedroom. When I reach up to dust the top of the dresser, I accidentally knock into Katie’s photo and the frame hits the floor with a smash. I quickly crouch and check the damage.
The wood is split and glass fragments cover the floor like slivers of ice. I feel terrible and hope the frame didn’t hold any sentimental value for Marcus. Thank God the picture doesn’t seem to be harmed. When I remove the back piece and take the photo out, I realize it’s on photo paper—I can see the brand name. Marcus must have printed it from his computer.
I flip the photo over and look at Katie’s face. She was so beautiful. Everything in the photo is perfect, the wind in her hair, her makeup, the woven blanket spread perfectly straight on the sand, which I now realize now looks fine-grained, and lighter-colored than the sand on the beach I can see from the front window. The vegetation in the photo isn’t like what we have on the West Coast either. They must have been on vacation somewhere, which would explain the glass of wine in her hand. But Marcus told me his daughter never drank. It could just be water, but now that I’m looking closer, something about the photo doesn’t seem natural. It seems staged. They probably had a photographer take the shot. Come to think of it, most of the photos I’ve seen of Katie in Marcus’s house all look like they have been taken by a photographer. There aren’t any candid shots of her—and none of them together. He must have packed those away.