Tyrone is one of those guys who wouldn’t have gotten over Gretchen even if she hadn’t died. They started hooking up last year when he was a senior, but never progressed to actual dating. Gretchen liked her boys a little dangerous—guys her parents wouldn’t approve of. Tyrone didn’t exactly fit the bill. Instead, they snuck in and out of each other’s bedroom windows, or occasionally the back of her car, until right after he graduated, when she called the whole thing off. She cited his impending departure for college, but Tyrone was crushed when she immediately hooked up with Kevin.
That was almost a year ago, and I still can’t picture Tyrone ever hurting Gretchen, let alone sending me threats . . . but he does seem unsettled. I start to ask Aisha to clarify, but a waiter approaches us with a tray of small vegetable pastries, and as soon as he leaves, we’re joined by some kids from school who all want to talk about Marcus.
“Did you hear he carved Gretchen’s name into his arm?”
“Do you think he showed up out of guilt?”
“I bet he got off on it.”
“Shut up, he didn’t do it.” Once again, Yuji is the lone voice of dissent. Or maybe just the only one brave enough to speak up.
Haley glares at him. “You sound pretty sure of that. How do we know it wasn’t you?”
Yuji just gives her one of his usual wounded expressions, though I hesitate at her words. Haley wasn’t happy with Gretchen after their breakup, but she was furious with Yuji. I think it took him a while to piece together that rescheduling their dates and letting Gretchen fill up his weekends with tennis practice was the problem, but it’s clear he’s never gotten over it. I suppose either one of them could’ve held a grudge against Gretchen, but anything more than that seems doubtful. I can’t come up with a great reason it couldn’t have been Yuji in the woods that night, but I know for sure Haley was home, grounded.
The longer I look at the people around me, the more everyone seems like a potential suspect. My mind returns to the photo in my locker, the jagged lines where my face should have been. I clench my jaw. If I can figure out who’s after me, maybe I can tie them back to Gretchen. But I can’t do anything until I narrow the pool. I hide my trembling hands behind my back and raise my voice enough for the whole group to hear.
“Hey guys, did any of you happen to leave a picture of Gretchen and me in my locker? I found one the other day and wanted to say thanks.”
I watch every face to see how, or if, they react. I don’t expect a confession, or even overt guilt, but I’m hoping for some clue one of them knows about it.
Aisha looks thoughtful. “I didn’t, but I have one of you guys on the class trip if you want it.”
No one else even blinks.
“Thanks,” I mumble. “That’d be great.”
I excuse myself to the restroom, but head for the staircase instead. I’ve attended more of Mrs. Meyer’s fancy parties than I can count. Enough to be sure no one will notice if I slip away for a few minutes to clear my head. If this was another fund-raiser or political dinner, Gretchen and I would have already retreated to her room, where she’d recount salacious facts about each of the VIPs while I laughed. I hold my breath on the polished steps, feeling a little like I’m trespassing without her, but as I reach the landing my feet regain purpose. There might be something useful in Gretchen’s room. Some clue the sheriff’s office missed that I could connect to the intruder—maybe even the person threatening me. All I need is a few minutes to look.
The second-floor walls are lined with family portraits; the kind where everyone sits on the beach wearing khakis and a plain white shirt. Mr. Meyer always insisted they take a picture on Cape Cod at the end of summer. I’m even in the last one—the Honorary Meyer.
Downstairs, the conversation carries on in a dour murmur, but up here the air is still. I could almost breathe normally if my heart weren’t pounding so hard. When I reach Gretchen’s bedroom door, it’s closed. I hesitate with my hand over the knob, trying to convince myself she’s in there, lounging on her bed reading fashion blogs. I’ll walk in and sprawl next to her, complaining about what a downer the whole day has been and that it’s all her fault.
The door swings open.
Kirsten stands in the doorway looking like a girl from a Hitchcock film. She’s changed into a stylish gray skirt suit I recognize as Gretchen’s and she’s swept her blond hair up away from her face. Both of us step back, but she’s the first to recover.
“Sonia—” She blocks the door. “The reception’s downstairs.”
I look past her into Gretchen’s bedroom, wondering what exactly she was up to. She used to be forbidden from even going in. The pink rug and white canopy bed look just as they always have. There are a couple of socks on the floor by the desk. The door to the balcony is open, as if Gretchen might step back in any minute. I think of what Mrs. Meyer said and I get a chill.
“I . . . I’m sorry . . .” I say, realizing I have no legitimate excuse to be here anymore.
A line forms between her eyebrows and I brace myself for another bitter tirade, but she leans against the doorframe. “I’m the one who should apologize. The other day was . . . rough. That was the first time my mom really lost it, and the first time I guess I realized Gretchen wasn’t coming back.” She pauses. “It was no excuse, though. I shouldn’t have said . . . what I said.”