“You know what to say to their questions,” Mom murmurs into my ear, wrapping me in a hug.
She grips my hand, and together we walk through the gates and into the din of shouted questions.
“Lana, what happened to your boyfriend?” “What do you have to say to the claims about Chace Porter and Nicole Morgan?” “Lana, was there trouble in paradise between you and Chace?” “Do you think Nicole killed him?” “Tell us, what happened?”
The rapid-fire questions blend into each other, drowning me in noise. But then Mom gives me a gentle nudge, and I remember what to say. I take a deep breath and turn to face the hungry crowd.
“I am a girlfriend in mourning. I don’t know anything about the investigation. All I know is that the boy I loved is gone. Please grant me my privacy during this time.” My voice is quiet, but strong enough to silence them. And in the brief moment before their shouts start up again, Mom and I dash through the camera flashes into the waiting SUV.
“I’m proud of you, mija,” Mom tells me once we’re safely ensconced in the backseat.
“It was almost all true,” I reply.
“I know.” She pats my hand soothingly, and it occurs to me that out of all the weeks in my seventeen-year-old life, this one has shown my mom in her most maternal light, starting from the moment she heard the news and flew to my side. I guess it just takes a high-profile crisis to bring that out in her.
“You know I’d do anything for you, right, Lana?” she says, as if reading my mind.
“I know. Thanks, Mom.”
“You can tell me anything.” She peers carefully into my eyes. “I won’t be angry.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. What is she getting at?
“I don’t have anything to say.”
—
After stepping into the hotel restaurant and seeing all the heads swivel in our direction, my mom and I quickly duck out.
“Room service,” we both agree.
Upstairs in her suite, with its cheerful white-and-Tiffany-blue color scheme, I feel myself begin to relax, the tight fist of dread loosening its grip on me. Cocooned in this hotel room, away from the horror at Oyster Bay, I can almost pretend I’m on some sort of vacation—and that when I return, it won’t be to a school crawling with police and paparazzi.
“I got you a few new things,” Mom says as she picks up the phone to dial room service. “They’re in the closet.”
“Oh, thanks.”
It’s probably more black clothing. Two days after Chace died, Mom was flicking through my dorm room armoire, taking note of how few mourning-appropriate outfits I had. I don’t know how she remembered to think of clothing at a time like this, but I shouldn’t be surprised. This is my mother, after all—the same person Glamour and Latina magazines both refer to as “Superwoman.”
While Mom calls in our order, I open the closet doors. It’s one of the more spacious hotel closets I’ve seen, and it takes me a minute to find the three hangers covered in plastic. Sure enough, I find one black dress and two black tops underneath.
I return the new clothes to their hangers, my nausea resurfacing. I never imagined I’d be dressed in black because of him.
As I turn to leave the closet, my eyes catch a duffel bag peeking out from the top shelf. I stop short, recognizing the signature Henri Bendel stripes. That’s my bag—the one I apparently didn’t even realize was missing. Why on planet earth would my mom run off with it?
I hear Mom switch on the TV to her favorite talking-heads political newscast, and I know I can bank on at least a few minutes of privacy while she’s distracted. I gently close the closet door and grab a hanger, standing on my tiptoes and using the hanger to pull the bag to the edge of the shelf. It falls into my arms, the tag with my monogrammed initials scratching my wrist. Mom definitely took this out of my dorm—but why?
I unzip the bag, and my hands begin to tremble at the sight of the soft silver fabric inside. The blood rushes to my head. My legs buckle underneath me, a silent scream lodging in my throat.
It’s my sweater—the Kate Spade one I wore to the party last weekend, the last night I saw Chace. Its sleeves are caked in dried blood.
“Mom!” I try to shout, but my voice is strangled. “Mom.”
My head is spinning, showing me images of things that can’t be right, can’t be real. As my mother approaches the closet, I point a shaky finger at the sweater.
“What is this?” I whisper. “Why do you have it?”
Mom lunges toward my duffel bag, stuffing the sweater back inside and zipping it closed before turning to face me.
“I found it in your dorm,” she finally answers, and lets out a long exhale. “It was when I was looking for something appropriate for you to wear to the funeral. Thank God I got to it before Detective Kimble did.”
I shake my head, her words failing to make any sense. It’s as though I’ve entered an absurdist play and everyone knows the lines but me.
“But I didn’t—why is there blood—?”