I Killed Zoe Spanos

by Kit Frick

  About halfway there, the puffy clouds above us darken, and rain splatters the windshield. It’s barely more than a drizzle; the sun is still shining through the clouds. But my entire body tenses. As raindrops patter against the roof and the road becomes wet and black beneath us, all I can imagine is losing control, tires skidding across the highway, our small car colliding with oncoming traffic. My vision fills with smoke, blood, broken glass. I twist around, seat belt biting into my neck, and a small whimper escapes my lips: Paisley’s broken body is slumped across the backseat. Through the smashed window, dark water rushes in, filling the car, my nose, my lungs.

  “You okay, Anna?” Paisley is asking.

  I breathe. The water retreats.

  “Fine,” I manage. Twist back around, focus on the road. I flex my fingers against the wheel, unknot the cramps. What was that? Paisley’s fine. We’re both fine. Heart still hammering, I drive at five miles under the speed limit until the sky clears up and we leave the rain behind.

  Google Maps directs me into the parking lot, and we spend the remainder of the morning at the indoor exhibits—everything from alligators to sand sharks to marmosets—while we wait for our scheduled time with the penguins. And I’m still fine. No more dark visions. No panic knotting inside my chest.

  By the time we meet our penguin expert and guide at the AQUATIC ADVENTURES sign, the morning’s drive feels like it happened to another girl. Max Adler is tall and muscular, with a mop of brown hair, and looks like he spends a lot of time in the sun. He’s young, maybe early twenties, and very enthusiastic about the African penguins with whom we’re about to get up close and personal. Paisley, who has been chattering nonstop about the little black and white waddlers since we got here, suddenly gets quiet and tugs on my hand. I crouch down next to her.

  “What’s up?” I whisper.

  “Does he have to be our guide?” she asks in my ear.

  I frown. “I think so, yeah. Do you know him?” We’re missing the rundown of the rules and regulations, and I give Max half a smile to show I’m paying attention. When our eyes meet, he pauses just long enough to garner some curious glances from the rest of the tour group. Then he seems to collect his thoughts, and continues.

  “I’ve seen him around,” Paisley whispers.

  Unsure what that means but fairly certain we’re in no immediate danger from the penguin guy, I give her hand a reassuring squeeze and straighten up. Max finishes his overview, then leads us toward the Penguin Pavilion. As soon as we’re inside the exhibit, Paisley visibly relaxes. The squat little birds are adorable—swimming, sunning themselves, and napping in little hutches nestled along the back wall. We learn that the average lifespan of the African penguin is fifteen to thirty years, and that the birds at the Long Island Aquarium were imported illegally into the US from South Africa, where they had been captive bred. They’ve been living in the pavilion since the US Fish and Wildlife Service intervened in 2004.

  Another staffer, Molly, takes over to explain penguin care and handling, and that everyone in the group will get to meet a fluffy, heart-melting little penguin chick, which is totally worth every penny of Emilia’s money. As we wait for our personal meet-and-greet, Max walks over to us, and I can feel Paisley stiffen again beside me.

  He stretches out his hand, and I take it. “Enjoying your encounter?” he asks. I’m not much into people’s vibes or auras, but everything about Max is signaling friendly and warm. Two dimples crease his cheeks, and I wonder if he’s even younger than I originally thought. After this weekend’s epic failure with Caden, I need a distraction. I throw Paisley a worried glance as she steps half behind me.

  “We are,” I say. Molly is calling for the next set of volunteers to meet the chick, and I usher Paisley over.

  “Seems like a pretty great gig,” I say when she’s joined Molly at the Penguin Preschool gate. “How’d you get into the penguin game?”

  “Just graduated from Brown, ecology and evolutionary bio. I’m taking some time before applying to grad programs.” Max goes on to explain how the job isn’t just tours and animal care, how he’s also heading up a research project at the aquarium and collecting data for some schmancy-sounding scholar. But all I hear is Brown. Biology. Suddenly the way he caught my eye earlier starts to make a familiar kind of sense, how he singled me out to talk just now.

  “So you knew Zoe Spanos?” I ask point-blank.

  Max stops midsentence, suddenly out of words.

  “I look like her, I know,” I go on. “You’re a friend of Zoe’s? That’s why Paisley recognized you?”

  “Oh,” Max says, finding his voice again. “I knew Zoe a bit from school. I’d see her around the labs. She was two years behind me, though, so we weren’t in classes together or anything.” He pauses for a moment. “Who’s Paisley?”

  “My friend.” I gesture toward Penguin Preschool. “She seemed to know you.”

  “Huh.” Max looks genuinely perplexed. “I don’t think so. Zoe’s from Herron Mills, right? I live out on Montauk. Kind of close, but Zoe and I didn’t really hang out off campus.”

  I don’t know why he’d lie about that, so I just shrug. The fact that he knew Zoe from Brown is a bit of an odd coincidence, but given everything the past week has thrown at me, it barely registers on the weirdness scale. Maybe Paisley mistook him for someone else.

  “Dunno.” Max shrugs. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you two look that much alike. Zoe was so serious; she always seemed like she was in a hurry.” I wonder if he knows he’s talking about her in the past tense. If it’s because he thinks she’s dead, or simply because she wasn’t on campus last semester, has become a part of his past. “Being friendly with the visitors is just part of the job,” he continues, and I push Zoe out of my mind. “Swear it’s nothing more than that.”

  “Then you should probably mingle,” I say. “I have a penguin chick to meet.”

  At the end of our “encounter,” Paisley and I pose for photos with the birds, and Max holds out a business card with an address and phone number scrawled on the back. “This Saturday, if you’re free, a few friends and I are having a little get-together on the beach for the Fourth. Beer, fireworks, nothing fancy. I’d love to see you there, um … ?”

  “Anna,” I supply.

  “I’d love to see you there, Anna.”

  “Do you invite all Penguin Pavilion visitors?” I ask, and Max blushes.

  “No, this is a personal invitation.” Heat pricks my chest, and for the first time in days, I feel genuinely good about myself. Part of me would love a day at the beach, cold beer, no responsibilities.

  “I’d love to, but I can’t. I’m taking a break from partying this summer, and besides”—I nod toward Paisley, who is saying her goodbyes to her new penguin friends—“I’m working.”

  “Okay.” Max shrugs. “In case your schedule changes.” He presses the card into my hand, and even though I know I won’t use it, I slip it into my back pocket. After a week filled with nothing but strange reactions from everyone I’ve met, I have to admit that a little friendliness and flirting is refreshing.

  * * *

  I spend Monday night on the phone, giving my mom the Herron Mills highlights reel, minus any mention of Zoe Spanos. She finally seems to have settled into the reality of my absence; no need to let her know the real reason I got this job. When Mom lets me go, I bite the bullet and try to patch things up with a very incensed Kaylee, then reward my moderately successful efforts with the online shopping spree I’ve been promising myself. By the end of my second week here, I’ll have something new to wear to dinner—and several new sun hats to supplement my wardrobe.

  On Tuesday, I pick up Raychel from the Paulson-Gosses and take the girls for a day at the beach. I can feel my life in Herron Mills slipping into a regular, if still unsettling, routine. I do some after-dinner sketches at the pool—Max, Paisley with the penguins, then Caden again, his face coming to life on the page, even though I tell myself I’d rather forget it. By t
he time the sun has sunk low behind the tree line and the lights on the pool deck have sprung into action, he’s all I can think about.

  He made it very clear he didn’t like me showing up at Windermere last Friday. And Mrs. Talbot flat-out told me not to come back. But I can’t shake the connection I felt the first night we met. Before he got a good look at my face.

  The need to explain myself swells in my chest. If I could just make Caden understand how much I didn’t know, how I wasn’t trying to be insensitive. I need one more chance.

  Armed with the knowledge that I might only make matters worse, I slip on sneakers and the same hoodie I was wearing the first time I walked over to Windermere and grab the flashlight from the kitchen counter. I think about following Mrs. Talbot’s lead and walking straight through the trees onto the Windermere grounds, but I can’t imagine that would help my case. Instead, I walk around to the front of Clovelly Cottage, noting the light glowing in the family room. Emilia and Paisley are blacked out in silhouette on the couch, the TV flickering in front of them.

  I’m close to the end of the driveway when I notice someone standing at the entry gate. I raise the flashlight, and a slim figure holds up his arm in front of his eyes, shielding them from the light. He looks like he was about to ring the buzzer.

  “Caden?” I ask.

  “Anna? Sorry to just show up, I didn’t have your number.”

  I lower the flashlight beam to the ground. “It’s … not a problem.”

  At the gate, I key in the combination and stand back while the doors do their thing. Soon, Caden and I are standing face to face, shrouded in darkness once again.

  “Still restless?” he asks. I can feel him studying my face in the dark.

  “I was going to take a walk,” I hedge, not ready to admit my intended destination. It doesn’t seem possible that I read things wrong at Windermere, but … I decide to just let this play out.

  “I feel bad about the way things went down on Friday. I was in a weird space.”

  “It’s okay. I get it.”

  “Do-over?” he asks, and I nod, probably too eagerly.

  “I can’t go far. But if you’ll have me for company, we could hang out in the stable?” He steps through the open gates, onto the drive.

  “Stable?” By now, I’m certain I’ve explored every inch of the Clovelly Cottage grounds, and there are definitely no horses.

  “At Windermere. But it’s faster if we cut through the trees, and less chance my mother will see us.”

  I let Caden lead the way back up the drive and across the grass. Inside the Bellamys’ house, the lights in the family room have gone dark. We cut through the thick copse of trees where I watched Mrs. Talbot disappear on Sunday, flashlight beam bouncing across the ground in front of our feet. It may be pitch dark, but it’s only nine o’clock, and again I’m reminded of Caden’s curfew. Which maybe makes a bit more sense now that I know about Zoe. If your son’s girlfriend vanished without a trace, you’d do everything you could to keep him close. Even if it was mostly for yourself. As twigs and pine needles snap and crack beneath our feet, it strikes me with a shiver that whatever or whoever came for Zoe last New Year’s Eve probably has no respect for curfews or parental best intentions.

  My mind flashes suddenly to an image of a girl who looks a lot like me, but out of focus, falling, body twisting in a long white party dress with a pale yellow sash. She’s young, and a diminutive version of my features—or Zoe’s—are frozen in terror on her face. I drop the flashlight to the ground, and the beam flickers out.

  Caden stops. “Anna?”

  I crouch down and scramble to put my hands on the flashlight in the dark, to make the image go away. My fingers find pine needles and rocks, my mind still snared by the vision or memory. Zoe falling from some great height. Zoe, dead.

  Caden’s standing over me, the light of his phone screen casting a watery glow on the woodsy floor. We spot the flashlight at the same time and both reach for it.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, as I draw my hand sharply back.

  “No, I’m sorry.” I grasp the flashlight and push myself up to standing. “You’d better take this.” I hold it out to him. “Butterfingers.”

  Part of me burns to tell Caden what I just saw. But if I’m imagining things, I won’t be doing myself any favors by spilling my “vision” to him. And if what I saw was somehow real, I’m not sure what that means. The possibilities range from unsettling to flat-out terrifying, so I shove them back into the dark where they belong.

  The incident in the car yesterday, and now this. Something very creepy is going on with my brain, and a small voice at the back of my head says if I know what’s good for me, I’ll keep my thoughts to myself.

  We start walking again, and in a minute, we’re through the trees and standing in tall, unkempt grass. The few windows on this side of the estate are dark. Caden turns right and guides me along the edge of Windermere, back toward the grounds behind the house.

  Soon, a barnlike structure that must be the stable comes into view. On the far side, I can see a riding pen. It’s hard to be sure in the dark, but as we approach, something tells me this piece of Windermere is better cared for than the house itself.

  Caden takes hold of the handle and swings a heavy wooden door wide. As if reading my mind, he says, “Charlie’s the one person she lets on the grounds. Helps us with the horses. She loves to ride, but they need a lot of care.”

  We step inside the stable, and I look down to find Jake pressing against Caden’s legs, tongue lolling happily to one side of his spaniel mouth. Caden reaches down to scratch the top of his head. My nostrils are flooded instantly with the sweet tang of hay, the rich, earthy scent of leather, and the smell of the horses themselves, which is distinctly animal. It smells like the country.

  “This is Jackie O.” Caden gestures toward the tall brown mare in the first stall. “And this is Pike.” Pike is just a bit smaller, and his coat is a dappled white and gray. Caden reaches into Pike’s stall to rub his nose, and I take a step back.

  He watches me with amusement. “I thought all girls were into horses.”

  “Don’t they teach you anything about not making binary assumptions at that fancy college of yours?” I ask.

  Caden laughs. “My bad. But Pike’s very friendly, promise.”

  I look around the rest of the stable. There are six stalls in all, but the other four appear to be empty. There’s a locked door at the back, which is probably where they keep saddles and feed and whatever else gets stored in a horse stable. Both the top and bottom panels of the door to the last stall on the right are closed and latched. Caden heads back toward it, Jake on his heels, and in a minute, the bottom panel is open, and Caden is rustling around inside.

  “Drink?” he asks, emerging with a bottle of whiskey and two cans of Coke.

  I hesitate. “Just the Coke,” I say finally. “I’m not really drinking right now.”

  He hands it to me, and I’m surprised to find the can is icy cold.

  “You have a fridge back there?”

  Caden grins. “Windermere can be … intense. My mother only ever comes out to ride in the mornings, so the stable’s empty a lot. Sometimes I need a place to kick back.”

  I’m tempted to tell him about my run-in with Mrs. Talbot at Tom’s birthday party. But things are actually not weird with Caden right now. Easy. Relaxed. Like they were that first night. I don’t want to rock the boat. He closes the stall door and sits on the floor with his back against it. I follow suit across the aisle, cracking open my Coke, and Jake flops down on the stable floor between us. I can justify keeping quiet about Mrs. Talbot, but I do need to tell Caden about Zoe. That I know she was his girlfriend. Is his girlfriend? That I get why my sudden presence next door must have caught him off-guard.

  I watch him take a long swig of soda, then pour a thin stream of whiskey into the can. It’s Glenlivet, the good stuff. Kaylee’s always been more of a whiskey drinker than I have. I prefer tequila, g
in, rum. He makes a few small circles with the can, mixing the whiskey in. My mouth waters slightly, and I tear my eyes away.

  “I know about Zoe,” I spit out before I can lose my nerve. Caden’s eyes snap up to meet mine. “My first week here was a little strange. I got a few looks.”

  “I bet.” Caden smiles thinly and takes a sip of his drink.

  “But then I met Lou Jenkins at the ice-cream shop. He filled me in.”

  I watch the corners of Caden’s mouth tug down. He reaches forward and ruffles his hand through Jake’s fur.

  “Not a fan?” I ask.

  “I’ve got nothing against Lou. Or his ice cream. But his daughter’s a bit much.”

  “I met her,” I say. “Martina, right?”

  “So you know about the podcast?”

  “I’ve listened to most of it,” I admit. “I have one episode left. Seems like she ran out of leads.”

  “Martina and everyone else.” Caden takes another sip. “She wouldn’t let up about interviewing me. Which, I get. But what did she think I was going to tell her that I hadn’t already told police? She had this whole theory I was sitting on some critical piece of information. Believe me, if I knew something that could help find Zoe, I would have gone straight to the cops.”

  I raise the can to my lips and take a long, fizzy sip. I believe him.

  “And it’s not …” His voice trails off, gaze shifting to the can in his hands. It looks like he wants to say something else.

  “Not what?” I prompt.

  “Nothing. You wouldn’t understand.”

  I shift against the stable floor, sitting up straight. “Try me?”

  Caden presses his lips together and studies me, considering. “Any guy in a relationship with a missing girl is going to get looked at by the police. That’s fine, they eliminated me from the investigation. But when you’re black, you don’t get eliminated by the public, no matter what the cops say. Martina’s podcast … It doesn’t matter that she tried to be careful, make it clear she didn’t think I directly harmed Zoe. She planted the seed that I was suspicious, hiding things. It’s easy enough to assume the boyfriend did it. But the black boyfriend?” He raises the can to his lips.