by Ohlin, Nancy
“I don’t know,” Yoonie says worriedly. “But we should probably tell Mrs. Frith.”
“Definitely.”
Alarm bells are going off in my head. Why would Devon pull a disappearing act? Is she trying to get attention?
Or did something happen to her?
By the middle of the afternoon, both campus security and the local police are searching for Devon. Her parents haven’t heard from her. No one’s heard from her. The last time anyone saw her was just after lunch yesterday, when she told Senora Velasquez that she had to skip Spanish because she wasn’t feeling well.
Mr. Correa from campus security and a police officer named Phibbs interviewed me about Devon, asking me all sorts of questions. I told them I had no idea where she could be. They asked me if any of her luggage or clothes or important documents, like her passport, were missing. I searched through her closet and dresser and desk—even under her bed. Everything was in order.
Except.
The medications in her dresser drawer—the ones she’s been taking for sleep disorders, anxiety, and depression.
After Mr. Correa and Officer Phibbs left, I counted the pills in each bottle and checked the quantities against the dates on the labels.
Devon hasn’t been taking her meds for at least a month, even though she’s been taking her birth control.
I went online and it said that once you go off these drugs, they can stay in your system for several weeks, but then they start wearing off.
Devon’s been pretty normal for the last four months, until the incident with Becca’s dress.
Did she get weird again because she stopped taking her meds?
Is she losing it?
I am walking down the path, the one that winds through the woods by Thorn Abbey and leads down to the beach. Yoonie, Elinor, and Priscilla are right behind me. It’s nearly five, so we’re all carrying flashlights and, of course, our phones.
We’re one of the search parties combing the campus for Devon. Max and Franklin are part of another, crisscrossing the woods behind Lanyon Hall. There are a bunch of other students out searching too, as well as teachers, staff, and others.
“That bitch. She probably went down to New York City to shop and didn’t tell us,” Elinor says.
“Yeah. Or she checked into a hotel with Leo’s hot roommate. He’s not around, either,” Yoonie jokes.
“Y’all, this is serious. She’s missing,” Priscilla points out.
“Yeah, we know it’s serious, Pris. I had to take an extra Klonie just to get through the day. And make an emergency call to my therapist,” Elinor snipes.
It’s so ironic. If it were any other occasion, I would be so happy being on an outing with the girls, listening to their chatter.
Granted, it’s only been twenty-four hours. And there could be some truth to what Elinor and Yoonie said. If we’re lucky, Devon is safe and sound somewhere, partying it up or spending lots of money. Or both.
I glance at the dusky sky through the canopy of bare branches. The sun is starting to sink in the horizon. It’s been freakishly warm these last couple of days—high forties, low fifties. But it will be dark soon, and temperatures will drop. Luckily, Yoonie thought to pack a blanket and a thermos of hot coffee.
“We’re almost at the beach,” I say to the others. “If we don’t find her there, there’s another trail back to campus, right? By the marina? We can double back along that one and look for her.”
“Oh, yeah. I think Killian and some of his lax bros are already covering it,” Yoonie volunteers.
Elinor frowns at her loafers. “Why didn’t somebody tell me to wear boots? I’m ruining my new Ferragamos.”
“What, did you think we were going to a polo match?” Priscilla says, rolling her eyes.
I hurry my steps, barely registering the nonstop nervous bickering behind me. We pass the DANGER: NO HIKING BEYOND THIS POINT sign, and soon, we are at the cliff.
I cross my arms over my chest and shudder. Was I really here less than a week ago? Sobbing my heart out in Becca’s dress, thinking I’d lost Max forever? So much has changed between us. And between me and Devon. So much for her rescuing me with a bottle of liquor and her sage, sisterly advice. Pretending to be my friend.
I stare out at the breaking waves—and scream.
There is her body way below, sprawled on a thin stretch of beach. Or a body, anyway. Two arms, two legs, dark clothing.
“Devon?” I shout.
The body doesn’t move.
Yoonie peers down. “Is that her? I can’t tell from here.”
“Is she dead?” Priscilla cries out.
“Don’t even say that,” Elinor whines.
I glance around frantically. “Does anyone know the fastest way down there?”
“Yeah. Jumping. Second fastest is this way. Follow me,” Yoonie says.
She starts crab walking along a narrow, rocky path that winds down the face of the cliff. “Be careful, it’s slippery!”
We all follow. Behind me, I hear Priscilla calling 911. My brain is on total overload. I can’t believe this is happening. This morning, I was ready to strangle Devon—not literally, but the sentiment was there. And now she may be lying dead on Whitwater Beach.
“I think it’s just a piece of driftwood,” Elinor says anxiously.
“Don’t be clueless! That’s a fucking person!” Yoonie yells over her shoulder.
We get to the bottom of the cliff. It is Devon. Lying facedown in the sand. I recognize her fur-trimmed black parka, which she once told me cost more than my entire wardrobe times ten.
“Devon!” I drop to my knees and flip her over carefully.
Her emerald eyes are wide open, like a dead fish. Her lips are blue.
I bend down to check if she’s breathing.
She isn’t.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God . . .
“Oh, fuck! Get out of the way!” Someone pushes me aside roughly.
I tumble into a cold tide pool. Killian straddles Devon’s body and rips open her parka. Behind him are three boys I don’t recognize, all in long, baggy shorts, polos, and hoodies. They must have reached the base of their trail the same time we reached the end of ours.
Killian begins CPR. He alternates the pumping motions with mouth-to-mouth. “Come on, darling. Wake up!” he grunts at Devon as he presses down on her chest. “Did someone call 911?”
“Done. I’m gonna call campus security too,” Yoonie says, reaching for her phone.
I watch, mesmerized. Killian the dilettante party boy is performing CPR like a trained medic.
“Dude, where’d you learn how to do that?” one of the other guys comments.
“Internship. Mass. General. Hospital,” Killian pants. “Breathe, damn it!”
Elinor and Priscilla are clutching each other and crying. Yoonie is on the phone with security.
What happened to Devon? I can’t help but think about Becca. She drowned in these waters too. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Did Devon try to follow her best friend to the other side?
Devon’s head jerks up suddenly. She vomits a spray of water, then gasps. Killian stops CPR and sits up, breathing hard.
“Devon! Sweetie!” Priscilla shrieks.
“Ohmigod, she’s alive!” Elinor hugs one of the lacrosse players.
I rise slowly to my feet. But she was dead. She was definitely dead.
Devon blinks up at Killian. He gazes into her emerald eyes for what seems like forever.
“You’re back,” he says finally.
Devon smiles. “Hey, Monty,” she whispers hoarsely. “Did you miss me?”
The deafening sounds of an EMS helicopter slice the air above us.
35.
DEVON SPENDS TWO NIGHTS IN THE HOSPITAL BEFORE returning to Thorn Abbey. When she walks into our room, she drops her bag, hugs me, and doesn’t let go for a long time.
“You saved my life,” she murmurs. “I owe you so much.”
“Honestly, it was all Killian. Are you o
kay?” I step back and study her face. She looks pale, tired, disoriented.
“I’m fine. Really. Everyone at the hospital was so nice to me.”
“Devon, I do wish you’d just come back to Boston with me,” a voice calls out from the doorway. “Dr. Schynoll says he’d be happy to clear his schedule for you.”
I glance past Devon. A tall woman in a stylish red coat is standing in the doorway, scrolling briskly through her phone. She looks just like Devon, except for her super-short haircut and chunky black glasses.
“But I really miss school! Please, Mother, can’t I stay?” Devon pouts.
Devon’s mom. “Hi, I’m Tess,” I say, waving.
“I’m sorry! Tess, this is my mom, Cait McCain. Mother, this is my roommate, Tess,” Devon says.
“It’s Brennan now, remember? Dr. Brennan.” She turns to me. “Hello, Tess.”
Dr. Caitlin Brennan. That’s the name on Devon’s prescription bottles.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Dr. Brennan asks Devon with a frown.
“I’m fine! But you’re super-sweet to worry,” Devon replies.
“I don’t think you’ve called me ‘sweet’ since you were four years old,” Dr. Brennan remarks. “Okay, I’ll be heading back then. I have a huge backlog of patients. Will you please keep me posted on your progress? And remember to take your medications?”
“I will, Mother. Thanks so much for being here. I know how busy you are.” Devon gives her a big hug.
“You’re . . . welcome.” Dr. Brennan pats Devon on the back as if she’s surprised by Devon’s affection. “I’m off, then. I’ll text you when I get home.”
“No, call me!”
“Yes, of course. I’ll call you.”
When the door closes, I turn to Devon. “Can I get you anything? Like a snack from the vending machine? A soda? Some real food?”
“No, I’m great. I’m just so happy to be back.”
She walks around the room—slowly, almost timidly. She picks up a bottle of French rosewater from her dresser, sniffs it, and rubs a little on her wrists. She examines the posters on her wall. She sits down on her bed and runs her hand across the purple silk comforter.
At the hospital, Devon told the doctors, the police, everyone that she cut classes on Monday after lunch because she had a headache and some “boy problems” to mull over. She decided to take a walk on the beach because it was so nice out.
She said she remembered going to the cliff. She remembered walking down the same narrow, rocky path that Yoonie, Elinor, Priscilla, and I went down, even though it was technically off-limits. She remembered losing her footing and panicking. And then, nothing . . . until she woke up and saw Killian and the rest of us hovering over her before the helicopter whisked her away to the hospital.
The police ruled what happened an accident. Their theory is that Devon was close to the end of the path when she fell, tumbling down to the beach and losing consciousness. The doctors said it was a miracle that she didn’t get washed out to sea at high tide or freeze to death. As it was, she only suffered a mild concussion, cuts, and bruises.
Devon picks up her stuffed red heart. “My pillow!” she says, kissing it.
Her pillow? She told me that she hated it. Why is she acting so bubbly? Did she switch personalities with a cheerleader?
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask. I sound like her mother.
“I’m great! So what did I miss while I was gone?”
I shrug. “Not much.”
“How are things with Max? Did you two have a nice Valentine’s Day?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know. Valentine’s Day. Did you do anything fun or romantic?”
What the hell?
“I’m sorry, you—you don’t remember?” I stammer.
“Remember what?”
Devon smiles at me, waiting for my answer. I don’t understand what’s happening. Did the accident mess with her memory? She wasn’t breathing when we found her. Was her brain deprived of oxygen for too long? Is she suffering from that post-traumatic stress thing people get? That might explain why she’s acting like a totally different person.
“Um, yeah. We had a really nice Valentine’s Day. Thanks for asking,” I reply after a moment.
“You’re welcome!” Devon clutches her LOVE pillow to her chest and rocks from side to side. “It is so awesome to be back. I hated being trapped.”
“Trapped?”
“You know, in a hospital bed.” She glances over at the pink laptop on my desk. “Is that mine?” she asks, confused.
“That’s the computer you lent me. Becca’s old computer, remember? Yours is probably in your backpack.”
Devon’s eyes widen. “Oh, right! I totally want to catch up on my e-mails and stuff. I probably have, like, a thousand of them.”
She rises to her feet, goes to her desk, and starts digging through her backpack, humming a Taylor Swift song. But Devon hates country music. She bitched out Priscilla during lunch once for having Jason Aldean on her iPod.
I sit down at my desk and make myself busy as well. Or pretend to, anyway. My mind is racing. Why is Devon acting so bizarrely? I wonder if I should call the hospital, or her scary mom, or tell Mrs. Frith, or what?
36.
ON SATURDAY MORNING, MAX AND I HEAD OVER TO THE library to study for midterms. It snowed overnight, and the entire campus is blanketed in pure, white stillness. Sunlight catches the ice crystals on tree branches and makes them glitter. It’s all very magical and winter wonderland, especially since Max and I are holding hands.
Except that he’s not in the greatest mood.
“So how’s the roommate from hell?” Max asks me. “Have you called her out about Valentine’s Day yet? What lame excuses did she come up with?”
I kick at a snowdrift with my boots. “Actually, I haven’t had a chance to talk to her,” I admit. “I was waiting for her to get better. But she’s been acting really weird.”
“Yeah, so what else is new?”
“No, something’s different. She broke up with Leo, for one thing. Like, totally out of the blue. And she’s being super-nice to me and acting cheerful all the time,” I explain.
Max shrugs. “She breaks up with guys all the time. Everyone knows she’s hooked up with half the school. And she’s probably being nice to you because she feels guilty about trying to break us up.”
He sounds more annoyed than concerned. Not that I can blame him. I know he’s still furious at Devon for what she did to us.
“She’s also having memory lapses,” I add.
“Memory lapses are normal, aren’t they? After an accident like that?”
“I guess. I ran into Killian Montgomery the other day and mentioned it to him. He said it is pretty normal but that he’d talk to Devon’s mom about it. I guess he knows her. She’s a doctor.”
Max’s hand tightens around mine. “Killian Montgomery? So you’re friends with him now?”
“No, not at all. He was just the one who performed CPR on Devon when we found her, and I know he’s good friends with Devon, and . . .”
Ugh. It’s been so long since I’ve had to lie to Max that I totally forgot not to mention Killian to him. Max and I have never actually discussed Killian. Much less the fact that he’s Becca’s cousin, even though everyone knows, obviously.
“Anyway, Devon seems fine, otherwise,” I babble on, hoping to distract him from asking about my conversation with Killian. “I think she might be on a lot of medications or something.”
“I don’t think meds will help. That girl is psycho,” Max says fiercely.
“I’m sorry. Let’s not talk about her anymore, okay?” I nestle against his arm. “Are we still on for our Valentine’s Day dinner tonight?”
He kisses the top of my head. “If you’re still up for it.”
I’ve been looking forward to our dinner all week. It will be so nice to be with Max and just relax, particularly after all the crazy Devon drama.
&
nbsp; “Yes! It’ll be our own little private celebration. We’re nine days late, but . . . who’s counting?” I add, nudging him, playfully.
“Eight. Wow, you suck at math. How did you get into this school, anyway?” he jokes back.
“Ha-ha.”
As we pass the stone fountain, I think about how my conversation with Max on Monday reset the clock for us. It’s like we’re starting from scratch with no bad karma, no obstacles. It’s just the two of us now. From here on, there won’t be a third person haunting our thoughts.
It doesn’t even bother me anymore that the fountain is a tribute to Becca’s memory. It’s just an object. An inanimate thing. It can’t hurt me.
Max stops and scoops his hand in the snow to make a snowball. He pitches it at the tall pillar. And misses.
“Wow, you suck at throwing,” I say, pleased that the fountain seems to have lost its power over him, too.
He laughs and takes me in his arms. “That’s because you’re distracting me,” he says, and kisses me passionately.
I am so, so happy.
The owner of the Danube Café hands me a laminated menu with a picture of the red, white, and green Hungarian flag at the top. With her silver-gray curls and white apron, she looks like someone’s grandma.
“Tonight, we have a beautiful Szeged goulash special,” she informs me in a thickly accented voice. “It has pork, paprika, sour cream. Very delicious.”
“Um, thank you.”
She glances at the empty chair across from me. “Are you waiting for a friend?”
“Yes. My boyfriend.”
She winks at me. “I will bring the two of you a special dessert later. A romantic dessert. Very delicious.”
“That’s really nice of you, thanks.”
She leaves me to study the menu and wanders off to wait on other customers. I’m definitely a lot more comfortable in restaurants than when Max and I were first dating. By this time next year, maybe I’ll be ready for dinner with the De Villierses again.
I lean back in my chair and scan the room. The Danube Café is cute and cozy, with brick walls and Hungarian folk art and travel posters of Budapest. It’s also packed: There isn’t a single empty table. I recognize a big group of Thorn Abbey students in the corner.
