“Of course you didn’t.” Sam reaches out to take my hand, but I pull away. I don’t want him to feel how my palms are sweating. Maybe the police already believe I had a motive; I had every reason to hate her, right?
“You should ask them to do your interview here,” Sam suggests gently.
“Here?”
“I heard the police are using Professor Clifton’s old office for their interviews.”
“So?” Professor Clifton retired at the beginning of the semester. He taught AP Chemistry, so I never had a class with him.
“You’ve never been up there. There’s a window, but it’s tiny, and last time I was there, it was covered up by a stack of books they hadn’t cleaned out yet. It might still be blocked.” Sam’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down.
“How did you know?” I breathe.
Sam knocks on the wall behind the couch. “These walls aren’t that thick. I’ve heard the speeches you give yourself before you step inside your closet.”
I feel myself blushing, and I bury my head in my hands.
“It’s okay, Elizabeth. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”
I groan. All this time, I thought I’d at least succeeded in keeping my phobia a secret from everyone here.
“I’m scared of heights,” Sam says suddenly.
“What?”
“I’m scared of heights.”
I look up at him. “We literally live on the top of a hill.”
“Don’t remind me,” Sam moans. “Haven’t you ever noticed me looking away from the cliffs when I walk to class?”
I can’t help it; I burst out laughing. Sam folds his arms across his chest, pretending to be offended. “I thought you’d be more sympathetic.”
“I’m sorry, but you have to love the irony.”
“What irony?”
“Someone as tall as you are being scared of heights.” Now Sam can’t keep a straight face, either. His laughter just makes me laugh more.
“Do you realize that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you make a joke?” he asks.
“Am I really that dull?”
“Let’s just say living with you isn’t exactly a barrel of monkeys.”
“Let’s just say anyone who uses expressions like a barrel of monkeys is in no position to judge.” Sam grins, but my own smile falls. Like Sam said, the walls are thin. “If they hear me laughing, they’ll just hate me more.” I swallow a few times, like I think I can undo our laughter.
“They only dislike you because Eliza told them to and it never occurred to them not to listen.”
I look at Sam’s enormous hands when I ask. “Why did it occur to you?”
“Judge not, that ye be not judged,” Sam recites.
“What’s that from? Shakespeare or something?”
“It’s the Bible.”
I look at my roommate with surprise. “You know the Bible by heart?”
“Parts of it.”
“I didn’t know you were so religious.”
“I’m not.”
“So you just memorized the Bible for fun?”
“My mom sent me to Sunday school every weekend.”
“My mom sent me to Hebrew school, but I can’t recite the Old Testament.”
“Maybe your teacher wasn’t as good as mine.”
“Apparently not.” I pause. “So that’s why you’re not judging me—because of God?”
“I’m not really sure if I believe in God.”
“Spoken like a true Sunday-school grad.”
Sam shrugs. “I went to church because my mom went to church, and I went to Sunday school because she needed an afternoon off when I was a kid.” He smiles at the memory. “She used to say that I didn’t have to believe in religion or God, but she expected me to be a good student and to listen to the lessons of charity and humility and kindness.”
“Do you still go to church?”
“When I’m staying at my dad’s, I’ll drive into Oakland on Sundays. I like walking where she walked, sitting where she sat.”
I nod.
“And the reason I’m not judging you is because I’ve lived with you since September and I’ve never seen any evidence of the girl Eliza warned us about. Granted, you’ve said more to me in the past forty-eight hours than in the past six months …” Sam trails off and grins. Finally, he finishes, “It’s too bad they all believed her instead of finding out for themselves about you.”
“Yeah, well, I never had a chance.” Who would, up against the beautiful, smart, popular girl who always said the right thing and wore the right clothes and looked the right way?
When they pulled her over the cliffs, her tan skin was tinged blue. She was wearing a long dress, and it flapped against her legs in the wind.
I thought she was beautiful even then.
I wonder if Eliza was still wearing that dress by the time her parents got to see her. Maybe she was on a slab in the morgue, covered up with nothing but a sheet. Maybe they’d cut the dress off her body and filed it away as evidence. Or maybe they gave the dress to her parents to take home.
Suddenly, I realize: I’ve seen that dress before. Years ago. On the first day of kindergarten. That was the dress that Mrs. Hart was wearing when she dropped Eliza off. Cream-colored and covered in pink and yellow flowers, it rustled when she moved. My own mother was wearing slacks and a blouse, rushing on her way to work. I wished she dressed like Eliza’s mom. Eliza’s mom was so much prettier than my own. It was the first time I was ever jealous of Eliza. Maybe the first time I was ever jealous at all.
“Elizabeth?” Sam prompts. “You okay? You look like you’re a million miles away.”
Not a million miles. Not even a million years. Just back to being five years old and wishing my life looked more like Eliza’s.
The next day, the police start calling students and teachers into Professor Clifton’s office for interviews. No one seems to have any other plans, since most people would normally have left for spring break by now.
“They haven’t called my name yet,” I say hopefully to Sam over breakfast. I have a box of stale cereal (but no milk) in the dorm, so there’s no need to go down to the cafeteria and face everyone’s angry stares.
Sam shrugs. Fresh from the shower, he’s wearing nothing but a towel, and I’m carefully not staring at the muscles on his chest and abdomen. His torso is shaped like an enormous V, wide shoulders and a slim waist. (I will not develop a crush on my roommate. I mean, I’m not blind, but what would be the point of my having a crush on anyone? I could have an attack anytime they leaned in for a kiss.)
“So far they’re only interviewing the students whose parents insisted on getting them off campus as soon as possible.” Sam grabs a handful of cereal and plops onto the couch.
“Oh,” I say, my little bit of hope deflating. I thought maybe the police had dismissed whatever Erin told them as meaningless teenage-girl gossip. “That makes sense, I guess.”
All morning, the campus has been crowded with parents who wanted to be there when the police question their children. I guess it’s the law that for anyone under the age of eighteen, their parents have to be there, unless they give the police permission to proceed without them. Like my mom did when they asked her (she texted me this morning to tell me), and like Sam’s dad did. In his email to the parents, the dean said he’d attend any interviews parents were unable to attend, and I guess my mom thought that was good enough. I guess it never occurred to her to insist on being here when she’s so confident I had nothing to do with anything and barely knew Eliza. And it’s not like she’d fly across the country for what might be a five-minute interview. (About 80 percent of students here are from the West Coast, so it’s not as much of a trek for their parents.)
“Did you hear Coop on the phone with his mom before?” Sam asks, and I nod. Over the past twenty-four hours, we’ve heard lots of arguments through the thin walls of our dorm. Kids whose parents wanted them to leave, even if that meant they weren’t cooperating with
the police.
What if I remember something that can help the investigation? I’d never be able to live with myself if I left. (What could you possibly remember, I wonder. I’m pretty sure if you’d been a witness to either her murder or her suicide, you wouldn’t have already forgotten about it, right?)
I want to stay here. You can still feel her presence in the air. (That from someone I’m pretty certain never even had a conversation with Eliza.)
Eliza would have wanted me to stay. (Like you have any idea what Eliza wanted. Not that I should judge because I have no clue, either.)
When else will I get to see a police investigation like this in action? (That particular kid sounded way too excited about all this, like it was the first time anything interesting had happened and he was too dumb to realize it had happened around him, not to him.)
Now I close the box of cereal. It tastes like sawdust, and not just because it’s past its expiration date.
Sam presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “You wanna get outta here?”
“Where can we go, though?” They’re showing movies down at the student center, but I don’t think I’d be any more welcome there than in the cafeteria. And neither would Sam, thanks to me.
“Hiking Trail Y,” Sam suggests, and I swallow a groan. The Y trail is the least popular trail on the property, and for good reason. Enormous redwoods are right smack in the middle of the path, and you practically have to climb them to make your way around.
Sam grins. “It’s not that bad.” He doesn’t add that it’s the one place on campus (other than this suite) where we’re least likely to bump into anyone else. He doesn’t have to. I’m already putting on my sneakers and heading for the door.
Just ten minutes into our hike, and I’m panting. “Hiking Trail Y, as in why the heck am I doing this to myself?”
Sam laughs. “I had no idea you were in such crappy shape.”
“My classes don’t exactly pack the same punch yours do.” Sam literally got course credit for working on a fishing boat last semester. He’d come back to our room reeking of dead salmon and covered in fish blood.
The path narrows, slanting upward, and Sam moves ahead of me. “Watch where I put my feet,” he instructs. “Try to step exactly where I do.”
I’m too out of breath to say anything, so I just nod even though Sam can’t see me. Sam’s strides are so long that I struggle to follow his footsteps. At least looking down at the ground is easier than looking up at the path ahead.
Around us, the forest hums and cracks. The breeze knocks pinecones down from their branches, and the pinecones smack against the trees as they fall to the ground. A pack of wild turkeys gobbles from somewhere among the bushes. The pine needles crunch beneath our feet. We startle a doe into trotting away, her hooves nearly silent against the ground. It’s almost noon, and the sun is bright overhead. Still, there are puddles in the shadiest spots, patches that the fog drenched overnight. We’re deep in the forest now.
Sam stops walking to take a long drink from his water bottle, then passes it to me. For the first time in days, the temperature is climbing to the upper sixties, and Sam’s forehead is covered in a sheen of sweat. He rubs his forehead with a bandana he pulls from his pocket, then ties it around his dreads.
“Is there any place on earth more beautiful than Big Sur?” he asks suddenly.
I shrug. “I haven’t been very many places.” Per the terms of my parents’ divorce agreement, I spent most school vacations at my dad’s apartment.
“Well, I have. My dad loves to travel. Trust me. Nothing compares to this.” He holds his arms out wide.
I take a swig from the water bottle. If you had to die, maybe Big Sur wouldn’t be such a bad place to take your last breath. Especially up along the cliffs where they found Eliza. But I guess I shouldn’t think things like that, as though there’s a bright side to Eliza’s death. I’m sorry you had to die, but at least you had a nice view.
I pass the bottle back to Sam and pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt down over my wrists. I expect Sam to resume walking, but instead he stays exactly where he is, and when I open my mouth to ask him why, he holds a finger to his lips, signaling that I should stay quiet.
Soon, I hear it, too. Voices. Two of them.
“I really thought there wouldn’t be any chance of bumping into anyone on the Y trail,” Sam whispers.
“I’m sorry.” Sam’s reputation will never recover from being seen with me two days in a row.
The voices are getting louder; they’re coming closer.
No, they’re getting louder because they’re yelling.
And they’re coming closer.
And then another sound fills the air. The ugliest sound I’ve ever heard. It’s so loud that I push my hands to my ears, trying to drown it out. It takes me a few seconds to realize what we’re hearing.
It’s a buzz saw.
Quick as a snake, Sam reaches out and grabs me, pulling me into a hollow at the base of a redwood tree just off the path. I shake my head frantically, but Sam’s dark eyes are stern. He tightens his grip on my arms, turning me so that my back is against his front.
“What are you doing?” I hiss. Sam doesn’t answer.
“Turn that thing off!” one of the voices shouts harshly. The noise stops. “This one,” he says, and I imagine he’s pointing.
Finally, I understand why Sam pulled me in here. It’s the tree thieves. It has to be. Who else would have a buzz saw out here on the trails? My heart’s pounding, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the small space or the fact that we’re just a few layers of bark away from a couple of criminals.
Sam steps back, pressing himself against the side of the cave to hide us. I don’t know why some redwoods grow like this, with bottoms that open up into little triangle-shaped caves. It looks almost like the tree has a mouth open in midyawn. Sam has to slouch to fit in here, curling over me.
Invisible water gathers at the base of my lungs, threatening to rush in and drown me. I know my skin is turning pink and blotchy beneath my sweatshirt. The cave is as stuffy as a closet.
I try to breathe, just like every therapist I ever had told me to. I remind myself that I’ve actually been in one of these caves before. When I was five years old, my dad and I spent a day in Big Sur. I didn’t like it at first: It was cold and dark in the woods, and the hills were too steep for me to climb. But when I saw one of these hollowed-out redwoods, I ran toward it. It looked like the kind of place a fairy princess would live.
I wasn’t afraid back then.
Now I open my mouth, but my lungs refuse to take in any breath. My mom once said I look like a fish out of water, and I didn’t have the patience to explain to her that the way it feels is exactly the opposite. I feel sweat pooling under my arms and at the base of my bra, feel my hands grow clammy, my pulse get faster. I try to close my eyes so that I won’t see the wood surrounding me, but my eyelids won’t cooperate, won’t let me imagine I’m someplace else, someplace big, someplace safe. Without enough oxygen, I’m getting light-headed. I slump against Sam and lift my hands to my throat like a choking victim.
Sam shifts so that his hands are just over mine, and I’m surprised that his palms are cool. I want to pull his fingers off mine, but instead I twist my fingers through his and hold on tight, like I think he can save me from the rising tide.
“You’re okay,” he whispers, his voice as quiet as breath. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Sam must feel my heart beating faster, faster, faster. “Breathe,” he instructs.
I had a therapist who tried to talk me through an attack. She shouted the word breathe at me like she thought the louder she said it the better. I burst from the closet with tears streaming down my face, and later I saw that I’d scratched up her bare arms on my way out the door. After that, she always seemed mildly scared of me, the way a person who’s been bitten by a dog is never quite comfortable around them again.
But when Sam says breathe, it sou
nds like a question, not a command. His voice is quiet and even. And for some reason, that makes it easier to inhale.
I look up; the tree is hollow for several feet above us. Pieces of wood hang down like stalagmites. Inside, the wood is even redder. I try to make myself think about how old this tree is, how deep its roots. It’s survived storms and earthquakes and forest fires. I try to think about anything but the size of this space and the voices growing closer.
My eyes finally close.
I tell myself: There’s plenty of room.
Silently, I repeat: There’s lots of air.
You’re not going to drown, Ellie.
And finally: Hiding here is better than coming face-to-face with the men carrying the buzz saw.
A gruff voice says, “Told ya her ID would still work.”
Another voice answers. “We couldn’t have known for sure. News said the campus was on lockdown.”
“Yeah, but it’s just a magnet, remember? She told us this place never updated the security system.”
“So much for the police guarding the entrance,” Sam mutters into my ear. His breath tickles. Apparently, the police are only stationed at the main entrance.
“How did you get her ID anyway?” the gruff voice continues.
“She gave it to me.”
The gruff man laughs. “Sure she did. Things were so warm and fuzzy between you two in the end.”
The other man doesn’t answer.
I’ve never been in a confined space with another person for this long before. I’ve never been this close to another person before.
“Breathe,” Sam whispers in my ear again, so quiet that I’m not sure he really says it at all. I lean against him and feel the rise and fall of his chest against my back, begging my lungs to follow his lead.
In, out. In, out.
“She shoulda listened to you, huh, Mack? Maybe she’d still be alive.”
“Maybe.”
Oh my God, are they talking about Eliza? Is it her ID that’s still working?
My pulse quickens. I squeeze Sam’s hand, wondering if he’s thinking the same thing. I feel him nod.
R.I.P. Eliza Hart Page 7
