Set Me Free

by London Setterby

  Beloved By All, I thought sadly.

  “So Owen moved here in high school, after his parents got divorced,” Kaye continued. “And we all became friends, all us artsy, band geek kids. They started dating. She had already taken a year off to paint before she started art school at Pratt, but then she pushed it back again, another year, to be with Owen. He seemed almost good enough for her.” Scott snorted, but Kaye just shrugged helplessly. “He did. He was a cellist. A good student. He was on the football team. He was like her. He had this…brilliance…like she had.”

  “But she kept putting off going to Pratt,” Andy interjected. “People were unhappy about it. All that talent gone to waste, they said, although she was still painting, having shows, selling her work…”

  “No one was sure they wanted her to stay with Owen,” Kaye said. “Could anyone really be good enough for her? And—things had changed between them. Everyone knew they were having problems.”

  “Problems?” I echoed.

  “She cheated on him,” Kaye confessed. “Several times, it looks like. Once with her ex, Jonas, and…other times. No one knows who else there was.”

  Despite the irony of feeling sympathy for Owen at a time like this, my heart went out to him.

  “So…they were having problems,” I said. “Okay. But is that it? She cheated on him, so he killed her? They never found…a murder weapon, or whatever?”

  “He drowned her,” Scott said. “He didn’t need a weapon for that.”

  “I just don’t see how anyone can be sure about what happened,” I said.

  “You think Suze went out on a boat in the middle of the night, in September in Maine, all by herself?” Kaye shook her head. “Suze didn’t even like boats. We all knew that, because it was a sore spot between her and her fisherman dad.”

  “There’s more,” Scott said.

  Kaye nodded slowly. “There were injuries. They said the injuries were ‘not consistent with an accidental death.’ They thought…there were injuries consistent with being thrown against something, like maybe a railing? And being struck in the face. All prior to her death.”

  Kaye’s large, light-colored eyes met mine. The grief in her face was stark.

  “She had a split lip,” Scott said. “And she had cuts and bruises on her knee and hip.”

  “Jesus,” I murmured.

  Andy gave a short, mirthless laugh. “The problem with all of this, of course, was that they never found a boat. As far as we all knew, Owen didn’t have one. Suze didn’t, either. And no one knows who they would’ve bought or borrowed a boat from, since we know they didn’t take her dad’s.”

  Scott scowled at Andy, but Kaye just smiled weakly.

  “Andy has more faith in humanity than the rest of us,” Kaye said.

  “Yeah, I think I might,” Andy muttered.

  “Then…what do you think happened, Andy?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know what happened. Nobody knows. That’s why he was acquitted—innocent until proven guilty. But if you ask me, Owen didn’t kill her. He wouldn’t have hurt a hair on Suze’s head. He worshipped her even more than everyone else on the island did. She was the one who kept hurting him.”

  “She hurt him?” I said.

  “Not physically,” Andy said. “Not like that. But in other ways. Back then, Rusty, Owen and I used to hang out all the time, so Rusty and I saw a lot of Suzanna. More than most, I’d say. And she was different, sometimes, in private. She could be mean, especially to Owen. Calling him names, that kind of thing. She used to break plans with him all the time, at the very last minute, like some kind of power game—”

  “Don’t you dare talk about Suze like that,” Scott interrupted fiercely. “It’s bad enough you stick up for Larsen—I won’t let you criticize her!”

  “Scott, she was only human, all right?” Andy snapped. “We need to stop talking about her like she was some kind of angel—”

  “You don’t understand! She was different!” Scott leapt to his feet, knocking his chair backwards onto the grass. His expression was all fury. For a second, I thought he might hit Andy, but instead, he stalked across the yard into the house. The screen door slammed behind him.

  Andy stared at the house, his expression troubled.

  Kaye sighed, running her hands through her hair. “Sometimes I wonder if Scott was one of the guys Suze was involved with.”

  “I doubt it,” Andy said. “When we were in high school, she barely knew he existed.”

  “Maybe that was part of their act. Keeping it secret,” Kaye suggested.

  “Maybe,” Andy said. “But I always thought Suze wanted Owen to know. Part of her power games. She was awfully obvious about Jonas.”

  I couldn’t stop myself from shaking my head. “I can’t believe she cheated on him. Everyone talks about her like she was a saint. Except you, Andy. And Owen did once say she had a bad temper. But even he—” I swallowed. “Even he sounds like he’s still in love with her.”

  Andy shrugged. “Whatever else she was, she was brilliant. And beautiful, obviously.”

  Kaye frowned at him. Then our eyes met, and her expression changed, her eyebrows rising, her mouth falling open. “Oh, Miranda. It’s him, isn’t it? I knew you had a guy, but I never thought—”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “I’m going to bed. Thank you for telling me about this.”

  Frozen grass splintered under my feet. The screen door shrieked. Going upstairs felt like climbing up an M.C. Escher lithograph.

  I closed and locked my hatch door, not because I needed to, but because it made me feel better. It was quiet in here, mercifully quiet. The small pink lamp next to my futon mattress bathed the bed in rose-gold light, but left the rest of the attic in shadows. That was fine with me. I didn’t want to see my easel, which was still set up with Suzanna’s portrait, or my crystal-quartz necklaces, which were hanging on the wall.

  I flopped down onto my futon and hugged one of my pillows. For the first time since I’d come to Fall Island, I missed Florida. I missed the funny little house my dad and I had shared, with its overgrown gardens and its old swimming pool-turned-frog pond. I missed Rosa living right down the street. I missed all our old friends.

  An irritating buzzing radiated through the room. Rhys always managed to call me when I felt at my absolute worst, as if he were psychic! I leapt to my feet and tore my phone out of my purse, ready to tell Rhys to leave me alone before I called the police.

  Then I saw the name flashing up on the screen. Owen. He must have gotten my message from earlier, in the graveyard. It felt like days ago.

  Answer, I told myself. Answer it!

  But I couldn’t move. What on earth would I say to him? How could I trust anything he told me now, when he hadn’t mentioned something so devastatingly important?

  It rang twice more, then stopped. After a few moments, it buzzed again: voicemail. I stared at it, trying to sort out my thoughts—but that was impossible. I pressed play, my hands shaking.

  “Miranda, it’s me.” Owen’s voice made my chest ache. How could I miss him? God, I was so messed up.

  “Sorry I missed your call,” he said. “I’m in California. Going to visit my dad and stepmom. My flight just landed, matter of fact.” In the background, an intercom crackled, and trollies beeped. I imagined him standing in a corner of the airport, looking very rugged and out of place among a lot of gray carpeting and potted plants. My heart gave another painful twinge. I slumped back on my bed, still cradling the phone to my ear.

  “I got your message about what I was going to tell you. I was going to tell you everything. About Suze. That I was put on trial for her murder and acquitted. Then, yesterday, I figured you’d found out about it, so you didn’t want anything else to do with me. You wouldn’t be the first.” He sighed, and I knew I’d do anything to put my arms around him right now, no matter how much of an idiot that made me.

  “I should’ve told you everything from the very beginning. I wanted to…but I didn�
��t. Mostly because I thought you already seemed half terrified of me. Not that I blame you for that, after your ex. I don’t know. It was just so tempting to imagine that you and I could be together.”

  He paused again. In the distance, a cool female voice announced a final boarding call.

  “I’m sorry, M. Really. I’ll leave you alone now. There’s just one thing I have to say, though obviously I don’t expect you to believe me. I did not kill Suze. I would never have hurt her. I loved her more than my own life.”

  Chapter 17

  I dreamed about Owen, restlessly, feverishly, and woke up mid-morning, still exhausted, still completely at a loss for how to respond to him. I wished I didn’t have the day off—I would have much rather gone into work than dwell on this all day.

  Eventually, I decided to be honest. I sent him a text: I need some time to think.

  Immediately after I pressed send, I remembered that Owen was in California and it was 7:30 in the morning there. Oh, well. Owen was an early riser, anyway.

  My phone buzzed. He’d written me back already, as if he’d been waiting for me. It was just one word: Ok.

  I wondered if he’d sent the text from bed, like me, if the time difference was enough to put us on the same sleep schedule. Probably not. He was probably already out in the yard, building a deck or planting some palm trees, working up a sweat in the California sunshine.

  I rolled out of bed and headed downstairs to the kitchen, where I made myself a pot of coffee. Kaye and Andy had left for their run an hour or so ago, and Scott was either still sleeping or watching TV in bed. A man after my own heart, in some ways.

  A knock sounded on our front door. Still in my pink pajama tee, shorts, and fluffy slippers, I crossed the living room and opened the door.

  Claire stood on the paved driveway, holding two leashes in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. Byron stood beside her, looking dignified, while Ferdinand, bigger and fluffier than ever, lolled on the ground and nibbled on one of Byron’s legs.

  “Claire,” I said, confused. “What are you doing here?”

  Claire was taller than me, but even she looked small next to her giant dogs, especially with her shoulders slumped and her head down.

  “I came to apologize,” she said.

  “Apologize,” I echoed.

  Of course. I couldn’t believe this hadn’t occurred to me last night: Claire had obviously known all along about Owen’s trial, and she, unlike Kaye and Andy, had also known that Owen and I were dating. If anyone besides him had the responsibility to tell me about his past, it was her.

  I should have been angry. Furious. And yet…I wasn’t. The realization just made me tired.

  “Come in.” I gestured for her to sit down at the breakfast bar.

  “I brought muffins.” She set her paper bag down on the counter.

  “Thanks.” My tone sounded chilly even to my own ears. I fixed her a coffee, a little annoyed that I knew how she liked it. Black, three sugars.

  “Owen told me yesterday he was flying to California to see his dad,” she said. “I thought maybe you guys had a fight?”

  “I heard about Owen’s trial.”

  Her face paled. “I thought that might be it.”

  “How could he not tell me, Claire? He said they dated, but he didn’t say he was accused of killing her. Kind of a big thing to leave out.”

  “It’s my fault.”

  I stared at her.

  “I told him not to tell you,” Claire admitted. “He wanted to, but I thought that it would have been too much for you to hear, especially before you really got to know him. I knew you would find out eventually, but…” She glanced down at Ferdinand, who licked her hand. “I’m sorry, Miranda. I just thought…if you could get to know him a little first, without all the rumors and the gossip, you would know, in your heart, that he couldn’t hurt a fly. And especially not Suzanna.”

  I couldn’t help remembering Kaye’s stark, forlorn expression from last night. “Lots of people think he killed her.”

  “I know they do,” Claire said irritably. “But they don’t know him. I’m his mother. And I can tell you, he loved Suzanna like there was no tomorrow. He did not hurt that girl.”

  “He should have told me,” I insisted. “He should have trusted me to make my own decisions.”

  “Miranda,” Claire said, “think about it. You guys have been dating for, what, a week and a half? If I’d started out my marriage to Charles by telling him all my weird, bad stuff, it would’ve been even shorter than it actually was!”

  “First of all, I told him all of my stuff. I told him stuff I’ve never told anyone.” My throat ached suddenly, and I pressed my palm to my forehead. He knew about Rhys—he knew what Rhys had done to me, how badly it had messed me up, the constant nightmares. But he still hadn’t told me the truth about himself. “And, Claire, being accused of murder—”

  “He didn’t do it—”

  “But how do I know that?”

  Claire looked as though I’d slapped her. “Fine,” she said stiffly. “Maybe you aren’t as right for him as I’d thought.”

  She stood up and whistled to her dogs. Byron snapped to attention, and Ferdy leapt after him. They started towards the front door, but Claire turned back to face me. “I really am sorry about this. But think about it. If he had told you, on day one, would you have bothered to see him again?”

  I still wanted to see him. Even now. But I didn’t say that out loud.

  At my silence, she sighed. “Goodbye, Miranda.”

  She left me standing in the kitchen with my arms crushed against my chest, my mind a storm of indignation. Claire had guessed ages ago why I’d come to the island, I was sure of it, but she’d still convinced Owen to keep this from me. As if I couldn’t think for myself.

  She needn’t have bothered—that was the worst part. Owen was already temptation personified, no matter what kinds of skeletons he had in his closet.

  Snatching up the bag of muffins, I stomped into the living room and threw myself down onto the couch. I stuffed a chunk of muffin into my mouth and turned on the TV, trying to keep being angry. Anger was comforting in a way that the urge to cry was not.

  “Oh, boy.”

  I glanced up to see Kaye and Andy standing by the front door, looking sweaty and invigorated in their running clothes, their smiles fading at the sight of me.

  “You okay, Miranda?” Kaye asked.

  I realized that I was wearing pink pajama shorts, eating a bag of muffins, and watching an infomercial about watches, but I still resented the alarmed look on Kaye’s face.

  “I’m fine,” I snapped.

  “We saw Claire’s car leaving as we were jogging in,” Andy said.

  “Yeah, she stopped by to tell me she was sorry for being a manipulative jerk.”

  “Oh. Oh,” Kaye said. “She obviously knew about you and Owen.”

  “Yes. She obviously did.”

  Andy discreetly slipped away to take a shower, while Kaye sat down on the arm of the couch and frowned at the man modeling a large gold watch on the screen. I handed her the bag of muffins, and she fished one out and began to slowly pull it apart. “I hate to think of you fighting with Claire,” she said quietly. “I love Claire.”

  “I do, too.” The urge to cry intensified.

  “Everybody does,” Kaye admitted. “We are all afraid of Owen but love Claire.”

  “I’m not afraid of Owen,” I said softly. “Maybe I should be, but I’m not.”

  Kaye patted my arm. “Fuck it,” she said. “Let’s go to the mall.”

  We wandered around the tiny mall in Bellisle for ages. Kaye tagged along patiently while I trailed my hands over luxurious silk tops and cashmere sweaters. It made me feel more normal, calmer—at least on the surface. In the back of my mind, everything was the same.

  Eventually we headed out to Bellisle’s small but relatively nice downtown. We settled on a sushi place for lunch, since Kaye had never tried sushi before.


  “What do you think?” I asked her.

  “It’s…weird,” Kaye admitted, around a mouthful of spicy tuna. “But in a good way.”

  “Excuse me,” the waitress said, appearing at my elbow. “This sake is compliments of the gentleman in the far corner.” She opened the bottle, poured us generous portions, and left the bottle on our table, wrapped in a cloth to catch the condensation.

  Kaye and I exchanged a surprised glance. At the far side of the restaurant, James Emory raised a sake glass in my direction. A young woman in a tweed suit, her shiny blonde hair wound into a bun, sat across from him.

  “Is that the guy from the Widow’s Walk?” Kaye asked.

  “James Emory,” I said. “Is he…on a date? Is he flirting with me while he’s on a date?”

  “He can’t be,” Kaye said. “It must be a business lunch.”

  “I hope so. What should I do? Should I go over there?”

  “I have no idea.” She peered at him over her sake cup. “God, he can fill out a suit, can’t he?”

  Pointedly ignoring this last comment, I sipped my sake. It was cold and sweet, with an oaky depth.

  James solved my conundrum by coming over himself, his blonde companion standing awkwardly beside him. “Hello, Miranda. How do you like the sake?”

  “It’s delicious,” I ventured. “Thank you so much.”

  “I thought you would like it. It’s a good match for a whiskey drinker.” His smile broadened, revealing a slight dimple. “You are looking prettier than ever, by the way,” he told me, taking in my 1960s-style dress and enormous necklace. “You are like an art piece, all by yourself.”

  I had to laugh at that ridiculously over-the-top line. “Thank you.”

  “Did you give any more thought to my offer? About your artwork, of course.”

  “It’s very tempting.”

  Or, to be precise, it should have been very tempting. I should have jumped at the chance to show my artwork in galleries in New York City, even if this was all just a ploy for a date. Kaye was right—he did fill out his suit really well, and his dark hair was impeccably styled.