The Last Time I Saw Her

by Alexandra Harrington

  Copyright © 2021, Alexandra Harrington

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Nimbus Publishing Limited

  3660 Strawberry Hill St, Halifax, NS, B3K 5A9

  (902) 455-4286 www.nimbus.ca

  Printed and bound in Canada

  NB1476

  This story is a work of fiction. Names characters, incidents, and places, including organizations and institutions, either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover Design: Heather Bryan

  Interior Design: Jenn Embree

  Editor: Emily MacKinnon

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: The last time I saw her : a novel / Alexandra Harrington.

  Names: Harrington, Alexandra, 1995- author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200386654 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200386700 | ISBN 9781771089364 (softcover) | ISBN 9781771089876 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8615.A74715 L37 2021 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23

  Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with the Province of Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.

  Advance Praise for

  The Last Time I Saw Her

  “The Last Time I Saw Her has a rocky homecoming, a shattered friendship, and a series of shocking secrets that will have readers racing to the end, guessing all the way. In her sharp and satisfying debut, Alexandra Harrington skillfully weaves a series of unexpected twists into an authentic small-town Nova Scotia setting, while leaving plenty of space for romance.”

  –Tom Ryan, Arthur Ellis Award–winning author of Keep This To Yourself

  “A slow-burn mystery, a vivid cast of compelling and conflicted characters, and a small Nova Scotian town full of secrets add up to a page-turner readers will not be able to put down.”

  –Jo Treggiari, bestselling, Governor General’s Award–nominated author of The Grey Sisters

  “A twisty-turny thriller built around love, friendship, tragedy, and some wonderfully snappy dialogue. [An] impressive debut!”

  –Vicki Grant, author of Tell Me When You Feel Something

  “Chock-full of secrets and betrayals and tragic consequences, Alexandra Harrington’s debut novel is a finely tuned family drama with multiple layers of mystery.”

  –Atlantic Books Today

  one

  july

  ten months after

  It was hot for June. Well, July, Charlotte corrected herself, the word rolling out of her head slow and thick. June had burned itself out quietly, almost like smoke slipping away, and she’d been occupied with things other than the days of the week. Charlotte went mostly by the numbers. Prom was six days ago; graduation, four. Everyone had to be completely moved out of housing as of one day ago.

  Charlotte pressed the heel of her hand to the top of her cheekbone, trying to wipe away a streak of sweat without smudging whatever pitiful bits were left of her makeup. Here, the summer air usually pulled back and forth the same way the tide did. Living beside the sea usually meant a crisp, salty breeze that shimmered between layers of sunshine. But tonight it was humid and the air was heavy—honey instead of salt. Fitting, Charlotte thought. Today was Sophie Thompson’s eighteenth birthday.

  It was hot for July. She was home, but Charlotte Romer was scared. She figured her fear leaned more toward dread, probably, if she were thinking straight and had the time to sort her feelings into boxes. Dread usually popped up when you were waiting for it. Dread was when you knew you deserved it.

  She pulled herself up the narrow walkway of the Thompsons’ bungalow for what was probably the millionth time in her life. Mornings before school, sunny Saturday afternoons, sneaking back under blooming darkness three minutes short of curfew: it was a familiar path. But this was the first time Charlotte felt like she shouldn’t be there.

  Charlotte stopped at the steps of the porch, her suitcase bumping her behind the knees like it was trying to be encouraging. Pull yourself together. Charlotte looked at the house and prayed Sophie wasn’t home.

  Charlotte knew, though, that this was highly unlikely, considering she’d been able to hear the party sounds from halfway down the road. She flicked her phone awake. It was late. She’d missed the earlier bus, and the only other one to the North Shore had been running late. So not only was Charlotte Romer crashing Sophie Thompson’s birthday party, she was also way more than fashionably behind schedule.

  River John buzzed around her, like it always did. A combination of lazy summer bugs, the easy swell of an ocean that was never too far, and the worn-out power lines overhead. It was a familiar heartbeat, and she had missed it. Looking back down the road, she saw the tail lights from the bus had long since disappeared.

  No retreat. Surrender only.

  Charlotte steadied herself and pulled her suitcase up the steps behind her. Get it over with. She tucked her luggage in a corner of the porch beside a dilapidated green swing and smoothed down the front of her wrinkled dress. Her frenzied quick-change in the tiny bus bathroom had left her looking a bit dishevelled. She had forced herself into the bathroom and into her dress, knowing if she went home first to change, she’d never gather the courage to leave again. Ever.

  Deep breaths.

  Like an omen—she wasn’t sure whether good or bad—the window to the right of the front door flew open. Charlotte’s knowledge of the bungalow’s floor plan told her it was the bathroom window. Robert Ross, of North Colchester High basketball fame, stuck his head out of the opening and promptly vomited into the flowerbed. There was a chorus of groans from the bathroom and Robert was dragged back inside.

  If Charlotte had been waiting for a sign, she figured this was probably it. She pushed open the unlocked door and stepped inside, feeling the familiar surroundings shudder into place. A year ago she would have been one of the vital, working parts of Sophie’s birthday party, but she’d been there for thirty seconds and already felt like she’d triggered a burglar alarm. Charlotte immediately decided that showing up here uninvited was probably one of her worst ideas this year. Certainly in the top three. Unexpectedly leaving town without a word to anyone was definitely up there, too. Followed closely by turning up again now, a year later.

  Dave Mackenzie, from her eleventh grade history class, was the first to spot her. Charlotte could feel the heat creeping up her neck. Without taking his eyes off her, Dave Mackenzie inched sideways and jabbed at Mitchell MacKenzie (no relation: capital K MacKenzie), who was playing DJ. All the kids in River John pretty much grew up together, because families didn’t really move to the North Shore of Nova Scotia from anywhere else; they just grew there from the start. (The tiny town was generational and the longer your last name had been kicking around, the better.) Mitchell MacKenzie yanked the AUX cord out of his iPhone and looked around.

  The party came to a crashing halt as the music stopped. The two teams playing beer pong out back on the patio stopped mid-chug. A group of girls in the kitchen looked annoyed at being disrupted; their heads swivelled like tiny owls, trying to source the interruption. A cluster of guys near the back door exchanged uneasy looks, checking their phones for t
he time. In River John, parties were only ever interrupted by the sheriff’s department when they raged too late into the night. But then people started looking at Charlotte and the feeling in the room shifted to something else completely.

  Theories came tumbling out right away—that Charlotte was pregnant; she’d killed a man; she’d run off for a shotgun wedding down south and only just returned. Some were a combination of all three. Charlotte didn’t care, not really. Searching the sea of surprised and uneasy faces, she finally found the one she had come home for.

  It was like the realization of who exactly was crashing her party set in Sophie’s jaw first, then worked its way up to her eyes. Charlotte watched Sophie’s eyes narrow from across the room, lids sliding down until there were just little slits of the grey-blue underneath. Charlotte was vaguely aware of everyone looking between her and Sophie, wondering who would make the first move. Odds typically would have been on Sophie, but Charlotte could tell Sophie wasn’t going to make it that easy.

  In the time they’d known each other—Charlotte startled herself a bit, realizing that meant almost ten years now—the two had become experts at knowing what the other was thinking. When they were younger, when Sophie’s skin was tanned from summer and Charlotte’s hair wasn’t so long and wild, people often thought they were sisters. Not because they looked particularly alike, but because they were always together and had a sort of synchronized look to them. Connected, like the moon and tide.

  Charlotte could tell by Sophie’s perfectly straight face that she was uncomfortable, surprised even, but not flustered—she was calculating. Working out her next ten, fifty moves. If Sophie was angry or upset, she was very good at hiding it. Charlotte was convinced at least a year had passed since she first opened the door.

  Someone had to go first.

  “Hi,” Charlotte let out finally. As the moment struck, it was the best she could come up with. A less triumphant return speech than she’d planned on the bus.

  By the look on Sophie’s face, Charlotte may as well have just smacked her. Honestly, that might have gone over better. Without any sort of reply, Sophie twisted back from the table and turned toward the kitchen. Charlotte sighed, pushed her way through the crowd, and followed Sophie out of the living room. No one said anything or tried to stop her. Too drunk or too stunned. Charlotte slipped into the kitchen behind Sophie and slid the door closed behind them. She heard the party gather itself up in their absence—the music returned, but Charlotte wasn’t sure anyone was really speaking yet.

  Charlotte leaned back against the door once it was shut and they were sealed away from the other side. The kitchen was exactly the same as she remembered it—faded green walls and cupboards, and a black-and-white tile backsplash. At the far side of the room, Sophie’s German shepherd, Denzel, was curled up disinterestedly on the mat near the back door. At first he didn’t seem phased by Charlotte’s arrival—she certainly wasn’t a stranger—but then he stood up with his back tensed straight, like he could sense trouble.

  Sophie was facing away from her, trying to get herself a drink. She was struggling to reach the plastic cups.

  “Do you need—” Charlotte lurched forward but knew she’d just made it worse when Sophie immediately froze. It was exactly the way Sophie had reacted a year ago. Like she’d been caught in the act.

  “No, I don’t,” Sophie snapped once time had resumed. “I got it.”

  Charlotte checked herself; Sophie had been getting along without her for months now. Sophie closed a shaking hand around one of the cups, almost crushing it. She grabbed a nearby bottle of clear liquid and dumped the rest of it into the cup. No mix.

  Charlotte waited what felt like hours for Sophie to face her. She watched Sophie as she sipped her drink. After many years of silent contests, Charlotte knew all too well how long this standoff could go on.

  “Sophie…,” Charlotte said eventually.

  “What?” Sophie spat back almost before her name had left Charlotte’s mouth. Like she had been waiting for it—like she knew Charlotte would break first. Sophie’s voice was high and clear. Not the way she used to speak to her, never so cold. Charlotte steadied herself. Okay. This was it.

  Sophie looked so different, Charlotte reflected, now that they were finally facing each other. She was still tall and her eyes were still light and her face still had that way of looking uniquely Sophie but completely familiar. Sophie had always carried herself like she knew she was being looked at, because she always was.

  Sophie looked older, duller—tired. Not the warm, colourful, sparkling Sophie Charlotte had grown up beside. It was like someone had been hired to make a robot to replace Sophie without ever having met her. It looked like Sophie, but it wasn’t. Charlotte knew she didn’t know this Sophie.

  “Are you going to say anything else?” Sophie hissed, her line of white, even teeth flashing beneath her perfectly painted lips.

  “Happy birthday,” Charlotte blurted lamely. She decided to just keep talking, because the alternative was smacking herself with the empty Jack Daniel’s bottle on the counter. “I mailed you a card a few days ago. There was a letter with it. I don’t know if it got here—”

  “I threw it out. And the letter.”

  Awesome. Charlotte wasn’t sure how to answer that.

  “If you came back here just to let me know that you’re capable of mailing a Dollar Store card, then you’ve wasted your time. And your dollar. What could you have possibly written that you’d think I would want to read?”

  “Sophie, I’m so sorry,” Charlotte said, and god, it was the truth, “I missed you so much—”

  “Yeah, and I missed homecoming. Life’s a bitch.” Sophie was smiling but it didn’t reach her eyes. “What do you even want, at this point? It’s been a year, Charlotte.”

  “I just…I want to apologize for leaving—”

  Sophie interrupted her with a high little laugh aimed into her drink. Charlotte recognized it as the Impending Social Demise Laugh™, one of Sophie’s trademarks. Following an unfortunate incident in tenth grade involving Jamie Berwick, raspberry vodka, and an ill-fated attempt on Jamie’s part to hook up with Sophie’s then-boyfriend, Brad Sutherland, a rumour circulated that anyone who faced Sophie’s wrath would never be heard from again. In reality, Jamie’s family had just moved to Halifax, but still.

  “Are you sorry for leaving, or sorry for yourself?” Sophie demanded. “Because there’s a big difference.”

  Charlotte sighed and traced a watermark on the faded green countertop as Sophie took another long sip from her drink. Ten-second time out. For some reason Charlotte was picturing an old battle-fighter video game and her health metre kept going down every time Sophie said anything. Denzel had settled a bit, laying back down on the mat with his paws crossed under his chin. Charlotte could tell he was keeping an eye on her, ready to come to Sophie’s defense.

  “I know that it seems like…like I just ran away,” Charlotte said, trying very hard to keep her voice even, “and it’s because I did. Really. There’s no excuse for it, but I left because I had to.”

  “Yeah, and that’s exactly what the shitty letter you left with Sean said. It didn’t mean anything then, and it definitely doesn’t mean anything a whole year later. What was it, half a page?”

  “I would have said more but I…” Charlotte paused. Would she have, really? Why didn’t she write more? Was it because she knew Sophie deserved better than a messy note, written in the half-light of the passenger seat while Charlotte cried? Anyway, she knew Sophie was right—whatever she said, it wouldn’t have mattered.

  “So you left. Fine.” Sophie shrugged, but the action was slower now than it had been before. Like Sophie had to force her body through it. “It’s not that. It’s that you couldn’t even tell me why. Or talk to me once.”

  Like a pulse, Charlotte felt the vague throbbing of everything she wasn’t telling Sophie. T
he feeling was just enough in the background that she could push it away. She knew why the letter didn’t say more, and why she had never called. Charlotte knew, but Sophie never could. “It’s complicated,” she said.

  “Yeah, and the timing couldn’t have been better!” Sophie trilled. “A month into senior year, and after everything that happened to us, you just left. It hadn’t even been, what, three weeks?”

  Charlotte couldn’t look at her. It had been three weeks. Twenty-one days, almost to the hour. No getting around it, and no excuse for up and leaving her entire life. For leaving Sophie. Sophie cleared her throat, but Charlotte didn’t have to look up to know she was crying.

  “How could you not say goodbye to me?”

  Charlotte felt like she couldn’t drag her eyes away from her shoes, lining them up against the scuffed linoleum where the dark tiles met the light ones. “I knew if I came to say goodbye I never would have been able to go,” she tried, like she was struggling to set up a house of cards that kept buckling. “I just did what I thought was best.”

  “Well, fine then. But I didn’t think we were living in the Dark Ages, Charlotte. You could have called, or texted, or anything. Given me a tiny sign that you still gave a damn about what was happening in River John. About me.”

  Charlotte’s chest clenched. “Of course I did. I do.”

  Sophie wiped hastily under her eyes. “My parents split up this year. Dad moved down to Toney River. Just far enough away, I guess. And Max and I broke up. Right after you left.”

  That made Charlotte look up. This wouldn’t have been much of a surprise a year ago. It seemed like Sophie and Max used to break up and get back together at least once a week. But since last September, everything that happened seemed final, like a last word. Like everything from before that night didn’t matter. Sophie Thompson and Maxwell Hale were at the top of North Colchester High’s (and if you asked a few tenth graders, possibly the entire world’s) power-couple hierarchy. Max was nice enough—smart, charming—but he was also one of those guys who grew, like, eighteen inches in one summer and then was suddenly on every girl’s radar, including Sophie’s. And then became a bit of a dick. Charlotte had known Max since they were kids, kept in proximity by parent-organized playdates, but as they grew up they grew apart. Max and Sophie were the opposite—one day they would act like complete strangers, and the next they were totally in love. As a couple, they were explosive. They were part of the same friend group at school, but once they started dating it was like someone had cranked the volume up and busted the speakers. They fought more than they didn’t. But now Sophie wasn’t talking about fighting, she was talking about being done.