I take a deep breath. I know it does me no good to blow up at her, but I’m having trouble maintaining my composure. “I didn’t know you were mad,” I say evenly. “I can’t read your mind.”
“Maybe if you weren’t so wrapped up in yourself, you would have noticed,” she snaps. “How am I supposed to feel? I invited you here to have a good time, and you were sulking at lunch yesterday—”
It’s like a fun-house version of the conversation I just had with John, only nothing about it is fun. The details of my supposed transgressions on this trip are so petty, so trivial in the face of the bigger picture. Yet my ego wants to argue with her, to convince her that she’s the awful one. And then there’s the part of me that wants to talk this whole thing out with her, my onetime best friend, to make sense of what has happened between us—not just over the course of this trip, but before. What did I do to make her hate me so?
But it doesn’t matter. She’s changed, and I have, too. We’re no longer compatible as friends; I knew that going into this trip. Riding on jets and yachts may be fun and all, but I can’t begin to fathom believing this lifestyle to be worth the sacrifices she’s made to obtain it. So I simply apologize, noting that I was sick to my stomach yesterday. But she’s not finished cataloging my sins.
“I don’t believe you. And you’ve been hanging out with that whore my sister brought—”
“She’s my roommate, who you assigned to me and required I hang with,” I return, exasperated.
“And then, last night, singing, drawing attention to yourself—”
“Oh my God.” I clench my jaw. “I was having fun, which you literally just said you wanted me to have.” I am so tempted to come clean, to tell her everything I know, to torch the house of lies she’s built to the ground. But that would only compromise my position. I ball my fists and control my voice. “Look, I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t mean to. Our friendship has meant a lot to me over—”
“I don’t believe you,” she interrupts. “I think you should just go home.”
“Okay.” I must get off the phone before I say anything I’ll regret. “I’ll just need my passport.”
“You can go back upstairs now.” She hangs up on me.
Amythest stares at me expectantly. “I’m being sent home,” I say.
“Lucky bitch. Hopefully I’m next. What did she say about me?”
“She called you a whore.”
She laughs. “Maybe she found the panties.”
“I think you’ll know if she finds the panties.”
I wonder how Amythest will fare on her own once I’m gone, but then I remember the sex tape. She’ll be just fine.
When I get back upstairs, Vinny is sitting at the dining room table, scowling at me. My chest is tight as I take a seat across from him.
“You leave tomorrow,” he growls. “Out of Genoa. You’ll have dinner in your room tonight. A car will pick you up in port tomorrow morning at eight.”
I take a breath. At least they’re paying for my ticket home. “My passport?”
“Your driver will give it to you with your ticket when you reach the airport tomorrow.”
“Why can’t I have it now?” I ask, suspicious.
“We hold on to it until you leave.”
Now I’m getting freaked out. “I’d like my passport back immediately,” I demand as forcefully as I can muster, wiping my sweating palms on my dress.
“No,” he refuses. “That’s final. Now go to your room.”
Blood rushes in my ears. I should keep my trap shut and do as he says, but what the hell. I’m going home tomorrow anyway, and I’m done with being treated like an imbecile and a child. I push myself to standing and fold my arms across my chest, my breath shallow. “You know”—I narrow my eyes, trying to keep my voice steady—“John should be more careful about what he discusses at the dinner table. Not all women are purely ornamental.”
Vinny rises to his feet, his movements startlingly sudden. “Don’t be stupid. I’ve warned you once: mind your own business.”
“Or what?” I challenge.
He grabs my arm just above the elbow, compressing the flow of blood to my hand. “He sees and hears everything,” he hisses in my ear. My eyes slide to the camera just behind his head. “Everything. You know that already. Keep your fucking mouth shut and go to your room.”
He drops my arm forcibly, his eyes boring holes into me. My instinct is to resist, but something about the intensity of his admonishment stops me. I could almost imagine it’s not a threat at all, but a warning. Which is, of course, all the more alarming. “Go,” he orders, pointing at the stairwell.
I have no power here. There’s nothing for me to do in this moment but comply. Again I descend the stairs to my quarters, my legs jelly.
Back in the room, I’m trembling as I shut and lock the door. Amythest eyes me from her post at the bathroom sink, concerned. “Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“It’s just Vinny.”
She runs a brush through her hair. “He’s hella scary.”
“Yeah. He—” But I decide the better of recounting his warning. After all, maybe it was nothing. And telling her might bring up questions I don’t want to answer. So instead I change the subject. “I’m so glad you bought that dress. It’s gorgeous on you.” She’s decked out in her new mod dress without the purple contacts. Her makeup is toned down, and she really does look fantastic. “I like your natural eye color, too.”
She laughs. “It’s so weird, suddenly my vision is like new. So? What happened up there?”
“Officially canned.”
“I can’t believe they canned you and not me. I figured she would have found the panties by now and kicked me off the boat. Or killed me.” She laughs.
“Not funny. Vinny wouldn’t give me my ticket or my passport. Says I’ll get it when they drop me at the airport in the morning.”
Her eyes go wide. “Damn, that’s some gangster shit. I bet Vinny’s mafia. These guys are all connected. John was telling me how he’s friends with that Italian politician that’s always having affairs and is so obviously shady it’s like a joke? I can’t pronounce his name, but you know the one. He, like, basically owns the country.”
“I think I know who you’re talking about.”
She smears a red stain across her mouth. “Okay.” She rubs her lips together. “Time to go poke the bear. What do you think she’ll do if there’s lipstick on his collar?”
“Amythest.” I shake my head. “You just said yourself that he’s connected to gangsters.”
“Yeah, he is. Not her. And he likes me. I’m younger, fresher pussy.” She snickers.
“I just think, if it’s a rich guy you want, there are plenty of them, and I’m sure you could have any one you want,” I implore. “Maybe a younger, richer one even.”
I’m not sure exactly why I’m trying to talk her out of it. At this point, I would love for her to steal John from Summer. It would be the ultimate revenge, and Summer sure as hell deserves it. But the whole thing makes me uneasy for Amythest.
“I woulda let it go if she’d been cool, but she’s not, and she needs to learn her lesson.” She checks the time on her phone. “I gotta go. Dinner’s in five. I’ll come down after to give you the report.” She breezes out the door.
I open the closet and throw my suitcase on the bed, my limbs still viscous from the draining adrenaline. What a colossal mistake coming on this trip turned out to be. At least I’ll be home tomorrow. I never want to see Summer again.
(twenty-two days ago)
Los Angeles
The day after Summer returned from Rhonda’s, I accompanied her to the Sheriff’s Department to make a report. We’d both spent the night at Wendy’s and hadn’t slept a wink for searching desperately online for clues, coming up with alternatives to what might have happened to Eric. I’d taken the task of sweeping his social media, stealthily deleting all the comments and likes between us, though I did leave our WhatsApp thread
, knowing it was encrypted. I messaged him again and again through it, hoping against hope that he’d respond to me. But as the hours wore on, my hope evaporated and guilt for having doubted Summer began to creep in.
At the precinct, I let her do the talking. I tried my best to act like a normal supportive friend, but my facade was gossamer-thin, the tears I couldn’t shed in front of her threatening to breach the flimsy barrier at any moment. Given how gutted I felt, I had to accept I’d cared more about Eric than I’d ever allowed myself to understand. But I pushed the thoughts away. It was too late now. Anyway, if nothing else, the events of the past few days had made it painfully clear it was Summer he’d loved after all. I was a fool for ever believing otherwise.
We sat uneasily in the antiseptic pale-green-and-gray lobby with the other unfortunates who found themselves in the waiting room of a police station on a Tuesday afternoon. A woman in the corner wouldn’t stop muttering to herself about God and the laws of karma, the chairs were uncomfortable, and I felt like my heart was made of lead. After what seemed like an eternity, the desk agent called Summer’s name, and I waited for another eternity while she made her report to an officer in a room down the hall.
By the time Summer emerged puffy-eyed, it was getting dark.
“Can you stay with me at the beach house?” she implored. “John doesn’t come back until Friday, and I don’t want to be alone.”
I did want to be alone. But she needed me, and after everything, I felt I owed it to her. Plus, maybe it would be good to have to hide the depths of my distress for a few more days. “Of course,” I agreed.
She’d picked me up on the way to the station, but after making the report, she was tired and asked me to drive the convertible Porsche she’d borrowed from John’s garage out to Malibu. She put the top down and leaned her head back, letting the wind whip her hair as we cruised through the canyon and up the coast to the house. When we arrived, she withdrew to her room immediately and closed the door behind her. So much for needing my company.
I trudged up the stairs to the guest room, where I finally undammed the tears I’d been holding back for twenty-four hours. I couldn’t imagine the pain Eric must have been in to do what he did, but I still didn’t believe that pain had anything to do with his relationship with Summer, regardless of what he may or may not have told her about his mother’s suicide. So, what then? Was he suffering from depression? Or had he been diagnosed with some terrible disease I didn’t know about? I kept thinking that if I’d known what he was dealing with, I could have done something. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. I wanted to press rewind, go back and save him somehow—but that was impossible.
When I finally slept, my dreams were disrupted by horrific images of Eric killing himself in violent ways: a shotgun under his chin, brains splattered on the shower wall; a silent fall from the Golden Gate Bridge, his imperceptible splash into the frigid water beneath; a handful of pills and a bottle of Jack, vomit foaming from his mouth.
I woke panting and lay staring at the ceiling, wishing the past few days had only been a dream. I revisited the hour we spent together on the roof the night I first met him, then the rainy winter day in his loft, remembering the light in his eyes, imagining different outcomes. If Summer had never come into the picture, what might have happened? Would he still be alive?
Again I cried myself to sleep, plunging into nightmares that he was drowning while I swam after him in the ocean, pulled farther and farther out to sea by the riptide. Summer waved at us from the shore, then turned her back and walked away.
The next morning, I woke up late to find a voice mail from Dylan saying to call him as soon as possible. My throat was tight as I dialed the number, but it only rang and rang. Downstairs, I poured myself a cup of coffee and joined Summer out on the deck.
The day was still, the sea like glass. She stood at the railing, staring out at the waves lapping at the shore, oddly calm. “I really like it here,” she said.
“It’s beautiful,” I agreed.
She turned to me, and I saw she was as hollowed out as I was, her emotions exhausted. “I’ve cried so much I don’t have any tears left.”
Me too, I wanted to say. “It’s okay.” I squeezed her hand. “I understand.”
“No you don’t,” she muttered. And then quickly, “I’m sorry. I’m just emotional. Thank you for being so supportive.”
“I’m here for you.”
“My mom’s gonna come out today,” she continued. “I’d like to spend some time with her before John gets here Friday. I ordered a car to take you back to the city.”
“Okay.” I didn’t mind the dismissal, relieved to be able to go home without making up an excuse. “When will it be here?”
“It’s here,” she said. “Waiting in front. I didn’t want to wake you.”
In the car, I gazed out the window at the sea, unsettled. I was upset about Eric, yes, horribly. But underneath it all was the sense that something still didn’t feel right about all of this. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it all seemed a little too easy. Too…anticlimactic or something.
Probably just a symptom of my anguish. Disbelief. Wasn’t that one of the stages of grief?
I tried to reach Dylan again, to no avail.
When I got home, I took a hot shower to clear my head, letting the almost scalding water run down my body, breathing in the steam. I made myself another cup of coffee and settled at the table in my cheery yellow kitchen, looking out at the palm trees and the mountains, then opened my laptop and typed “missing persons California.”
A website popped up that listed all of the missing persons in California, with their photographs and information, organized by date. Two yesterday, one three days ago, one four days ago, two six days ago, all from different counties. I was astounded by the number of missing people, but none of them was Eric.
So I looked up the coroner’s office, did a search with his name and age. Nothing. But then, maybe he wasn’t in the system yet. We had only reported it yesterday.
I dialed Dylan’s number again. This time he answered, his voice hoarse.
“Belle, I’m sorry, I’ll have to make it quick. I’m getting on a plane.”
“Okay,” I said.
He took a deep breath. “They found his rental car at a park in Ventura. They’re searching the park now.”
My heart sank. “Oh.” Then, “Was there anything in it? His personal stuff? A note?”
“No note,” Dylan said. “No wallet or phone.”
“Do you really think he killed himself?” I asked.
He paused. “Maybe.”
“What makes you unsure?” I asked, hopeful.
He sighed. “That email. It wasn’t the way he writes.” So I wasn’t crazy. He’d picked up on it, too. “And no offense to your friend. I’m sure she’s a lovely girl—”
“Summer,” I said.
“Yeah, Summer—but he wasn’t in love with her. Sure, he and I hadn’t talked much recently, but still—I’ve seen him in love before. This is not what it looks like.” I stifled the impulse to ask what it did look like. “So it’s really fucking hard to imagine he would kill himself over her,” he concluded.
“I know,” I agreed. “I didn’t know him nearly as well as you obviously, but their relationship always seemed—casual. On his end, anyway.”
“But I don’t like any of the alternatives, either.”
“What alternatives?” I asked.
“There were things—he may have gotten mixed up in.…” He paused, catching himself. “I don’t know. I’m trying to find out as much as I can.”
Mixed up in? Again I was reminded of how little I actually knew of Eric. “Like what?” I asked.
“I can’t…I’m sorry. It’s probably nothing. Forget I said anything.”
“I thought the email was strange, too,” I said. “If you need help—”
“No,” he cut in. “I don’t want you anywhere near this. And like I said, it’s probably nothing. I
just wish I knew better what was going on with him. If he hadn’t been so damn stubborn about our dad…”
“But that’s just him, right? Full of ideals, principles—”
“Yeah,” he scoffed. “And I’ve always been the one in the real world.”
I floundered for words, taken aback by his cynicism. But of course he was feeling bad; he’d just lost his brother. His brother, who was nothing if not defined by his ideals and principles. My instinct was to defend Eric, but I knew that would do no good. And so I simply said, “I’m sorry you’re going through this, Dylan.”
I heard voices in the background. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too. I have to go. I’ll let you know when I hear anything.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
I hung up the phone, suddenly feeling very alone. The kitchen darkened; I looked out the window to see thunderheads converging above the mountains, blocking the sun. I knew the fact that Dylan was suspicious, too, should make me feel better about my own doubts, but it only aggravated my sense of helplessness. What could he have meant by Eric getting mixed up in something? Drugs? But Eric wasn’t a druggie, and he didn’t seem to be in need of the money he might make dealing them. I wondered if Summer had knowledge of whatever it was.…Perhaps this thing he was mixed up in was what she’d been hiding at the beach house when she was fighting with him. A part of me wanted to call her and tell her what Dylan said, perhaps give her a reason to hope, too. But I still didn’t trust her. Whatever was going on, she already knew more than she was letting on, and she’d chosen not to share it with me.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, slathered a piece of bread in peanut butter, and placed it in the toaster oven, watching through the glass door as it bubbled. But when the oven dinged, I found I had no appetite.
I could almost see Eric lingering in my doorway, the morning sun in his eyes, not two months ago. He was so full of life.
I blinked away the vision and forced myself to eat the damn toast. Casting about for a distraction, I addressed the heap of mail on my kitchen table. Circulars, bills, political mailers, a wedding invitation…and a parking ticket. Strange. I hadn’t gotten a parking ticket lately, at least that I was aware of. After once getting the boot on my car for failing to pay a pile of tickets during college, I’d become a meticulous sign reader.
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