Chapter 7
Frankie
By the time Alex and I get to the waterfront, the EMTs are already loading Billy’s body, covered by a sheet, onto a gurney.
Without saying a word, they slide him inside the back of the ambulance and shut the door.
I can’t tear my eyes away from the back window and my whole body has turned wobbly, like I might fall over at any minute.
Alex grabs my hand and jerks me toward him.
“You gotta calm down, Frankie,” he whispers. “People are staring.”
“The last thing people are looking at right now is me.” I’m right, too.
The beach is full of people—our staff supervisor, Jordan Grover; Club president Lowell McIntosh; head of maintenance Freddy Barnes; forty-five second graders who were preparing for instructional swim; Dylan, quietly crying into his hands; and my own mother, carefully guiding Mrs. Godwin toward the ambulance so she can ride with her son.
Millie stands off to the side, a towel wrapped around her shoulders, as she talks to one of the EMTs. Her back is straight, like she’s trying to channel Lucy’s poise, but her shoulders shake, and she fidgets with the corners of the terry cloth. Seeing Millie there all alone makes me inch forward.
“I should go to her,” I say, and Alex nods.
But before I stride over, someone zooms down the beach past me, flying right through the caution tape, snapping it in half. Lucy. Millie turns around and when she sees our sister, she gasps.
Lucy envelops Millie, wrapping her up tight. She’s kicked up sand that sticks to her legs and the back pockets of her denim shorts.
“Oh, Millie.” She rocks her back and forth as Millie starts to cry into Lucy’s chest, gripping her back with her fingers.
When they stand like that, so close together, it’s like they become one person, with their similar hair and builds and mannerisms. If I were there, I’d tower over them. The odd one with the messy bun and the lanky limbs. The one with bare nails and picked-over cuticles. The one who doesn’t belong.
I hang back and clasp my hands together, squeezing tight.
The sun beats down on my scalp, the tender skin on my arms already burning from being outside the welcome hut.
Behind me, Erica watches the ambulance drive down the beach, crying into the arms of a blond girl who looks so much like Lucy’s ex.
I look closer, and, holy shit, it is Olivia Godwin.
There’s no time to dwell on that, though, and I refocus my attention on my sisters, who are still huddled close.
Despite the fact that Millie found a dead body, a wave of jealousy hits me square in the chest. I want to be inside that hug, with them, a part of this.
Being the youngest of three means all of the good stuff has already happened to your family.
You were in utero for that one trip to Maine.
You don’t remember the Thanksgiving where Aunt Trish fell asleep in the pumpkin pie.
You were too young to understand the overheard conversations your parents had behind closed doors during Grandpa’s shiva.
You arrived too late to be in on the jokes, the secrets, the stories.
I clench my jaw and watch them together, Lucy’s hand on Millie’s head, pushing away her damp hair. But then Millie’s eyes flash open, and she sees me. Her mouth crumples yet again.
“Frankie!” she calls, and as quickly as my envy appeared, it dissolves with the reminder I’m one of you, and you know that, too. There are three of us, and we are never whole unless we are together.
Lucy turns around and extends an arm to me, and I fold inside their hug, ducking down as Lucy whispers to us both, “I got you guys. I got you.”
Safe in my sisters’ arms, with Millie crying softly, I believe Lucy.
We break apart, and Lucy’s gaze flits over to Ethan, who’s sitting by the shoreline, tears streaked down his face as he looks out at the water.
I turn back to Alex, who’s walking over to Ethan with Trevor, and see the two brothers sit down on either side of Ethan, the three of them pulled together.
“I should probably…” Lucy says, and nods toward the boys.
“Right,” Millie says, and we watch her bend down and take Ethan in her arms. Trevor and Alex back away to let them have their space.
I’ve asked myself what it must be like to be Lucy many, many times, especially when she aces a test or earns an award.
Life has come so easily to her, like the world bends to her will, like people turn to her and smile, happy to be in her presence.
But looking at her now, watching her navigate one group, then the next, comforting them with her soft voice, her knowing gaze, her soothing hands, I wonder if she views her gifts as a power or a burden.
“Millie Gold?” I turn to see a woman with a dark bob approaching Millie with a little notebook in her hand.
“That’s me.”
“Detective Hampton,” the woman says, shielding her eyes from the sun. “You found Billy, yes?”
“Yes.”
“We’d like you to come down to the station. You and”—she looks at her notebook—“Ethan Silver. Just answer a few questions.”
“Okay,” Millie says quietly.
At that moment, Mom rushes up, gripping Millie to her. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you pulled him out.”
Hampton clears her throat, and Mom looks up. “Is she yours?” Hampton asks.
Mom nods, then grabs my hand, too. “They both are.”
“Millie’s going to have to come with us for questioning.”
Mom’s mouth forms an O shape, and she looks to Millie.
“It’s okay, Mom. They just want some details.”
“Maybe you should call Dad?” I ask.
Millie’s gaze shifts to me, her eyes wide. “Why?”
It takes a ridiculous amount of effort not to roll my eyes, but sometimes I think Millie lives on a different planet—or has at least never seen a true-crime documentary. “He’s a lawyer.”
“Dad does real estate law.”
Mom’s brow knits, and she nods vehemently. “That’s an excellent idea, Frankie.” Pride builds in my chest. “I’ll call him before I head to the hospital to meet Sally. She needs all the support she can get right now.”
Detective Hampton makes a coughing sound. “Do you need a ride?”
Mom shakes her head. “Her sister Lucy will drive her.”
Lucy’s head pops up from where she sits with Ethan. “Yes, of course,” she says. “We’ll be right behind you.”
Millie starts to follow Lucy and Ethan up the beach, but as they disappear, my heart rate picks up, like I need them to be closer.
“Wait!” I say, but they’re already gone.
“Mom?” I turn to where she was standing, but she’s already rushing toward the parking lot.
I realize I’m alone, a creeping sense of dread spreading through my stomach.
My hands are clammy, and I wipe my palms on my shorts, leaving sweat stains on the cotton.
The beach has cleared, and the only people still here are the ones in Pelican Island PD polo shirts and latex gloves.
One of them pulls out a camera and starts taking photos, as if to document evidence, as if this beach were a crime scene.
But that’s when reality hits me.
Oh my god.
The beach is a crime scene.