September 1976
Run as fast as you can. Go as far as you are able. The past will move toward you, slow and steady. It will catch up, crooking
its hand, indicating that old debts must be paid. You will be sent regular reminders of your debt.
Helen tried to ignore this one bill, this memory that she couldn’t bear, the one she circled around and around, never able
to gain any distance. It had eaten a hole through the center of her life.
She could see herself in the kitchen of the mountain house. It was so sweaty in there, the air full of humidity. She remembered
her feet suctioning against the linoleum. She was Blue then—Blue had done this. Not Helen. Blue watched Star writhe on the
checkerboard floor while that moth slammed itself into the light above.
Where is it?
Where’s what?
If he’s not here yet, then you must still have it, right? We can fix this.
Blue knew this had been her plan—that it was supposed to look like Star took the money, but Star was supposed to be in a car and driving away from this place, down to Virginia, never to be seen again.
But they’d found her, dragged her in, gagged in Blue’s Hermès scarf. Star turned her head up toward Blue. Tears glazed her
face and there was snot coming out of her nose. Her mouth bled. She was gagging on it, but she was going to speak. She was
going to say something about that afternoon, that she had planned her escape with Blue. She had to be wondering why Blue wasn’t
explaining. Blue had to speak up. Had to say something. Had to save Star’s life.
But that would never work, of course. They would both die. Death had entered the room already. Blue could feel its fingers
on the back of her neck. Even if Blue confessed all, Star could never live. She’d run away. She’d seen too much.
Maybe if she could stop Star for just a moment, Blue could chase death from the house. . . .
This is where Helen’s brain usually covered events with a veil; blurred them. The memory was in grays, not full color, but
the picture was the same.
Blue picked up the cast-iron skillet, the one they used to fry eggs for breakfast. It still had a little crust of egg white
on the edge. She brought the pan down on the side of Star’s head.
The blow made a soft, dull noise—muffled by that halo of hair. A plume of blood arced toward the ceiling as she drew the pan
back. Something soft and wet hit Blue’s cheek and slid down and off her face. Star’s legs jerked for a few seconds, then she
fell still.
Blue couldn’t feel her hands very well, so she set the pan down calmly on the table.
“Holy shit,” Denver said in a low voice.
She looked over at Blue, her brown eyes wide, her face glazed with sweat and freckled delicately with blood drops.
Dean was silently staring at the body on the floor, and everyone was watching Dean look at the body. The overhead kitchen
light seemed to hum and throb and that moth beat on and on, ceaselessly.
After a long moment, he walked over and took Blue’s chin in his hand.
“I’m proud of you,” he said. “You knew what to do.”
The rest of the group melted in unison, the tension loosened.
Blue you did it Blue you knew what to do
Blue would forever be filled with shame at the fact that this caused her to flush with unwanted pride. Deep down, the fact
that Dean thought she had done well made her stand straighter, made her push back her shoulders and almost tear up with joy.
That little taste of joy would burn its way down her system for years and years—one single drop of poison that scorched everything it touched and never dried up or lessened in potency.
She tried everything to counteract it. Two different religions, four medications, pottery lessons, meditation tapes, thousands of miles circled through Central Park.
She would have gone to therapy, but that would require telling the truth about a murder she’d participated in, so that was impossible.
Nothing took away the fact that for a minute she was proud to be Dean’s good soldier, even as Star’s blood was still wet on the floor.
And the kicker? She didn’t even know if Dean was telling the truth. It could have been a test. A warning. Or just Dean being
full of shit and tossing out praise like you might throw out stale bread for birds. So not only was Blue unwillingly proud
of this cursed compliment, it probably wasn’t even true. That’s how worthless her loyalty was.
Later that morning, she watched Dean at the van. She saw her friends get inside. Dean gave Denver directions and sent them
on their way. They died minutes later, but she wouldn’t learn that until the next day. There was no reason to stop them. She
didn’t know they were in danger.
And Dean, he walked away down the drive.
Helen—Helen, that was her name—waited several minutes until she was sure there was no one around, then she moved back toward
the house.