Chapter Thirty
Now
The afternoon rolled by, more quickly than I expected.
When the hikers returned, Rig needed me to help set up for the goodbye dinner.
We were pulling out all the stops—the fanciest table linens, the most expensive liquor.
Our last shot to impress the donors, the reporters, and leave everyone on the edge of their seats, wanting more.
I was grateful for the distraction. It would be a chance to let my mind be occupied by a constant slew of rote tasks—folding, table-setting, vacuuming, repeat. In a lot of ways, it reminded me of why I liked bartending so much; it gave my garbage disposal of a brain a chance to rest.
When I got back to the cabin hours later, I was exhausted. I took off my sweaty clothes and threw on Trevor’s T-shirt that I’d worn home that morning. I fell asleep almost immediately.
The song of a bird woke me an hour or so later. The sun had shifted; it was close to twilight now. “Shit,” I said, throwing myself out of bed. I needed to get myself together, get dressed for the final night. I also needed a serious caffeine intervention.
I opened my door and noticed Margo’s was closed. I figured she’d been writing all afternoon, holed up in here—or maybe she’d been out exploring. Trying to dig up more on Winona Hayes.
I hesitated in front of her door, hand poised to knock and ask if I should make enough coffee for both of us.
A peace offering, after the chaos of this morning’s fucked-up breakfast. I could hear the low drum of the shower, signaling that she was occupied.
I almost turned around, but something came over me, and I pushed the door open anyway.
There was a buzzing in my ears as I stepped over the threshold, knowing that what I was doing was crossing a line. But then I took another step.
Being in here was jarring. It smelled strange, like Margo’s perfume instead of my mother’s favorite cookie-scented candle, and there were silk pillowcases on the bed I didn’t recognize. The door to the bathroom was closed to keep the steam in, and I noticed that her phone was face up on the desk.
I thought about what Wes had said, what Chelsea had corroborated this morning. They thought Margo was dangerous. They thought she was here with the intention to cause harm—that she was the one sneaking into places she shouldn’t have been, leaving crude messages.
My feet seemed to move of their own accord, and I found myself standing in front of her phone. It was locked, of course, and I considered trying a few passwords to see if I could get in.
But just as I told myself to walk away, to pretend that the thought had never struck me, the preview of a new email appeared in her inbox. From her editor.
Re: re: Story Pitch—Who killed Stephanie Bennett?
OMG sounds like you might have been right all along. G.O. is definitely hiding something. If you really think she had something to do with—
I could only read the first few lines, but it was enough to understand, with fierce certainty. It was like a bucket of ice water being poured over my head. Margo really had been lying to me all along.
Since the very beginning, she’d been here to figure out what exactly happened that night.
To pin it on me.
I thought about her idea in Black Bass that first night, when we found that photo—getting me to soften to her.
I thought back on our conversation this morning, with Chelsea and Trevor and Wes. The way she’d riled Chelsea up until she snapped like a rubber band. Poking and prodding and forcing our hands, waiting to see if we broke.
And I thought about last night, when I’d poured her a glass of wine while she ugly cried. I’d consoled her, damn it. Hugged her, like we really were the old friends we’d been acting like all weekend.
Here I’d been, thinking we were making new discoveries together. Doing something good.
This had never been about mutual gain. It hadn’t been about making things right. This had been about her. Her plans, her games. Her revenge. On me.
Chelsea had been right; Wes had been right. I was the idiot, and I had been all along.
The shower turned off, and I heard the curtain slide open. As quietly as I could, I slipped out the door.
I waited fifteen seconds, until the bathroom door creaked. I made myself swallow the scream in my throat and arranged my face into something I hoped was neutral. Then, when I was ready, I put my fist to the door and knocked.
“Come in,” came Margo’s voice, and I pushed the door open again. I glanced around the room, like I was seeing it with fresh eyes. The steam had filtered into the bedroom from the shower, fogging up the mirror over the dresser, and Margo sat perched on the end of the bed, hair wrapped in a towel.
She narrowed her eyes, but it seemed to be more out of curiosity than accusation. I forced myself not to look over at her phone, where I knew it sat.
“What’s up?” She grabbed a bottle of lotion from the bedside table, squirting some into her hands before beginning the ritual of running it up and down her arms.
It was so normal that I stood frozen for a beat too long; it made me imagine a different, impossible life, where we’d all been roommates in the city. Where we would burst into one another’s rooms at all hours of the day and night, paint our nails on the coffee table between glasses of cheap wine.
It gave me a swoop in my stomach that was one part nostalgia, one part debilitating sadness.
She liked to say that I was a liar, a pretender. But clearly, she was the best actress here.
“I’m running over to the office for a few things. Need the printer—just some paperwork from the lawyers I have to look over. I’ll see you at dinner?”
Margo nodded, the movement small and casual, and I could see her already making a checklist in her head of what else she needed to accomplish tonight. I started to turn, but she clicked her tongue.
My hand flew to my chest, certain that I’d been caught.
But all she said was: “I’ve been thinking about that weird little symbol on the back of the photo. Do you have any ideas?”
I made myself shrug, going for nonchalant. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
She grabbed her phone off the desk, and my cheeks warmed, despite myself. I could tell she was scrolling through her photos, to find the picture she’d taken of the symbol on the back. She squinted at the picture and turned her phone on its side, as if that might make it make sense.
“Four lines, a circle, and a square. I’m at a loss.” Her eyes found mine. “No thoughts?”
I hesitated. Part of me wanted to stay, to talk to her, solve the puzzle—a larger part of me knew I was in the lion’s den. As much as I wanted to find the truth, I was growing more and more afraid of what Margo might be willing to do with the truth.
“Sorry, but I’ve got to get this done before dinner, so I’ll…” I trailed off. I gave her what I hoped was a semi-convincing smile before closing the door again.
We’d be eating later tonight, due to this afternoon’s stacked activity schedule, and it was already well past twilight as I made my way to the office building.
Inside, the lights were off, and I hesitated before entering my mom’s office.
I felt like I was violating her trust somehow, even though she was gone.
It was spooky inside; spookier than even Black Bass had been in the middle of the night.
This office building was new and sterile, the faint smell of paint still in the air.
The room was cramped, hardly big enough for one person, much less two.
And there were no windows, which made it feel like you were working from a broom closet.
The overhead light was too bright, and I turned it off again almost immediately, letting myself be swallowed by the darkness. Instead, I flipped on the purple desk lamp, which covered the room in a warm, soft glow.
It felt entirely wrong to break into my mother’s computer. But I knew what I was looking for. And I had to know if it was here, because I had to know if Margo could find it, too.
I entered in my mother’s passcode—not my birthday, but my due date, as an extra line of defense, she always told me—and found a photo of the two of us staring back at me on the desktop.
I was young, maybe ten years old, eating a Popsicle on the dock.
She stood beside me, draping a towel over both of us, and we smiled broadly at whoever was behind the camera.
I opened her email before I could let myself cry.
While my mom was organized, she was also the owner of a multimillion-dollar operation and the daughter of a well-known state senator, so her inbox was pure chaos.
I tried a few keywords before settling on the phrase I knew would work, though it felt like the world’s greatest betrayal to type out: Cause of fire.
There were a few hits in the results. Several were from the first round of reporters, years ago, asking for comment. The energy shifted in the next few—angry parents and citizens, criticizing her, accusing her of lying to the media, to the community.
But the one I clicked on came through about three weeks after the fire. It was from Sheriff Ramon.
There was no message in the body of the email, just an attachment. With shaking hands, I made myself open it.
The document was fifty pages long. My head went dizzy as I read the official title: “Dread’s Cove Fire Review.”
On the night of July 22, 2019, a fire started on private property in the Chattahoochee National Forest. The vegetation was drier than usual, which resulted in a no-fire ordinance in the weeks preceding the event.
The residents of the property alerted firefighters quickly, and the GA Fire Rescue team was dispatched over the next several hours.
Due to the remote access point of the property, the evacuation was not completed until early the next…
The same night, a thunderstorm occurred on the northern bounds of the property, however…
Investigators have officially determined that the fire was human-caused.
I leaned back in the chair, hardly daring to breathe. I read the same few words over and over, until they were swimming on the page.
Human-caused. Not a wildfire at all.
Years and years ago, in the weeks after Steph’s death, investigators had determined that the fire that ripped our world apart was started by a person.
And my mother had known.
She’d sat on this information—buried it—for five years.
For a long few minutes, I sat in utter, shocked silence. The room was stuffy and hot, but I still felt a chill creep up the back of my neck.
Her friendship and history with Winona Hayes, and now, the fire. So many secrets. Had she known about Steph, too?
What else had she been hiding from me?
There was no one else on the email chain, but I went into her Sent folder. She had forwarded it to just one person: Rig.