Courtney #2
something like ninety degrees with air quality alerts and unmerciful humidity. As a result, I’ve relished the crisp, earthy,
pine-infused air slipping into the room with us at night, curling around us like fog. I can’t remember ever sleeping as well
as I have these last few nights, despite the fact that the resort has aged since Elliott was here five years ago and isn’t
as charming as he remembered. When we got here, he felt guilty for even recommending it; I told him it was fine and that we
weren’t expecting the Four Seasons.
Last night, there was a cross breeze coming in through the open windows.
I wrapped myself in the patchwork quilt, pressing up close to Elliott to absorb the heat off his body, which he thought was me coming on to him and I had to tell him no—while gently pushing his hands away—not with Cass and Mae awake just twenty feet away.
Unhappily he obeyed, wrapping his arms around me instead, and we fell asleep like that.
I woke up at three in the morning to check on the girls, finding them asleep with the TV on, though now I wonder if I woke up all on my own or if something woke me.
“How old is your niece?”
“Seventeen. Her name is Reese. Reese Crane.”
He asks if I have a picture of her, and I find one on my phone, taken just a day or so ago of her standing on the deck beside
Cass, with her hand on Cass’s shoulder, her skin natural and makeup-free. She wore an oversize tee that day, which came down
to her upper thigh, her legs beneath it bare, her hair air-dried so that it was tousled and wavy. Cass adores her cousin,
but Reese blows hot and cold in her affection toward Cass, though when she pays attention to her, I can visibly see Cass’s
self-worth increase.
He barely gives it a glance. “And the deceased—”
“Please stop calling them that,” I say, interrupting, my words so sharp he does a double take.
“Pardon?”
“The deceased. They have names, you know? They’re Nolan and Emily Crane.”
He glances to the other side of the room to see if anyone heard me, which they did, because the other officers look up. Wyatt
does too. Detective Evans turns back, his ego hurt. He gives me a hard smile and says, if only to placate me, “I’m sorry,
ma’am. You’re right. Of course they do. Mr. and Mrs. Crane then, they’re Reese’s parents?”
“Yes.”
“How did they get along?” Detective Evans asks then, in the same casual manner of someone asking what kind of pizza they like.
“Excuse me?” I ask, his question—and its implication—making it suddenly hard to breathe.
“I asked, how did they get along?” he says, as if I didn’t hear him the first time. I don’t answer right away because I can’t,
because it’s too horrible for words, thinking of the carnage next door and of Reese somehow being responsible for it, which
is what he’s suggesting.
“You think Reese did something to hurt them?” I ask, shaking my head and feeling defensive. “No. No. That’s not possible. That’s not what happened. Someone has Reese. Someone took Reese,” I insist.
But even as I say it, I think of last night, before Elliott and I said goodbye and left to come back home to our own cottage
for the night. Reese was upset with Emily, which wasn’t unusual, because it seemed like Reese was always upset with Emily.
I didn’t know why she was mad last night, because it could have been something as simple as the way Emily looked at her or
a comment Emily made about Reese’s clothes or hair that set her off.
But I remember Reese’s vitriolic words as she stomped up the wooden steps, slamming a bedroom door so forcibly the whole cottage
shook, an awkward silence sweeping over the rest of us before Elliott patted my knee and suggested we leave.
I hate you. I wish you’d die.
Detective Evans is watching me. He asks, “What makes you say that, ma’am? What makes you think someone has her?”
“It’s just . . . it’s just that I know Reese. And I know she would never hurt her parents,” I say, telling myself that she
was only angry and that people say things they don’t mean when they’re angry.
“Do you have a reason to believe someone took her? Was she afraid of someone? Was she being threatened?”
“We’re not from around here, Detective. We don’t know anyone here.”
That said, I think of the man at the bar just now. I think of the men—grown men, married men—leering at Reese sunbathing in
her bikini by the pool.
Anyone could have done it. Anyone could have taken her.
“When is the last time you saw Mr. and Mrs. Crane alive?”
I think back to last night, how everything happened. Cass and Mae asked if they could have a sleepover. We were at their cottage
at the time and Emily suggested the girls stay there, so that Elliott and I could have a night alone. For a short-lived moment,
I felt excited by the idea, because Elliott and I almost never had any time to ourselves anymore. With an only child, practically
everything we do involves Cass. Family movie night, family game night. I thought about opening a bottle of wine, about staying
up late sitting on the sunken sofa, talking.
But Reese was the one to complain, to put a kibosh on those plans. They are not sleeping here. No fucking way. I am not listening to them all night.
I didn’t want to make Emily feel bad for the way Reese reacted, and so I said no, that Elliott would probably just go to bed
early because he planned to leave early to fish. We can keep them, I’d said. And then another night they can sleep at your cottage.
Now there would never be another night. A moan rises up inside of me as I think about how close Cass and Mae came to being killed too.
I picture them lying on the floor of the screened-in porch beside Emily.
I see them dead. I see blood on their small bodies as thoughts fill my mind of Emily and Nolan dead.
Murdered. Dead. Murdered. I say it again and again in my mind, until the words lose meaning and I can’t make sense of them anymore.
I can’t process the fact that Emily and Nolan are no longer living.
That they’re gone. I think about their last moments alive and wonder if they knew they were going to die, if they were scared, if they fought back or if it happened so fast they didn’t have time to react.
Someone brings me a glass of water that I don’t want. Detective Evans takes it when I don’t, holding it before looking around
for someplace to set it—settling on a dusty windowsill—and turning back to face me.
I don’t know how much time passes before I can answer. “Last night,” I say. “Maybe half past eight. My husband and I were
at their cottage. Wyatt and Reese were there too. The girls, Cass and Mae, were back at our cottage alone. They’re ten,” I
say, as if feeling the need to defend my decision to let them stay home alone for a few hours, though he’s too young to know
anything about raising kids. “And we were just next door. We assumed they’d be fine and they were. The four adults played
cards, had a few drinks, and then my husband and I said good-night to come back and check on the girls. That was the last
time we saw Emily and Nolan alive.”
I’ve said something, sparking the detective’s interest. He stands up straighter, looks around, noticing Elliott’s absence
for the first time.
“Where is your husband?” he asks slowly, cocking a head, his words, however benign, getting under my skin.