Epilogue
SIX MONTHS LATER
“ J ust tell me where we’re going.”
“Mmm,” Aiden hums from the driver’s seat. “No. I don’t think I will yet.” I can hear the amusement in his voice, but thanks to the blindfold around my eyes, all I can see is a faint strip of gray at the top and bottom of my vision.
“Did you ever stop to consider that this is ruining my eye makeup?” I say. “My makeup looked amazing.”
“It did,” he says, still sounding amused. “So does the dress.”
I smooth my hands down the front of my prom dress, smiling a little.
The prom-turned-Hunger-Banquet was a surprising success.
Aiden worked his butt off to put everything together, but I was worried the kids would give him a hard time.
And they did at first, but the statistics he rolled out and the bowls of rice and beans and whatnot had their faces turning from disgruntled to solemn.
They perked up in time for the dance, though, and we were bombarded by the usual stench of teenage body odor and raging hormones.
The Betties chaperoned properly this time, too—as it turns out, during the Homecoming dance, they snuck down to the woods to vape.
To vape.
They saw Sandy briefly by the Solomon statue, still alive, when they first went down, but not when they returned. I felt kind of bad for them; they looked sheepish and drawn all throughout the in memoriam slideshow honoring Sandy. They clearly felt horrible.
Rocco Astor did not get a slideshow.
Once Sandy’s body was found buried behind his home on his sprawling country property, Rocco pleaded guilty to three counts of murder: Sandy, my mother, and Thomas Freese. The whole story came to me in bits and pieces after that, based on Rocco’s confession and the blanks the police filled in.
Sandra found an old picture of my mother that Rocco had kept.
He told her it was an old girlfriend who had died.
The police think Sandy saw my post on the town forum and then told Rocco she’d seen someone who looked just like his old flame.
From there she began following me and then Aiden.
I guess Rocco’s reaction was suspicious enough to her that she ended up tricking him into admitting the truth—using copious amounts of alcohol, he says.
Once she knew the whole story, she decided to tell me.
He killed her the night we were supposed to meet, when he found out what she was planning—a blow to the front of the head only moments before Aiden and I crashed into the woods.
He hid from us and then carried her body away once we’d gone; I don’t know how he made it to his car without anyone seeing him, but he did.
The photos he sent Tonya von Meller were, of course, photoshopped—something Garrity’s contact in Boise was able to prove.
On the whole, an incredibly sad, incredibly scary story. Sandy was smart and beautiful with a healthy disdain for what she perceived as the absurdly wealthy lifestyle she and her family led; I imagine this is part of why she and Rocco bonded. He truly hated the wealth he was raised with.
I wish he could have just done something good with it.
Ten minutes with Aiden would have convinced him to donate to the food bank, for starters.
He’s always going on about how they run out of toilet paper every month.
Of course, he’s also been nagging Lionel—who staunchly refuses to let me call him Uncle Lionel, despite his reluctant agreement to have dinner with me once a month—about more funding, so we’ll see where that gets him.
I, as it turns out, have been on Lionel’s radar for far longer than I thought.
He kept an eye on me and my mother over the years.
When he found out I was going into the system, he pulled a few strings to make sure his old friend, Cam, was assigned to my case.
He was looking out for my mother even then, in his own, weird way.
I met up with Cameron for lunch a few weeks back, and it went well; maybe we’ll meet up again in the future, when the past doesn’t feel so raw.
The car is silent as we drive, and I let my eyes flutter closed beneath the bandana Aiden has around my eyes. It’s been a long evening; first the banquet, followed by the dance. It must be nearing midnight by now, and the corsage on my wrist is wilted.
But I guess Aiden still has something he wants to show me. So I wait, my hand tucked in his as his thumb absently strokes my knuckles.
I sit up straighter a few minutes later when I feel the change in our path—crunchy gravel beneath the tires instead of smooth pavement.
“Aiden,” I say, reaching for the bandana. “Are we?—”
“Wait,” he says. His hand comes up to still mine, pulling it away from the bandana. “Hear me out, okay?”
I clear my throat. “Okay. ”
“We are at the cemetery.”
My heart sinks; I knew it.
“If you aren’t ready to be here,” he says in an unusually sincere voice, “we can leave right now. But you’ve been telling me for months that you want to come see Sandy and your mother, and you’ve been putting it off.
If you still truly aren’t ready, that’s okay; I’ll turn this car right around.
” He hesitates, and his voice is stronger as he says, “But if you’ve reached the point where you’re running away rather than still healing, you might consider getting out of this car with me and going to see them. ”
The silence that falls between us is loud, but my heartbeat is louder.
“Take your time deciding,” he says. “Take off the bandana if you want, or leave it on. You decide. Let me know when you’ve made up your mind.” He sighs and shuffles around in his seat. “I’m going to close my eyes and rest for now.”
I reach up and untie the bandana immediately, letting it fall away just in time to miss the sharp sting of tears that comes to my eyes. Then I look over at the man in the seat next to mine.
He’s leaned his chair back, one hand resting comfortably over his stomach. The distant lights of the cemetery illuminate the night just enough for me to see that his eyes are closed, but the hand that’s still holding mine is tight.
He’s awake. He’s just giving me privacy.
And he’s right; I have been putting this off. It’s not a matter of being ready anymore; I’m just scared.
I’m scared to look at the tombstone of Sandra von Meller, who died because she saw me pulling into town.
I’m scared to look at the tombstone of my mother, whose story I now know completely.
I’m scared of what I might feel. It was easier when I felt like Nora Bean had wronged me. What if I still feel angry?
You’re allowed to feel angry, my therapist has told me time and time again.
You’re allowed to feel compassion for your mother while also taking issue with how she treated you.
You’re allowed to love someone while also being glad they’re no longer part of your life.
You can understand why someone treats you badly while also refusing to allow them to treat you that way. Those things are okay.
I believe her. I really do. But understanding something with my brain and understanding it with my heart are two different things, and I still have a ways to go on that front.
I take a deep breath, my eyes searching everything I can see of the cemetery from the car. Then I turn to Aiden.
“Let’s go.”
His eyes pop open immediately, and he nods, putting his chair into the upright position. When his hand lets go of mine and reaches to turn the keys in the ignition, though, I smile.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I mean let’s go in. ”
“Oh,” he says. In the darkness I can see his gaze darting over my face. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I say, a strange peace settling over me. “I’m sure.” Then I look down at my shoes—pink heels that will sink right into the ground. “You gonna carry me?”
A little smile pulls at Aiden’s lips. “Of course,” he says.
I nod, and we both take that as our signal to get out of the car.
We drove Aiden’s, sadly; I wanted to take Sunshine to her first prom, but my grumpy boyfriend said everyone would laugh at us if we rolled up in a yellow clunker.
That started a long, heated debate about not caring what other people think, which ended with us sprawled on the floor, laughing and kissing and laughing some more.
Aiden rounds the car and pulls me just close enough to drop a kiss on my forehead. Then, without warning, he leans down and scoops me into his arms, the tulle of my skirt spilling everywhere.
“Hey,” I yelp. “Some warning, please.”
“I’m about to pick you up,” he says as he starts out across the gravel parking lot, his voice bland.
I roll my eyes.
He continues to carry me past the parking lot, past row after row of graves, heading toward the back corner where both my mother and Sandra are buried.
We reach Sandy’s grave first; it’s a large, marble affair that shines with the reflected glare of the lights placed here and there around the cemetery. Aiden sets me gently on my feet.
I approach Sandy’s grave with unsteady steps, forcing myself to breathe deeply. And for a few minutes, I just look.
“I’m sorry,” I say to her finally, my words catching in my throat. “I’m so, so sorry.” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I will remember you.” It’s my promise to her, the only thing I have to offer. “I will remember you, Sandra—Sandy.”
I tell her about prom, about the slideshow and the Hunger Banquet.
I tell her about my dress and my shoes. I tell her about my newest book, a mystery romance, which is dedicated to her, a book full of heart and emotion and a detective following her gut.
It’s also a book with a love interest who undeniably resembles Aiden; I tell Sandra that too.
I tell her all the things I think a high school girl might be interested in.
I tell her that Rocco Astor will rot behind bars for the rest of his miserable life.
And then I tell her goodbye for now. I’m not sure when I’ll visit her again. My heart hurts.
Aiden follows me wordlessly when I turn away from Sandy, heading toward my mother. They’re close, but not close enough to protect my shoes; I sink into the grass several times before I reach her corner.
I plop to the ground in front of my mother’s grave, ignoring the fact that my dress will probably be ruined. I look at Nora’s headstone, at the mossy patches and the rough texture. And then I speak.
“I’ll remember you too,” I say. I swallow. “But I will forget the parts of you that hurt.” My voice is hoarse, threadbare in the silence of the night. “I will keep you, but I will let go of the things that are hurting me to carry. That’s what I can do for you.”
And in the spring breeze that plays with my hair and my skirt, I can almost hear her response: You don’t owe me anything.
I cry for a long time. I cry for Nora and Sandy and Thomas Freese. I cry for Lionel Astor, who loved a woman that did not love him.? * I cry for myself, because I’m sad, and because I’m learning that I’m allowed to be unhappy.
I don’t know how long I sit there. But when my tears have faded into silence, broken every so often by sniffles, I feel Aiden’s warmth from behind me.
I lean back against him, my head resting somewhere around his knees, and I tilt my head back to look up at him.
“Want to dance?” he says.
It doesn’t make sense, but I nod anyway. I take his outstretched hand and stumble to my feet in front of him. He holds me at arms’ length before brushing the dirt and grass from my dress.
Then, from his suit pocket, he pulls his phone. He taps around for a moment until the beautiful, eerie sounds of Danse Macabre begin to play, floating out of his phone speaker and into the night around us.
He holds out his hands, and I take them, smiling as he pulls me close. We twirl slowly, pressed together as the music soars.
And somewhere in the darkness, just beyond the stars, Nora and Sandy dance along.
Thank you for reading Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder.