7. Jayne #2
The last thing I need is to have my friendship with Evan ruined forever because of all this.
It’s horrible enough to be sitting here, going over the details of my twin sister’s death with the police.
The only thing that would really make it worse would be alienating my best friend and ending up with no one left to talk to.
No one who understands me. With Sadie gone, Evan is my lifeline.
The one who knows the real me in a way I hadn’t thought was possible.
And that’s saying something, considering I’m a twin.
“I believe you, Jayne. We’ll just look into this Evan Garfield to make sure what you’re telling us matches up. I’m sure it will, and if so, then there’s no need for us to question him.”
I nod, feeling myself starting to choke up again. “Thanks. I just… Um, without Sadie… Evan is my rock. I really need my friend.”
Detective Hunt’s eyes soften. He looks like the guy in a Mafia movie who would be the one to try to do the right thing.
That’s the only way I can think to describe him.
Unfortunately, if this really were a Mafia movie, it would also make him very unlikely to survive.
I wonder what the detectives are like who are questioning Liz and Ben.
Are they like Detective Hunt? Kinder? Harsher?
It’s hard to imagine anyone could be more…
courteous, I guess. And at least if I have to sit in this room and live through this nightmare, I’m going to be treated like a human being. I deserve that.
“Do you want us to call him for you?” he asks, bringing me out of the fog of my thoughts. “Mr. Garfield, that is? This certainly qualifies as a crisis, and I understand if you would feel better if you could speak with your friend.”
I shake my head. “No. No, thank you. Today is Saturday. He’ll be competing in the grand prix—he’s been working so hard to qualify for it, and one of the other riders had to drop out for him to even have a shot. I would hate to take that away from him right now. I’ll wait.”
“This doesn’t have to wait, Jayne. It shouldn’t wait.”
He’s right, obviously. Dead sister trumps show-jumping competition. And yet.
“The thing is,” I say, working hard to put my thoughts together, “right now, in this room, part of me can still believe it isn’t real.
Does that make sense? It could all just be a trick.
An insane prank my sister is pulling on all of us.
I know that’s not true, obviously. I don’t want you to think I’m delusional.
But as soon as someone else knows, as soon as I have to say it out loud…
I don’t know.” I look toward the ceiling, made of those kinds of big fiberglass tiles that you only ever see in schools and medical offices. I feel the tears pooling in my eyes.
“Have you ever lost someone?” I ask, still not looking away from the ceiling.
Detective Hunt seems surprised by my question, although I have to think he gets asked that a lot by people who have just had a family member killed.
Then again, has anyone in this town ever actually gone through this before?
I guess the last time it happened was with Ben’s uncle, and we hadn’t even been born yet.
Who knows if Detective Hunt was here or not?
Maybe this is his first murder. Double murder, to be specific, because of Mason.
“Yes,” he says finally, “I have.”
“Me too. It was my grandfather, so it wasn’t quite a surprise.
Everyone loses their grandparents, you know?
And we knew that he was sick. The strange thing is, when my parents sat Sadie and me down and told us that he was gone—we were ten—I didn’t cry right away.
Sadie did. She sobbed and sobbed. We were still sharing a room then, and I remember staying up all night, listening to her crying.
But I didn’t cry at all. And I thought there must be something wrong with me, like there’s only one way you’re supposed to be sad.
But then the next day at school, I went to tell some friend what had happened, that my grandfather was gone, and as soon as I started trying to say it, I broke down in tears.
I was inconsolable. They had to send me to the guidance counselor and then call my mom to come get me early.
And I suppose the reason I’m telling you all this is that calling Evan and telling him what happened will be like that.
Obviously, I’ve already cried more than I thought anyone could, but when I actually have to tell someone who doesn’t know about this… I just can’t. Not yet.”
I finally break imaginary eye contact with the ceiling and look back at Detective Hunt. The tears are now streaming down my cheeks, and I don’t wipe them away. He’s looking at me like he gets it.
“I know exactly what you mean,” he says simply. And then he drops it. “Why don’t we revisit what happened at that party between Liz and Ben in a little while, okay? Let’s pivot to Mason. Is there anything you can tell me about him?”
The photography club always meets on Friday afternoons during free period.
It’s only open to juniors and seniors, and we all have the same study hall time, which makes it easy to meet.
Plus, not that I don’t adore photography, but who really wants to stay after school for a hobby?
I’ll take my extracurriculars in the middle of the day, thanks very much.
Unless we’re talking about riding, but that’s in a category of its own.
I’ve loved photography since I was a little kid, when I became somewhat obsessed with the old Hollywood kind of still shots after my parents took us to see Gentlemen Prefer Blondes at a classic movie night at the drive-in. That’s what started it all for me.
Marilyn Monroe, James Dean—pretty much any star who was unbearably beautiful and died too young.
It was definitely something that worried my parents when I was younger.
What on earth do you do with a kid who’s always watching dead stars in old movies and asking wildly uncomfortable questions about mortality?
I think it was just fascinating to me. How someone could be so vibrant and alive on-screen and yet be gone for so long that they were just a distant memory.
I was as obsessed with the studio shots of James Dean looking like a god as I was with the photos of his Porsche Spyder after the accident that took his life.
Like I said, Carly and Steven definitely had their hands full with me.
I think they were grateful when I took up riding and started spending less time in front of the TV and more time at the barn.
I was grateful too. Riding is everything to me.
It forces you to be present. To exist only in the moment, nothing but you and your horse.
It’s curious how my interests sit at such opposite ends of the spectrum—riding is all about living in the present, and photography is all about preserving the past. What can I say?
I suppose I’m a woman of contradictions.
Mason and I are side by side in the darkroom again this afternoon.
I try to pretend like it doesn’t bother me.
The two of us being so close, with no one else around.
He doesn’t make any reference to his comments earlier, when Damian was giving me a hard time, just a brief “Hey, Red” when I come through the door.
“Hey,” I reply, and proceed to ignore him entirely while I examine how my latest project is turning out.
It was only a matter of time until my hobbies merged, and I’m incredibly proud of the black-and-white stills I’ve taken of Sundance and a few of the other horses at the barn.
Riding is such a simultaneously forceful and delicate sport, just like horses themselves.
I glance over at Mason, busy with his own work.
I can’t help but be curious. The teacher who sponsors our club is always going on about how phenomenal Mason’s work is, and I honestly haven’t seen that much of it.
He seems like a pretty private person, and for all I know, he’s taking pictures of disembodied doll heads on spikes.
Okay, probably not. But I don’t even know what his style is—avant-garde?
Portraiture? Wildlife? He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who gets up at sunrise to capture rare birds, but like I said, Mason Vreeland is difficult to figure out.
“So,” he says, surprising me by breaking the silence, “not heading to Trevor’s tonight, huh?”
“I—no. Like I told Damian, it’s not really my scene.” I pause for a moment. “Are you going?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
I wait for him to laugh and tell me he’s kidding. His sense of humor is also hard to figure out. But he says nothing else.
“Oh,” I say finally. “Seriously? You’re going to Trevor’s?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Nothing. I’m just surprised, that’s all. I didn’t think that kind of thing would be your scene either.”
“What, the art kid can’t drink shitty beer by a bonfire with all the normies?”
If it weren’t so dark in here, Mason would see my face burning. I’ve always blushed easily, somehow even more easily than Sadie, despite the fact that we’re twins.
“That’s not what I meant,” I reply quickly.
“Relax, Red. I know. But look, it’s senior year—for both of us. This is kind of the last chance for all this stuff, you know? Before we shake the dust of this town off our feet and get the hell out for something better. The brave ones, anyway.”
“The brave ones,” I repeat. And for a moment, I feel a sort of kinship with Mason. Because I know that when he says “the brave ones,” he’s referring to himself. And to me, whether he realizes it or not.