Chapter Twenty-Three
TWENTY-THREE
“I’d rather not,” Izzy says as we move to join the others.
She looks a bit pale and is carrying another glass of sangria, so I check on the jug.
It’s now less than a third full. Everyone else has glasses of boxed wine or beer, so there’s only three of us drinking the sangria.
Izzy seems to be hammering it way too fast. “I’m a bit sensitive to that stuff at the moment. ”
“What stuff?” the guy with Noah, Jake, pipes up from across the circle. “Ghosts?”
Izzy just shrugs and takes a slurp of her drink. When she finishes that one, I’m filling her glass with water.
“Oh my god, I forgot.” Jen’s hand flies to her mouth as she looks between Izzy and Noah, her gaze finally settling on me. “You’re the ones who found that girl on Monday.” Izzy grows even paler, and I just nod.
“Yeah.” I put my glass on the floor, avoiding eye contact and hoping Jen gets the message as Helen flashes across my mind.
I look at Izzy, who is leaning heavily on Ford. Ford, in turn, looks incredibly uncomfortable, though I’m not sure if it’s due to the topic of conversation or Izzy squeezing up to him.
“No way, that was you two? My mom must have interviewed you, then,” Jake says, scratching the wisps of hair on his chin.
“What?” I squeak, looking at him properly for the first time. His brown hair is cropped short, and there’s no real resemblance to either of the detectives from Monday night.
“Yeah, I heard her talking about it. Detective Romig?”
“Yeah, I remember.” I get to my feet, my heart pounding as the night rushes back to me. “Sorry, I just need to get something. Back in a sec.”
I excuse myself, putting the glass on the coffee table and heading to the kitchen. For a few seconds I can hear hushed whispers, and then “Season of the Witch” starts blaring from the other room again. Thank you, Scarlett.
I swallow a deep breath and turn on the tap, then fill and drain a glass of cold water in seconds.
It washes the sickly-sweet taste out of my mouth, and needing to distract myself, I grab the food caddy from the sideboard and open the lid, sweeping all the leftover fruit off the kitchen table and into the little container.
I collect the cutting knife and board and rinse them in the sink, then dump the empty bottles.
I glance at the time—almost ten—and decide food would be a good idea for everyone, so I raid the freezer and shove three frozen pizzas into the oven before soaking a dishcloth and wiping the sticky residue from the table.
“You okay?” I’m refilling my glass of water when Noah enters the kitchen. I fill a second glass for Izzy and turn round.
“Yeah.” I look down at my feet. “I just…I’ve been trying not to think about what happened, you know?”
“Sorry.” Noah takes in the tidy room and places his empty bottle in the recycling bin. “Jen can be a bit full-on sometimes. She’s harmless, though.”
“It’s fine. I can’t believe Jake’s mom is the detective.”
“You know how small Blackwood is. He hears all sorts of stuff he shouldn’t.” Noah opens the fridge and pulls out another green bottle. “You want one?”
“No thanks.” I shake my head and hold up my glass. It’s starting to gather condensation, becoming slippery in my hands. “I think Izzy’s had too much already. I want to make sure one of us is sober enough to lock up.”
“Good idea. I just saw her heading to the bathroom,” Noah says, closing the fridge. I groan. Izzy is a known spewer.
“Do me a favor?” I point to the oven. “I’ve put some pizzas in. Will you keep an eye on them while I check on her? It should beep if I’ve put the timer on right.” Noah nods. “Thanks. Just pass them out if I’m not back.”
“Will do.”
The second I step into the hallway, I know something’s wrong.
The bathroom door is ajar, but the light is off and there’s no sound coming from in there, let alone retching.
I push open the door anyway and pull the little string light, but the room is empty, the shower curtain around the bath neatly folded away, just like I left it earlier.
“Izzy?” I call, as if she’s hiding in the space between the sink and toilet.
I shake my head and turn off the light, heading back to the living room.
“Izzy, if you’ve been sick on the sofa…” I mutter as I approach the sliding doors.
The music has shifted to the type of eighties rock that conjures the image of men with long hair wearing stonewashed denim jackets, but only Jen is in there, scrolling on her phone.
She smiles up at me as I enter. “Have you seen Izzy?” I call over the music.
“Everyone’s outside,” she says, looking back at her phone.
“Great,” I sigh. The last thing we need is one of Dad’s neighbors telling him there were a load of drunk teenagers and an underage girl spewing into the hedges when he was away.
A smoky smell tickles my nose as I approach the open front door, and I speed up. They better not be doing what I think they’re doing out there. “Izzy!”
“Nope,” a voice giggles as I pull open the door and look out.
“Just us.” Scarlett doesn’t even try to hide the blazing joint in her hand, handing it to Ford instead.
He at least has the decency to look ashamed as he hands it to Jake, who takes a long drag.
I bet Detective Romig doesn’t know her son is a pothead.
“Have you seen her?” I ask Ford, ignoring Jake as he offers the joint in my direction.
“She went to the bathroom.” Ford shrugs apologetically. “Said she wasn’t feeling good.”
“Well, she’s not there now.” I try to keep the fear out of my voice, but it seeps in anyway. I hope she hasn’t gone wandering around outside on her own.
Jake takes a deep drag and holds his breath before turning his head my way and letting out a huge plume of smoke.
“No one else has come out.” He passes the end to Ford. Is this how they know each other? “She seemed pretty drunk. Maybe she went to bed?”
Of course. My shoulders relax immediately.
“Do me a favor and smoke that somewhere else, will you? I’ll get in so much trouble if someone sees you guys.”
“It’s done now.” Ford chokes out the words through a lungful of smoke. “Sorry, Fliss.”
I wrinkle my nose against the pungent smell and go back inside to collect Izzy’s glass of water. If my hair smells like that tomorrow, I’ll go mad.
“Iz?” I knock on my bedroom door gently and twist the handle, but it’s still locked.
I try Dad’s room, just in case, and relief floods me when I see the key in the lock.
She’s drunker than I thought if she got the rooms mixed up.
I test the handle and push the door open.
The room is dark, but I don’t turn on the light in case she’s still not feeling good, letting my eyes adjust instead.
“Izzy,” I stage-whisper, “if you have vomited on Kim’s wedding dress, I swear I’ll kill y—” I stop short as the shadows in the room begin to make sense. “Izzy?” The glass slides from my grip in slow motion and hits the floor, exploding into a million tiny shards that sting my feet.
Izzy lies motionless, face down on the bedroom floor.