Chapter 17
Five Days Before the Hurricane
I’m on the pool deck. Two days after finding this stash of nightmare fuel, I’m still fixated on Gemma’s bra, the wine bottle, and the cups.
Beau’s not home, and even if he was, we wouldn’t be speaking to each other. Our cold war continues. The silence between us has grown sharp, drawing fresh blood every time I brush up against it.
When we left Los Angeles for Winter Park, I thought we were building something new together, a foundation that belonged only to us. Now, I can’t shake the feeling that the house is still standing, but the ground underneath us is splitting open.
“Este?” Nora calls.
At the sound of her voice, I hastily stash the items back in their tote bag and stuff it in a cabinet in the outdoor kitchen. We might live on different streets now, but our habit of walking freely into each other’s homes survived Nora’s move.
“Hi!” She steps onto the deck, holding a shipping box. “I can’t believe you’re agreeing to go to a golf tournament. Did you drop acid this morning?”
I laugh, giving her baby pink tennis dress a once-over. “Wow. You’ve got a lot of attitude for someone dressed as a cream puff.”
“So rude.” She laughs. “This is designer. Anyway, you got a package.”
The announcement doesn’t register as news at first. Shipments arrive in a steady stream around here. Paper towels on subscription. Cases of wine. The latest top from Net-a-Porter.
Following Nora as she carries the package to the kitchen island, though, I can see the handwritten shipping label is smudged, like someone brushed over the ink in a hurry. The street number for the return address is a scrawl of numerals, but the city of origin is Winter Park.
I grab a pair of scissors from the junk drawer near the fridge and carefully slice the shipping tape down the center. There’s white tissue paper first and then a note on a piece of paper. One side of the sheet is torn, like maybe the sender had begged it off a clerk at the post office.
I know how much you love the dress. I had to make sure it got back to you. I hope you understand why I had to go.
—Gemma
Chills race from my fingertips up my arm and through my chest, like a ghost brushing past me.
“What the fuck?” I look between the note and Nora.
I rip past the tissue paper to find the dress bag I gave Gemma the day of the Lemon & Fig party. My lucky dress, which I had given to her hours before she died.
The dress is exactly the way it was when I handed it to her—down to the Post-it I had hidden on the Chanel tag, wishing her luck. She must never have opened it. Never so much as tried the dress on.
What the fucking fuck does that mean?
“What is it?” Nora steps toward the island slowly, like the box needs a wide berth.
“I lent this dress to Gemma,” I answer without taking my eyes off the box. I check the date on the shipping label. “She sent it back the day she died.”
She must have shipped it almost as soon as I handed it over. Whatever plan she had was already in motion.
But dying couldn’t have been the plan. So what was?
“ ‘I hope you understand why I had to go,’ ” I read to Nora, who’s even more confused than I am, because there’s so much I haven’t told her.
Go where?
I stare at the dress and the note. Suddenly, I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that she never wore the dress or the fact that she never planned to.
Nora gives me a knowing look, our best-friend telepathy kicking in. “Este,” she says carefully, “what aren’t you telling me?”
I should tell her everything. About Beau.
About our fight and the jar of tees from Lemon & Fig.
About the bra and cups and the wine bottle I took from the Hall House.
I should come clean to someone about the 310 number.
But I can’t afford to lose control of whatever this is.
I know Nora means well, but she can’t help me now.
I shake my head, clutching the note so tight the paper creases between my fingers. “I don’t know,” I mutter.
The box suddenly feels like a time bomb sitting in the middle of my house.
There’s a ringing in my ears as I grab my phone, pulling up the mystery 310 number, and for a second the pitch feels like it might render me deaf. I’m suddenly ready to fight or scream or run through a wall.
10:30 A.M.
Fine. Let’s talk.
I’m so agitated I need a response right away. But the number that’s been haunting me for ten days has gone quiet.
“Maybe we should skip the pro-am tournament at the club?” Nora asks in a thin voice.
“No.” I shake my head.
I want to talk to Ford. Want to confront the California area code number. Want to get to the bottom of what Beau is hiding. I need answers. Now.
“We’re going,” I say. “But we need to make one stop first.”