Chapter 13 Nicola
BY THE TIME we step outside, the festivities are in full swing—club members huddled around the bonfire, chatting and laughing, a plastic bag of marshmallows split open on the ground.
Zach has propped his skewer against a tree stump while he wrangles the cork out of some wine.
His gaze immediately lifts to meet mine; I subtly nod to indicate that everything’s fine.
He raises an eyebrow, doubtful, but returns to the bottle clenched between his knees.
Greer grabs two skewers before settling on the ground, tapping the dirt next to her in invitation. I reach for the Moscato she had shipped here but stop halfway. “Isn’t that the right brand?” she asks, impaling her marshmallow.
It’s the right brand, but for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like getting drunk. The backyard’s buzzing, the night warm with a languid glow, and I don’t want to be numb to anything that’s happening. “No thanks. But you can have some if you want.”
They serve this brand at our local bar, Barry’s. Greer and I spent countless nights, papers strewn across the sticky countertop, sipping wine while we scrutinized the evidence. She loved it, always commented on its “bold flavors” and how it “challenged traditional palates.” I nudge it toward her.
“Maybe later.”
“Seriously, don’t feel like you need to abstain because of me.”
She looks warily at the bottle.
“Don’t let me hold you back.”
“Believe me, you’re not.”
“What?”
She appears to be bracing herself. “I know it’s your favorite,” she says, “but it tastes like licking the back of a cough syrup spoon. I’m sorry; I can’t live the lie any longer.”
This is almost more shocking than her apology. “But you love this wine. Every time we went out, you ordered a bottle for the table—sometimes more than one.”
“Don’t remind me.” She thrusts her marshmallow into the center of the coals.
“So, all this time, you’ve been drinking wine you hate for me.”
She puffs her cheeks, blows the flaming marshmallow out, then scrapes the charbroiled husk onto a graham cracker. “You were worth the sacrifice.” As she stuffs the gooey mess into her mouth, sticky whiteness clings to the corners of her lips. She hums in pleasure. I look away.
Distantly, someone starts plucking out chords on an acoustic guitar.
“Hey.”
Connor’s approached from behind. He crouches between us, lifts his tablet so Greer can see the screen. “Our visitor’s back.”
A single colored dot blinks.
“Where?”
“Right in front of us. In the woods.”
Greer stands, brushing her palms along the back of her jeans, and crosses to the car parked in the driveway.
Taking out her keys, she opens the driver’s-side door, and, leaning half into the vehicle, twists them in the ignition.
“Greer,” Connor hisses, but it’s too late.
The car doesn’t rumble to life, but the headlights blink on, illuminating the woods like searchlights on a prison tower.
“Come out!” Greer shouts. “We know you’re there.”
The other club members have risen to their feet.
Hannah, who’s closest to the woods, wobbles backward, then turns and runs to hide behind Ros.
I’d expect whoever’s in the woods to flee, but instead, the person steps out from behind the trees and slowly makes her way toward us.
It’s a woman, I realize—brown-skinned, young, maybe in her twenties.
Her hands are cupped above her eyes, shielding her from the headlights’ glare.
The hems of her jeans are caked with dirt; a ratty backpack swings from one shoulder.
“Hello?” she calls.
“What can we do for you?” Connor asks, not sounding very welcoming.
“Is Greer Woods here?”
She lowers her hands, squinting to see us through the light. All the color drains from Greer’s cheeks. She starts to step forward, but Connor inserts himself between them. “Who are you?”
“I’m not here to make trouble,” she says, ignoring his question. “I only need a few minutes.”
“Not going to happen. How’d you get up here?”
“Caught a ride to the nearest town and walked.”
“Are you with the press?”
“What? No.”
“Does anyone else know we’re here?”
She shakes her head. “No, look, I understand why you’re concerned, but I promise, I’m not here to expose anyone—”
“Expose anyone? What’s that supposed to mean?”
He’s advancing on her now, and she, in turn, slinks back toward the pines. “Nothing, just, well, because of who your parents are—”
“How do you know—”
“What the fuck—”
“Who told her—”
Everyone starts talking at once, but their shouts are cut short by the deafening blast of the car horn.
“Okay,” Greer says, taking her palm off the steering wheel. “Let’s try this again.”
“I just need your help—” the stranger says, but Connor seizes her by the elbow.
“You’re trespassing on private property. We’ll give you a ride back to town, but that’s all the help you’re getting.”
He yanks as hard as he can so that she has no choice but to stumble after him, then throws open the door to the back seat.
“Don’t,” she protests, but Connor’s clearly had enough.
He pushes down on her shoulders, trying to force her inside like the police do with perpetrators, but she resists.
The waistband of her jeans rolls down as she tries to scramble out of his hold, and that’s when we all see it.
A knotted rope of scar tissue.
Like someone jabbed a hook through her skin, then ripped it free.
Disgusting, and yet all of us keep staring.
Connor tries once again to push her into the back seat.
“Wait!” We spin around to stare at Hannah, who’s pointing at the laceration.
It’s the first thing I’ve heard her say.
She immediately shrinks back into herself, her next words coming out in little more than a whisper. “Who did that to you?”
The woman wavers, as if trying to determine whether she can trust us. Finally, she tosses her backpack onto the ground, drops to her knees, and unzips the main compartment. “I’m here because I have a story that needs to be shared.” She tugs out a thick manila envelope.
“What kind of story?” Greer asks.
Instead of answering, the woman pulls a sheet of paper free and starts reading.
“ ‘Steffani has four burn marks on her forearm. She claims she was playing with a lighter and accidentally injured herself; however, the wounds are inconsistent with her narrative. Her father has a documented history of domestic violence and sole custody, her mother having left the home last year.’ ”
“You’re Steffani?” Kemy asks.
She pulls up her T-shirt so we can see the full extent of the damage; there’s a collective intake of breath.
“The man who did that”—she points to the scarring—“I want him gone.” She pulls more papers out of the envelope, spreads them across the ground.
We’re too far away to see the details, but some display government seals.
“I have his arrest records, a catalogue of all the foster homes they sent me to, statements from my social workers.”
“We’re not law enforcement—” Connor starts, but Steffani ignores him.
“You have that television show—”
“Fuck me,” Greer mutters, leaning against the bumper of the car. She looks like she’s going to be sick, but her apparent lack of enthusiasm does nothing to deter the woman in front of her.
“If you tell the world what he’s done, they’ll have no choice but to listen. He’s a murderer, and you need to bring him to justice—real justice.”
A murderer. She’s convinced her father is like ours, and she’s traveled all this way because she wants Greer’s help getting him arrested. How the hell did she figure out where we’d be this weekend? And did she really walk all the way here from the mainland?
“She doesn’t need to do anything,” Connor says. “You, however, need to turn over your phone, so we can make sure you didn’t record anything. And then you need to leave.”
“Connor—” Imogen starts.
“I’m with Connor.” Ros pushes her way forward. “Some of us work hard to keep our private lives private. What’s stopping her from going to the press and telling them about us?”
“Nothing,” Zach says. “Unless you’re going to take her out into the woods and axe her.”
We all turn to stare at the axe lodged in the stump. Firelight casts everyone’s faces into shadows, hollowing out their cheeks and sharpening their features. An unwanted thought sweeps through my mind: You don’t really know any of these people.
“Not funny,” Kemy says, breaking the tension.
“What? We’re not allowed to joke about it because of who our parents are?”
“No, we’re not allowed to joke about it because of who her parent is.”
“All right.” Greer pulls the key out of the ignition, plunging the clearing into darkness. It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dim glow of the bonfire. “She can stay the night.”
Connor. “You can’t be serious.”
“We can take her cell phone, make her sign a nondisclosure agreement, restrict her to the spare room upstairs.”
“There’s a spare room upstairs, and I’m stuck in the basement?” Ros mutters.
Zach chuckles, then steps forward. “I can drive her into town tomorrow morning if you’ll let me use the car.”
Greer slams the driver’s-side door. “Not a chance.”
“Oh, c’mon, we’ll all have sobered up by then—”
“No.”
Connor holds out his palm. “Phone.”
Steffani reluctantly surrenders it. He removes something from his pocket, a paper clip, maybe, and sticks it into the side. The SIM card pops out, and without thinking twice, he tosses it into the fire.
“Connor!” Imogen yells.
“She can buy a new one.” He turns back to Steffani. “I’ll take you upstairs to your room. If anyone finds you wandering around the property, you’ll be asked to leave.”
His tone makes it clear that not much asking will be involved.
He leads her up the porch stairs, and before they disappear into the lodge, she casts one final look at Greer.
Apparently she believes getting an audience with the creator of To Catch a Killer will be her one-way ticket to getting her father convicted.
And why shouldn’t she? Greer did such a good job putting my dad away, it makes sense Steffani would expect the same results.
I grab another bottle of wine, not the Moscato, and offer it to Greer.
She smiles, but it’s strained.
“I should probably go inside, listen to whatever she has to say.”
A light flickers on in an upstairs window. Two shadows shuffle around behind the drawn curtains. Probably Connor reading Steffani the riot act before deleting everything from her phone.
“Just one more? For the road?”
She shakes her head. “You should enjoy yourself, though. Night’s still young.”
Tomorrow morning, Steffani will be escorted back to the mainland, and we’ll have the rest of the weekend to spend together. But as Greer’s attention strays back to the lodge, I can’t help wondering how sincere her apology was—especially since she’s ditched me at every opportunity tonight.
An acoustic guitar starts playing “Closing Time.”
She winces. “Actually, maybe you should consider packing it in, too, unless you want to hear Zach’s best impression of two foxes fucking.”
My memory flashes to that fox I saw earlier in the woods, its jaws creaking open, and the nightmare of my best friend’s death flooding out. But the memory doesn’t linger for long because suddenly, an agonizing discharge of flats and sharps fills the clearing.
“Closing time, yadda-dadda-dadda and let you out into the world!”
Greer laughs at my horrified expression. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Nicola.” She pauses, then adds, “Nic,” before clomping up the porch steps. The screen door bangs open and slowly creaks shut.
I lift the bottle and start drinking.