Chapter 24 Nicola #2
The others look away, visibly uncomfortable.
Ros is worried about her family, sure; Kemy, about her career; but thanks to those notebooks, I now understand the others have just as much to lose.
Imogen must be thinking about that lawsuit, how the prosecution would react if they discovered to whom she was related.
Hannah believes that her mother’s mental condition is improving, but if the press learns who she is, if they begin pursuing her as relentlessly as they have me, then she may never escape that psychiatric hospital.
As for Connor, I remember how he hounded Zach at the airport, refusing to budge until he produced the MP3 player hidden in his bag.
MP3 players have the ability to record audio, don’t they?
Could he have suspected all along that Zach might betray us?
And as soon as he received confirmation, would he have done whatever was necessary to ensure the club’s safety?
Greer lets the statement hang there, and when the tension’s started to make the others fidget, shift back and forth on the cushions, she says, “Let’s not start throwing around accusations. All we need to focus on is staying safe.”
“Should we call the police?” Hannah asks, her fingers twisting around the strings of her hoodie.
“We can’t,” Connor says. “Someone broke the tablet.”
Ros looks up, eyes red-rimmed and still damp. “You’re kidding. Like, on purpose?”
Connor and Greer exchange a look, probably remembering the theory she floated last night: that Ros destroyed the tablet to keep us from calling the police.
“Like on purpose,” he says, “but it’s all right.
If we follow some simple guidelines, we can all stay safe until the bus arrives tomorrow morning. ”
“Because you’ve done a real bang-up job of that so far.”
He ignores her. “We need to stay indoors. Make sure all doors and windows stay locked at all times. Double-check, triple-check, and stay together, preferably in groups of three.”
Apparently he’s reconsidered his travel-in-twos idea.
Imogen suddenly clasps her hands together, bracelets jangling. “Why don’t we start breakfast? I know it’s hard to think about food at a time like this, but when you’re stressed, it’s even more important to make sure you’re fueling yourself.”
The others trudge after her into the foyer.
I’m about to join them when Greer flops down onto the couch next to me.
We sit in silence, me unsure how to put my feelings into words.
No one ever came to my rescue back in Oliante.
Not only did she just jump in to defend me, she was willing to draw suspicion onto herself.
How can I tell her what that means to me? That someone believes I’m still good?
I settle for a simple “Thanks.”
She acts like it’s no big deal, even though she must be able to hear the tightness in my throat. “They know it’s the truth. They all had reasons for wanting him dead.” She lets out a long exhale. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Did you know about the notebooks? It’s just—” She kneads her fist into one of the throw pillows. “When Connor pulled them out, you didn’t seem surprised.”
Shit. If I admit that I did, she’ll wonder why I didn’t tell her earlier.
She might be upset that I let her walk into this meeting unaware, and I don’t want Greer to be upset with me—not when our relationship is still so fragile.
Bad enough that every insulting thing I said about her has been recorded in that notebook for all to read.
If I lose her, who will be left in my corner?
I’ll be right back where I started. Alone.
“No,” I lie. “I guess I’ve gotten so used to being betrayed, it doesn’t even register anymore.”
She winces.
“Oh, no,” I hurry to say. “I didn’t mean you.”
“Just because that’s not what you meant doesn’t make it any less true.
” She shifts on the couch so we’re knee to knee.
“Whatever’s written in those notebooks was completely justified.
I fucked up, and you absolutely had the right to vent about it.
I’m never going to read it. Just wanted to let you know, in case you were concerned.
” She hugs the pillow to her chest. “And try not to worry about the others. They’ve never liked me, either. ”
“What do you mean, they’ve never liked you? It’s your club.”
She gives a little half shrug. “When Connor came up with the idea, well—I told you I was homeschooled, right? I never had friends growing up, and I kind of hoped this would be my redo. That we’d all have an immediate connection and spend the weekend kumbaya’ing around the bonfire.”
“I’m going to assume that’s not what happened.”
“No. Instead of becoming friends, there were times when it seemed like they barely tolerated me. Every year, I found myself trying harder: paying for their airfare and meals, renovating the guest rooms to include more amenities. Ask Connor about the time we drove a trailer full of rented horses up here, so we could take them out onto the trails. I was stuck shoveling manure out of the backyard for weeks afterward, and yet no one seemed to like me any better than they had before.”
“Why not?”
“Because they don’t understand me—why I’ve never distanced myself from my past, from my father. And nothing scares people more than what they don’t understand.”
I don’t mean to say it, but I can’t help myself. “I just wanted friends, too.”
“You have friends. Well, a friend. You have me.”
The mist outside finally relents. For a moment, sunlight breaks through the sky and twines through the frizz of her hair like a halo. Even though she has her faults, even though she makes mistakes, I don’t understand how anyone could pass up the opportunity to be friends with Greer Woods.
Connor suddenly appears in the doorway. He takes one look at us and stops dead in his tracks. An uncomfortable awareness of how close we’re sitting, how that might upset the status quo, seems to fill the room. He quickly pulls himself together. “Greer.”
She shifts away from me. “What?”
“We need to talk.”
The smell of fresh-baked banana bread wafts in from the kitchen. “Can we wait until after breakfast? We barely ate yesterday, and I need to get something in my stomach, like, now.”
“It won’t take long.”
“Do you want me to make you a plate?” I ask.
She leans over to where my hand’s resting on the back of the couch, kisses my knuckles. “God, could you? Yogurt, granola, whatever they’re serving, just load it up. I’m starving.”
As they make their way upstairs, I listen in on their conversation.
Connor: “If the food’s gone, you know I can always make more.”
“I don’t want to wait.”
“It’ll be quick.”
“You’re never quick. You’re the only man I know who takes thirty minutes to make an omelet.”
“It’s gourmet—”
“It’s an omelet, Connor.”
By then, they’ve crossed the landing, and their words are little more than a murmur.
When the door closes, they vanish entirely.
There’s an easiness to their exchange, a well-worn intimacy, that troubles me, but I shake it off.
It makes sense that after finding the notebooks, my alarm bells would be ringing at the slightest hint of duplicity, but that’s not who I want to be.
I want to trust people; I want to believe that they’re loyal and honest. And that means not getting concerned every time Greer jokes around with a handsome man.
As I near the kitchen, the sounds of breakfast become clearer: the grating whirr of the blender, the thump of bread being ejected from the toaster.
The muted, conspiratorial chatter. I don’t want to go in there, especially not alone, but I don’t have much of a choice.
Staying together is the best way to remain safe.
I grit my teeth and start for the kitchen when I notice a closed door off to the left.
No name tag, but a security keypad has been installed above the handle.
I dig into my pocket and pull out the sheet of paper.
This must be Connor’s room. If he’s upstairs, then it’ll be unattended for a while—enough time for me to conduct a quick search, find out why this code was written in my notebook. I tap it into the keypad; the button blinks green. Slipping inside, I let the door click shut behind me.