Chapter 28 Nicola
A SHRILL BUZZ VIbrATES against my eardrums as I stare at the negatives.
It’s been a long time since I felt as angry as the woman in that photo.
Disappointed, frustrated, resentful, yes; those were all emotions I allowed myself to have.
But rage—the kind that resulted in actions that couldn’t be taken back—well, it’s been twenty years since I felt that.
I swore I’d never let myself go down that road again, and yet, here’s photographic proof that I did just that.
The fog clouding my mind begins to burn away, just in time for me to hear Connor’s voice.
“She killed him.”
I hurry to correct him. “No, I didn’t.”
I know, without a single doubt, that I didn’t murder Zach.
If I can’t remember confronting him, that means I must’ve been blackout drunk.
How could I possibly have bludgeoned someone in that state?
Dragged him downstairs, dumped him in the lake?
(A lake I hadn’t even known existed until the following day.) The thought of me hot-wiring a car when I couldn’t have even counted the number of fingers someone was holding up is laughable.
And yet, the two of them are not laughing.
Not at all.
“These,” Greer says, gesturing to the negatives, “don’t tell us anything, except that she caught Zach in her room that night and decked him. The same way any of us would have. Are you honestly going to stand there and tell me that you wouldn’t have done the same thing?”
“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not. What I would’ve done is irrelevant. The fact is, we have photographic evidence that right before he was murdered, she attacked him. I think the others might draw the same conclusions.”
Her jaw tightens. “You’re not going to show the others.”
“They have a right to know—”
“Connor, you are not going to show the others. They’re already on edge, and if you share these photos with them, you’ll just be adding fuel to the fire. Wait until we get back into town. We’ll put the others on their flights, and then we can let the police handle it.”
When she says “put the others on their flights,” does that include me, or are they going to transport me to the nearest station, leave me in police custody?
“I didn’t do it,” I repeat. “I was so wasted that night, I don’t even remember catching him in my room. How could I have single-handedly disposed of a body in that condition? Besides…” I swallow. “That’s not who I am. I’m not a murderer.”
“I know,” Greer says.
“I don’t.” Connor. He steps closer to Greer, rests his hand on her shoulder. “I know you want to believe the best of her, but we need to look at the facts.”
“We don’t know the facts—”
“We know enough to be cautious, and part of being cautious is making sure everyone has the ability to make informed decisions. I have to do what I think is right here.”
She shifts backward, and his hand slides away. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’m going to tell them about the photos, with or without your approval.”
For a moment, she stands there in unblinking shock. Then, when she’s finally able to form words again, she sputters out, “But we had an agreement. We agreed—”
“I know,” he says. “I know, but I just don’t think it’d be right to withhold this information. She’ll have the opportunity to defend herself—”
“Fuck that, I’m defending her.”
He raises his eyebrows; now, he’s the one who’s surprised. “Okay, fine, you can defend her. But the club members get to decide if she’ll stay.”
“Wait,” I say. “What do you mean, they’ll get to decide if I stay? What happens if they say no? Where am I supposed to go?”
“You’re staying right here,” Greer says, at the same time he answers, “We’ll find other accommodations.”
Other accommodations? What other accommodations?
We’re in the middle of nowhere. He marches out the door, negatives in hand, and we have no choice but to follow.
“He’s out of his mind,” I whisper, my shoulder bumping into hers as we descend the staircase.
“He’s going to make me sleep in the woods?
Forget the murderer in our midst; I’ll die of exposure first.”
“Calm down. There’s no compelling evidence here, and even if there were, you have one of the nation’s best defense attorneys working for you. You’re not sleeping outside tonight.”
I want to feel as confident as she does, but the truth is, those photos are compelling evidence. The way I’m lunging at the camera terrifies me.
It reminds me of my father.
“Hey!” Connor calls when we reach the den. “Can we get everyone in here for a minute?”
I watch while the others file in and assume their seats. Connor lays the negatives on the coffee table. “Some new information has come to light.”
“What are those?” Kemy asks.
“They’re from a disposable camera Zach brought to the retreat.”
Ros shifts her eyes to the ceiling, slumps lower on the couch. “Of course he did.”
“We developed the images and, after reviewing them, decided you have the right to see them. Be careful, though; they’re evidence.”
Curiosity hums around the room like an electric current. Greer feels it, the same as me, and steps forward. “Before you look at those pictures—”
Kemy raises a hand to stop her. “Let us see them for ourselves first, before you go spinning things.”
Greer seems momentarily caught off guard.
I have the feeling she’s not used to anyone addressing her like that, especially not in the courtroom, and regardless of the cozy quilts and throw pillows, this has indeed become a courtroom.
She drifts back to my side, and I wonder if she’s only now starting to realize just how fucked we are.
Connor passes the negatives to Imogen, whose eyes widen when she reaches the end. The others don’t match her level of restraint. “Oh my god,” Ros gasps when she reaches the final frame. “Look at that, it’s like she’s possessed.”
“It’s a negative, Ros,” Greer argues. “Everyone looks possessed in a negative.”
She points at my frenzied expression. “Not everyone looks like that.”
Kemy leans back in her chair. “So, Nicola walked in while he was taking photos and, when she realized what he was doing, murdered him.”
Connor tilts his head—as if to say, your words, not mine—but it’s Greer who speaks up.
“Except that makes no sense. Nic’s the one who found him in the lake.
Do you think she would have agreed to go swimming if that’s where she’d dumped the body?
When we all believed he’d drowned, Nic was the one who established it’d actually been murder.
Why would she have brought that to our attention if she’d committed the crime? ”
The others exchange glances. Sensing their uncertainty, Greer continues: “She’s had countless opportunities to cover this up, but instead, what has she done? Encouraged us to call the police. Does that sound like the behavior of someone who’s guilty?”
Imogen and Hannah are nodding now; even Kemy looks conflicted.
The only one who doesn’t is Connor. “Possibly,” he admits, “but there’s another way of looking at it.
As the one who discovered the body, who ascertained it was a murder, Nicola could’ve been trying to evade suspicion.
Her father did the same thing on To Catch a Killer.
He appeared on the show, inserted himself into the investigation, all so no one would guess that he was the killer they were looking for. ”
Greer’s gaze flickers over to me, and I know she’s remembering the conversation we had while digging the grave.
I’d suggested the same thing: that my dad only cooperated with her so she wouldn’t suspect him.
She couldn’t think that’s what I’ve been doing, could she?
That I slept with her just to throw her off my tracks?
The thought is so repugnant that I immediately push my way forward. “I’m not the only one with evidence against me.” All eyes turn toward me, and now, it’s Connor’s turn to look unsure. “Why was Steffani’s necklace in your room?”
His forehead creases. “What?”
I reach into my pocket, present the necklace. “I found this in your desk drawer. How did you get it? Did you do something to her?” Greer lays her hand on my arm, a clear signal for me to stand down, but I ignore her. “Did you hurt her?”
He opens his mouth as if to say something, then shuts it and shakes his head. “No, I found that on the back patio. I decided to keep it in my room in case it belonged to someone.”
Liar. “Then how do you explain this?” I thrust my fist into my pocket, grab the license, and yank it out, the fabric lining half coming with it, and—
Oh.
Oh, no.
We all watch as the sheet of notebook paper lazily drifts to the floor.
It lands there, a white flag of surrender, and when I look up, Connor’s stare has sharpened.
“That’s from one of the notebooks, isn’t it?
You ripped that out, which means you knew about them before the rest of us.
” He’s thinking out loud now, weaving theories together.
“Did you confront Zach about the book deal? Is that what happened?”
“What? No!”
“He refused to back out, so you decided to take matters into your own hands?”
“No, I would never—”
Imogen has retrieved the sheet of paper. She turns toward Connor, confused. “Is this the door code to your room? Why would Zach want that?”
He slaps his hands against his knees and stands. “No!” I exclaim, realizing what he’s about to do. “No, no, no. Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare—”
But he’s already striding into the foyer, toward his room. I start to follow, but Greer grabs my elbow. “Let me go,” I snarl, trying to pull myself free, but she’s stronger than she looks.
“See?” Ros whispers, cocking her head toward me, and Kemy nods. See? Like my behavior’s only proving his point, that I’m somehow dangerous. I don’t care; he can’t let them see those photos.
When he returns, the envelope’s clutched in his hands, edges crinkled from where we fought over it.
“I believe Zach broke into my room sometime during the retreat and found this envelope. Inside are photos of Nicola, taken in college.”
“What kind of photos?” Kemy asks, and the back of my neck burns.
He opens the envelope and starts flipping through them. “Don’t,” I beg. “Please. You can’t show them those photos. That’s wrong. Even you must know that’s wrong—”
“Connor, maybe we should—” Greer says, her words running into mine, but it does no good.
The photo that Connor tosses onto the coffee table is the least revealing of the bunch, but you can still see enough to tell what it is.
Greer scrabbles for the table and snatches up the photo. “What the fuck, Connor! What’s wrong with you? You can’t just pass something like that around without permission!”
He flushes like he’s embarrassed. Like he’s fucking embarrassed. Meanwhile, everyone in this room has seen me… has seen me… God, fuck him. Seriously. Fuck him.
“The image is mostly obscured—” he argues.
“You can see enough!” She glances down at the photo, probably preparing for a brutal reproach, but something stops her. Her expression slackens; the slightest tremble unfurls through her fingers.
“What is it?” Connor asks, taking a closer look himself. That’s when the same realization must hit him because his jaw lowers in shock. “Oh. Oh, fuck. Is that…?”
Greer doesn’t respond. What is it? What are they seeing that I didn’t?
“Is that Claire Tenenbaum?” he finally asks, and the floor drops out from under me.
He displays the photo once again, directing our focus with his thumb.
In the background is a mirror purchased at a secondhand shop, de-silvered in places but still good enough for two college girls.
And in that mirror, her reflection smudged, half-hidden behind the camera lens, stands Claire Tenenbaum.
“These weren’t taken with a self-timer,” he declares. “Claire Tenenbaum took these photos.”
“No,” I say, but that’s clearly a lie. “I mean, yes, but it’s…
She was a photographer, and she asked if I’d be willing to model, just so she could try out some new ideas, and since we were friends and everything, I told her I would, and…
” My breath thins, and when I gasp for more, Connor interrupts.
“No one was supposed to see them, though.”
“They were stolen. I already told you that.”
“You did. By Justin Billings. But here’s the thing: I spoke with Justin a few times during preproduction.”
My heart stutters in my chest. “You did?”
He nods. “He wasn’t just some random classmate who dropped by your apartment.”
Ros’s fingers are now latched around a decorative candle in a heavy cut-glass container. Kemy’s are buried in a blanket, a narrow one that could be used as a restraint—or a garrote. I slowly start backing away from these strangers I hardly know.
“Justin Billings, it turns out, was very close with your best friend.”
I don’t realize I’m shaking my head until the back of it bangs against the wall. Nowhere left to go.
“He was her boyfriend, wasn’t he?”
That word, boyfriend, smashes through the lodge like a detonation. Her boyfriend. Greer almost drops the photo, her gaze rushing up to meet mine. “Her boyfriend? What are you talking about? Claire didn’t have a boyfriend.”
“Not that anyone knew about,” he says. “They wanted to keep their relationship private. When she was murdered, he decided not to come forward because he didn’t want his name associated with the crime.
He was thousands of miles away when it happened, so it’s not like anyone would’ve suspected him, but he still felt it would’ve been detrimental to his career. ”
Greer’s eyes never leave mine. It feels like someone’s set me down on a raft, like I’m drifting farther and farther away.
And no matter how hard I paddle, it could never be enough to bring me back to her.
I didn’t lie, but I also didn’t tell her the truth.
About what happened with Claire all those years ago.
As if on cue, Connor says, “She was your best friend, and she betrayed you, didn’t she?
She shared those photos with her boyfriend, and he passed them around to all his friends.
She humiliated you, so you invited her back to your hometown for the summer.
And just as she was starting to think the two of you were going to be all right, that she’d be able to make amends—”
“Oh my god.” Ros jumps up from the couch, still clutching that candle. I instinctively raise my hands to protect myself. “Oh my god, are you saying the TV show was right?”
Connor looks like even he can’t quite believe what’s happening.
“Claire was different from all the other victims. She was stabbed forty-one times. Overkill like that indicates a personal grievance.” He stares at me, and for a moment, it feels like we’re the only ones in the room.
“You were angry with her, so you killed her, and your father helped cover it up.”
Silence hangs heavy as the accusation sinks in. You killed her. What can I say to that?
It’s the truth.