Chapter 26
Now
My hands trembled as I clutched the worn hunk of plastic and foam to my chest and swallowed a sob.
The cherry-red paint had faded, and chunks of the lining had crumbled on the inside. As I traced our names with my fingertips, the helmet took me back to that night. The last night I’d seen him.
Muffled moonlight had bathed his features, highlighting his high cheekbones and pointy chin while hollowing his deep eyes as we sat with our backs pressed against the greenhouse.
Tears slipped down my cheeks while Casey listened and sweetly shhhed.
I’d confessed everything to him—how I was a murderer, how it had made me feel—and he’d listened without judgment.
The helmet—this helmet—had sat on the ground between us. Hadn’t it?
It didn’t really matter, because wherever it had been that night couldn’t explain how it had found its way to Burt’s office.
I thought of the phone call asking about the last night I’d seen Casey. He’d known the entire time…
How?
It didn’t make sense.
Nothing about this made sense.
My words were thick in my mouth, but I finally spat them out. “How does he have this? Frances? Tell me how Burt has Casey’s helmet.”
Frances’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening. “Where did you find that?”
I blinked and focused on my sister’s face. Was that fear—that concern—she wore, was it real? Or a mask? Because no one knew this secret. Hell. I barely could admit it to myself.
“Milly.” Frances’s voice was frantic. “Sister, answer me. Where did you find that?”
My lips pressed into a line. That place inside whispered focus focus focus.
This reaction—this big, freaked-out reaction—told me something, didn’t it?
It would be strange to find something from our teen years in her home. Downright creepy in fact. But would she even remember something like an old helmet unless it held some sort of significance?
Unless she knew.
Frances was keeping something from me. Lines of fear etched over her face. The tight set of her jaw. The way her shoulders pulled toward her earlobes.
“Frances. Tell me.”
“Let’s get out of here.” Her voice squeaked as she turned away. “Please.”
I shook my head. “No. No, you tell me what’s going on.” I held the helmet up. “You know what this is?”
“Of course I do. That’s Casey Montgomery’s. He wore it everywhere back when he was in love with you in high school.”
I nodded. Swallowed. “Why…why do you seem so…so unmoored by it?”
“Unmoored?” She snorted and shook her head, spinning back to face me. “Why do I seem fucking unmoored? I don’t know. Maybe because my sister finding a dead boy’s helmet in my husband’s office is pretty fucking ‘unmooring.’”
Those words—dead boy—flew from her mouth and into my sternum like a punch.
“What did you say?” I asked. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink.
Frances said nothing. We stared at each other, me clutching the helmet, her clutching the wristwatch.
“Frances. I’m going to need to you to be very honest with me, you understand?” My heart pounded and I leaned against the desk, using its support to remain upright because, dammit, I was losing it. “You called Casey a dead boy. Why?”
My lungs burned. Breathe.
Inhale. Slow exhale.
Frances swiped at the tears glistening like small diamonds down her cheeks. “I’ll tell you, but you’re going to hate me forever.”