We Fell Apart: A We Were Liars Novel(8)

He folds his arms. “South Road, yeah. But strawberry what?”

“I don’t know.”

He shakes his head, thinking. “Maybe it’s a farm stand.”

“Can you take me there?”

He shrugs. An older man in a sports jacket walks up with a roller suitcase, and the boy turns to him. His tone becomes bright and friendly. “Hey there, Mr. Hancock, heading home?” He loads the man’s case into the back of the van and opens the side door. He has a fluid way of moving, like everything’s easy for him.

He turns back to me and his tone reverts to sullen. “Do you know if it’s on the beach side?”

“Of what?”

“South Road.”

“I guess.”

He shakes his head at me. “I can’t take you.”

“What? Why not?”

“People call my boss and complain if I don’t drop them at the right place. I had it happen twice last week. I don’t want to get fired.”

“Why did you drop them at the wrong place?”

He shrugs again, and helps another passenger by taking her bags to the back of the van.

“I won’t call your boss,” I say, following him as he works. “I won’t even blame you if it turns out wrong.”

“I don’t wanna risk it. And I don’t want anything that’s going to take extra time, ’cause I have a pickup at noon and I can’t be late. Use an app.”

“An app can’t take me to a strawberry.”

“Not my problem, Miss.” He adds the Miss like it means “Leave me alone.”

“Can I pay you extra?” I look in my wallet. I have thirty dollars in cash. “I could pay an extra ten.”

He takes off his hat and runs his hand through his hair. His eyes are deep brown with black, black lashes. “Fifteen.” He holds out his hand. “Up front.”

He’s a weasel, but whatever. I don’t really have a choice.





11


The van is full, so I have to sit next to the driver even though obviously we hate each other. He keeps his big brown eyes on the road and I try to distract myself from his hostility by opening Something Rotten on my phone, but I’m still too nauseated to play a game in a moving car. I give up and stare out the window.

We wind under a canopy of green trees, along roads lined with ancient stone walls. The sunlight is bright but pale, not the hot, oozy sun of California but rays that feel like lemonade in an icy glass.

In the back of the van, Vineyard residents returning from summer excursions all seem to know each other. They’re a mix of country-living types and professors on summer breaks—all gossiping about a fire that happened five days ago. It was on an island called Beechwood, just a short boat ride away. From what I gather, it’s owned privately by a man named Harris Sinclair. He and his family spend every summer there and are often seen in Edgartown, though none of the people in the van run in such wealthy circles.

When the blaze began, the residents say, the Vineyard fire department went over to Beechwood by boat, but they were too late. One of the island’s houses had nearly burned to the ground. Three people died, all of them teenagers.

The residents talk over each other, interrupting and disagreeing:

“I heard it was electrical. The wiring in those houses hadn’t been redone since nobody knows when.”

“I heard the fireplace. Embers sparking. They didn’t have the fire grate on.”

“I heard it was a jug of motorboat fuel that overturned.”

“What did the paper say?”

“Unknown cause. But also: Gerry did the reporting, and everyone knows he’s as dumb as a truck.”

“Maybe the kids were playing with fire. They get an idea to make a bonfire close to the house, or they’re smoking where they shouldn’t be, something like that.”

“Did the police take a witness statement? From the girl who survived?”

“That’s Cadence. I heard she was down at one of the smaller houses all evening. Doesn’t know what happened at the big house.”

The story chills me—those kids dying so young. “Did you know about this fire?” I ask the driver.

“Everybody does,” he says. “Here on the island.”

“Did you know the family?”

He shakes his head.



* * *



—

“Strawberry!” barks the driver, pulling to the shoulder of the road.

We’ve stopped before a metal mailbox. It is painted with a strawberry.

I climb out as the driver gets my bags from the back. He holds out his hand for the fare.

I hand it over. He looks at me for a beat.

“I’m not tipping you,” I say. “I paid you an extra fifteen up front.”

“Fine,” he says. “Have a good day, Miss.”

He slams his door as he gets back in the driver’s seat, then revs the engine and is gone.

I stand in brilliant sunshine. The road is lined with emerald bushes and stone walls. There’s a field on one side where a pair of glossy chestnut oxen stand, morose.

South Road runs parallel to the sea. My father’s email says to take the driveway that bears his name, after the fourth mailbox past the strawberry.