She closed her laptop with shaking hands.
The video had been posted less than three days ago and already had 72,000 views. Frank had every reason to think she would see it, which meant she had every reason to be afraid. After all, this wasn’t the first time Maya had witnessed someone drop dead in his presence.
TWO
Aubrey West, Maya’s best friend in high school, had fallen over dead on a bright summer day shortly before Maya left for college. Aubrey’s death hadn’t been caught on video but had garnered attention nonetheless. TV coverage, newspaper articles, gossip. A healthy seventeen-year-old dropping dead out of nowhere. If it could happen to her, people thought.
Like the girl in the video, Aubrey had been having a conversation with Frank when it happened. And Maya had been convinced that Frank killed her. She couldn’t explain how he’d done it （even if she did have a sense of why）， and in the end, because she lacked proof （and eventually confidence in herself, her own perception, her own sanity, even）， she had no choice but to move on.
Or try to, anyway.
Maya had always liked a good buzz, ever since the first time Aubrey swiped a pint of her mom’s vodka and they drank it stirred into Sunny D. But drinking was different then. She and Aubrey sought out highs of all kinds as teenagers but saw themselves as separate from the burnouts at school, the kids who snuck out to the parking lot between classes and slouched at their lockers with red eyes. Maya got all A’s without trying, and Aubrey, though her grades never reflected it, was smart in her own way. She understood people, saw through their acts. Her family had moved around a lot when she was little, so she had a lot of practice when it came to making friends, but one thing she hadn’t learned was how to keep them.
She was the new girl when Maya met her in ninth grade English, mysterious and intriguing to all, especially the boys, with her green eyes and sly grin. Maya was only one of many new friends Aubrey had made in her first few weeks of school, but out of all of them, their friendship was the one that lasted. The one they both cultivated.
They’d been paired up for a report on Emily Dickinson and bonded over poetry. Poetry was part of why they worked, the shared ability to be swept away by a beautiful line. But it was also that neither quite belonged—Aubrey, the perpetual new girl, and Maya with her nose in a book. She looked Hispanic but had grown up with a single white mom and knew very little about her family in Guatemala. She didn’t feel she fit in with the other Hispanic kids, while not being white meant she stuck out in Pittsfield.
Maya spent most of her time reading and making up stories. She was more popular with teachers than with her peers, but she was okay with that. She was going to be a writer, just like her father had been. She was going to write books and be famous. She was going to leave Pittsfield behind.
She got into almost every college she applied to and chose BU because of its creative writing program and because of the scholarships she was offered. But the week before she was supposed to start, Aubrey died.
And Maya’s life was divided into a Before and an After.
She lost her closest friend. Saw it happen before her eyes, yet to this day sensed that there was more to the incident than what she saw. Like watching a magic trick and understanding that it was an illusion, but not knowing how the magician had pulled it off.
It didn’t make sense. Aubrey was healthy, didn’t have any preexisting conditions. Her parents had an autopsy performed, but that didn’t answer anything, and the medical examiner eventually labeled it “Sudden Unexplained Death”—the name for when someone drops dead for apparently no reason. It was often blamed on an arrhythmia of the heart or a certain kind of seizure.
Only Maya felt sure that it was Frank.
There was no weapon, no poison, no contact of any kind. No bloodshed or wounds on Aubrey’s body. Maya couldn’t prove it—couldn’t explain it, even—but she insisted that he had deceived them all somehow.
Maybe if she’d had a shred of evidence, the police would have taken her seriously. But as it was, they questioned Frank and, finding no reason to keep him, let him go—with a warning to Maya about false accusations. They said she could ruin a man’s life that way.
Her mom had more patience for Maya’s suspicions, but when they failed to add up, she began to worry about her daughter’s mental health. Mental illness ran in the family like a curse, and at seventeen, Maya was right at that age when it could strike.
This was how she wound up under the care of Dr. Fred Barry, who Maya’s mom had found in the Yellow Pages.
Within an hour of meeting her, Dr. Barry diagnosed Maya with brief psychotic disorder. Grief could bring it on. He said her fears about Frank were delusional but assured her that she wasn’t the first to react with magical thinking to a death so sudden and unexpected. Less than two out of every hundred thousand people suddenly drop dead for reasons that can’t be explained by an autopsy.
Some cultures blame such deaths on evil spirits. The mind will always try to explain what it can’t understand—it will make up stories, theories, whole belief systems—and Maya’s mind, Dr. Barry said, was of the type that saw faces in clouds and messages in tea leaves. Patterns where others saw none. It meant she had a good imagination—but one that could trick her.
The antipsychotics dulled the certainty burning in her gut that Frank had deceived them all somehow, but the feeling never went away completely. It came over her sometimes, a dark crawling. The horrible conviction that Dr. Barry was wrong, even though everyone believed him, and that Frank had, in fact, murdered her best friend.
And with that conviction came fear. Maya was a loose end for Frank, a witness to whatever it was he had done. If he was a killer, she had every reason to be afraid, and the fact that she didn’t know how he’d done it made it worse, a dreadful uncertainty that kept her from moving on. But over time she learned not to talk about her suspicions with Dr. Barry, or anyone else for that matter. She couldn’t stand it when people looked at her like she was crazy. Satisfied that she was no longer delusional, Dr. Barry pronounced her cured, if a little anxious, and swapped out her antipsychotics for Klonopin.
It worked. The Klonopin dulled her fear and knocked her out at night.
Alcohol helped too. All through college, she was blackout drunk several nights a week. She still managed to get A’s and B’s, but that was just the easy classes she was taking, overcrowded lectures where no one knew her name and it didn’t matter if she was hungover. She kept telling herself she was having fun, and maybe she was; it was hard to remember. There were enough embarrassing pictures of her online dancing on tabletops, always a drink or a shot in hand, to suggest she was having the time of her life.
After college, she was happy to take the job at Kelly’s Garden Center. And though every now and then she would sit at her desk to write, she never made it past the first page of anything. The problem was that she no longer liked being alone with her thoughts. She had been working at the garden center and sharing an apartment with her friend Lana for over a year when she met Dan.
They met at a party, at the hour when everyone was either dancing in a sweaty clump, slurring too loudly in the kitchen, or sprawled on the host’s bed, doing coke. Maya had assumed that she and Dan were both high when they started talking while in line for the bathroom—how else to explain that they were still talking at breakfast the next morning, seated across from each other at Maya’s favorite Mexican restaurant?