The house was pristine. Fresh flowers decorated the mantel. The photos were framed and arrayed with precision. There was a formal portrait of mother and daughter for each year, Amanda growing into a little carbon copy of her mom, a phenotypical rebuke of the father who’d never bothered to even send a Christmas card.
Cass had removed the cookies and set the tray aside to cool by the time I reached the kitchen. “Bake sale at school,” she explained. She waved me toward one of the stools at the kitchen island, which looked like stylish steel spikes and were roughly as comfortable.
“Let me guess. You’re the head of the PTA,” I said, not sure if this was a compliment or a tease. Maybe both.
She wrinkled her nose. “God, no. I don’t have the time. The lodge eats up every spare minute and then some. And we’re wrapping up wedding season, which means I’m running around like a chicken with my head cut off. This weekend’s father of the bride calls me three times a day, I swear. Complete control freak.”
“Kindred spirit?” I asked teasingly. I’d handled my share of that kind of client. Even for Cass, once, back when she was pushing me to be the lodge’s dedicated wedding photographer. It would have been a great source of income, but I couldn’t handle that many return trips to Chester.
The nose wrinkle returned. “Oh, hush.”
“I’m sorry, did you just say ‘Oh, hush’？” I asked, an incredulous laugh rasping in my throat.
She snorted. “It’s possible I’ve been doing this hospitality thing too long.”
“When’s the last time you said ‘fuck’？” I asked her. “Come to think of it, when’s the last time you actually…” I waggled my eyebrows at her.
“Too fucking long,” she said, the old Cass breaking through with a grin. She busied herself cleaning up after her baking, neatly stacking tubs of flour and sugar, wiping every last speck off the granite countertops. She’d polished away her rough edges when she took over the lodge—turning it from a failing, structurally questionable relic of another decade into a thriving luxury getaway. But in a way, that was who Cass had been all along: she committed herself completely to the things she decided to care about, even if that meant transforming herself.
Once upon a time, I had been her project. Her mission in life had become getting me to graduation alive and relatively whole, and I wouldn’t have managed it without her. Part of me was jealous of this life that had her full attention, now.
“So. Do you know what this is about?” Cass asked.
“Liv didn’t tell you?”
“All she said was that it was important,” Cass replied.
I hesitated. It seemed strange that Liv would tell me and not Cass—but then, I wouldn’t have come to Chester if she hadn’t. “Maybe we should wait for Liv to get here.”
“Naomi.” Cass gave me a level look. “I need to know what I’m about to get into. If this is one of Liv’s delusions—”
“It isn’t,” I said, with confidence I didn’t entirely feel. Liv’s meds kept her even-keeled most of the time, but they weren’t a guarantee.
“You’re sure.”
I shrugged. “You know Liv.”
She sighed and swept a few crumbs off the counter into her cupped palm. “Better than anyone. Come on. I don’t deserve to get blindsided, whatever it is.”
I ran my finger along the scar that skated down the inside of my left wrist. That one didn’t belong to Stahl. It belonged to Persephone.
“Liv said she found her,” I said quietly.
“Who?” Cassidy asked. I didn’t answer. Cassidy hissed out a breath. She didn’t need me to say it out loud. “What the hell does that mean, she found her?”
I lifted a shoulder. “You know how she is about giving details on the phone.”
“Because the NSA is definitely interested in Olivia Barnes’s private conversations,” Cass said in a biting tone and then shook her head like she regretted the words immediately. I couldn’t blame her for being frustrated. I’d said worse, at times. “I thought this was about Stahl. About coming together to mark the occasion. If I’d known—”
“We should hear her out,” I said.
“This isn’t the time for this,” she said. “Come on, now? When everyone’s already talking about Stahl? And that podcast guy in town—”
“What podcast guy?” I asked, mystified.
She looked surprised. “He hasn’t called you? I figured you’d be at the top of the list. He’s doing one of those serious true-crime things. It’s about Stahl—or one of the episodes is about Stahl, or something like that. I didn’t really listen because I didn’t give him the time of day. He’s talking to all sorts of people, though.”
“You’ll write a whole book about it, but you won’t give an interview?” I asked dryly.
Just when it looked like interest was fading, the Book had come along. Purportedly the first-person account of the attack constructed through extensive interviews with the three brave girls at the center of the case. Of the three of us, the author had actually only talked to Cass, but that fact didn’t end up on the book jacket.
“You know that was my parents’ idea, not mine,” she said. “It’s not like it was exactly pleasant for me to relive it all, either.” She picked at a dried fleck of something on the countertop, not meeting my eyes.
I looked down at my hands. Sometimes I was glad that I was the one who had been attacked. People understood my trauma. It left its marks clearly visible on my skin. But Liv and Cass having to watch, forcing themselves to stay silent and hidden—that was worse, in some ways.
The doorbell rang. Cass jumped. “I’ll get it,” I offered, already sliding off the stool. I padded back down the hallway, time receding through the photographs as Amanda got younger, disappeared. I could see Liv’s blurred outline through the frosted glass by the door. She was looking out at the street, shifting her weight nervously.
I opened the door, and she whirled around as if shocked that anyone had answered. Her dark brown eyes were wide and startled. She had her father’s strong jaw and her mother’s black hair, which tended toward frizz. She broke into a smile. “You came,” she said.
“I told you I would,” I reminded her, gently chiding.
I hesitated, unsure if she would welcome my touch. She stepped in, and I put my arms around her gingerly, finding myself taking inventory—thin, but not quite gaunt. Restless, but with a steady, clear gaze when she pulled back. Her nails weren’t ragged and she hadn’t been picking at her lips, which was rare for her. The tension I’d been carrying around in my shoulders eased just a bit.
“You look good,” I told her, and meant it.
She grimaced. “You mean I don’t look crazy.”
“No, I mean you look like you’re taking care of yourself. And you don’t always, so you don’t get to be annoyed when I notice.”
“As opposed to how you always take perfect care of yourself?” she asked, giving me a skeptical look.
“Oh, shut up,” I told her, and she laughed, her chin tilting up to bare her long neck, eyes flashing. She was beautiful in these moments, our Olivia.