And all I could think about was all the time we’d wasted, pretending that we were just fr—
There was a sudden stabbing pain in my neck. A pop. Then a jolt of an even worse pain, shooting down my arm. Had I been shot? A rushing in my ears. Maeve was slumped over, and she’d stopped kissing me. Someone had shot her, too? Finch and the gun. Keith. Who was he afraid—
I tried to blink, to focus, to move. But I was underwater, held there. Drowning fast. I reached for the door, needed air, to shout, to get above the tide. But there wasn’t enough oxyg—
THREE WEEKS EARLIER
I’m on my way to meet Bates at Minetta Tavern when I get the email. I stop halfway across Washington Square Park to read it.
I know what you did.
Alice’s mom, that’s what I assume. At least at first. She’s been sending us anonymous emails for years, accusing us each time, in slightly different words, of being self-centered, selfish, cruel monsters. We were responsible for Alice’s death because of the things we didn’t do: You were supposed to watch out for her. You were supposed to protect her. You were her best friends.
I always braced myself for Alice’s mom to shoot some extra blame specifically my way— and you, Maeve, the roommate. Back at Vassar, she once tried to saddle me with the responsibility of making sure that Alice stayed on her medication. How could you put that on somebody so young? And I wasn’t a mental health professional. I had no training.
But luckily, all these years later, Alice’s mom has still never singled me out. There’s never been any mention of the roof either. Alice said at the time she hadn’t told her mother about what happened, and that seemed true. Her mother certainly would have brought it up. Her messages were never short on words.
Which is what makes this new email different— only one sentence? And “I know what you did”？ That certainly sounds like it’s about the roof. Even the email address— friendslikethese212— is unlike any that Alice’s mom used before. Some of her emails have been from cryptic addresses, but usually they included Alice’s name. I’m actually not sure this new email is from Alice’s mom at all.
I’m only a block away from the restaurant when I google Alice’s mother. Her obituary comes up right away— natural causes related to pancreatic cancer. She only died a few weeks ago, and now this email?
There’s that podcast, The River, too. Somebody at the foundation mentioned the Alice episode, though she had no way of knowing our connection. None of my friends seem to have heard about it. True crime podcasts are a dime a dozen these days. But maybe this email has something to do with that?
Or there is the other possibility. The most obvious one, which I’m trying not to think about as I finally open the door to Minetta Tavern. I step inside, drinking in its elegant Parisian charm. Was this email sent by one of my friends? Did one of them see what really happened on the roof that night, and now here they are— after a decade of silence— threatening me?
I have no choice but to wait and see if someone else mentions getting the same email. It’ll be the only way to know for sure whether it was directed specifically at me.
Finally I spot Bates seated at the bar, an open stool saved there next to him, just for me. Even in his standard-issue trust-fund jeans and sport coat, Bates looks adorable. Because he is adorable, and charming and sweet. I sometimes worry that he’s out of my league, even though I look much better now than I ever have— best shape of my life, my hair and body finally the way I’ve always wanted them to be. Even my features are so much more defined these days, especially my cheekbones. Sometimes even I’d swear that I must have had work done.
But no, nothing nearly that easy. Instead, I’ve worked hard to become the person I am, to forget the past and move on. Not to let negativity or guilt drag me down. That takes real strength. It’s worthy of admiration. It’s worthy of Bates— even if I worry sometimes that he’s not 100 percent convinced, not yet.
Of course it’s impossible to know the truth of someone else’s heart. The best I can do is keep on being the best Maeve I can be. And trust that Bates will keep on seeing a future with me. I’ll do whatever I have to, to protect that.
DETECTIVE JULIA SCUTT
SUNDAY, 10:59 P.M.
“You can let Hendrix go,” I say to Cartright when we’re finally back at the station. He’s behind the front desk, stuffing his face.
“Thank fucking God.” He tosses his sandwich into a wrapper. “That guy is a serious pain in the neck. You can hear his whining all the way down the hall.”