I clocked the date of Savannah’s post—May 20—then started scrolling through the comments: OMG I just heard the news . . . My heart is breaking for you . . . Sending hugs . . . Are you OK? Here if you need anything . . . The outpouring was touching but frustratingly short on details. But at least I had an approximate date—on or slightly before May 20. Holly’s husband had died a little over three months ago. No wonder she broke down, it was still really fresh.
“What are you looking at?” Libby asked me, peering over my shoulder. She was flushed from Pilates, with matching crescents of sweat under each breast. I hadn’t heard her come in. And it suddenly occurred to me that maybe she wanted it that way.
It wasn’t a good look for me. Unemployed husband, barely dressed, scrolling through a sixteen-year-old girl’s Instagram. I was supposed to be writing—needed to be writing—not surfing accounts of underage girls. I could only imagine the thoughts that were pulsing through my wife’s mind. My husband’s a pervert, he likes teenage girls, Jesus how could I not have known? We hadn’t had sex in over a month, now she knew why I hadn’t been more insistent.
As a journalist, I looked up all sorts of crazy shit. When I was working on an article about a marine who joined ISIS, I had to become an expert on Islamic extremism, the caves of Afghanistan, how to make a dirty bomb. That had surely landed me on the FBI watchlist. But my wife’s scornful eye was way more frightening.
“Holly’s a widow,” I said simply, turning the laptop so she could see Savannah’s post. Scrolling revealed more photos—a father-daughter dance, a sweaty track meet hug, one with the three of them, Holly in the middle.
“Jesus,” Libby gasped, leaning in close. “How long ago was that?”
“About three months,” I said, pointing to the date. I told her about the bench, and Holly’s tearful confession, making a point not to describe her heaving breasts as she sobbed. “I just wanted to see what I could learn about his death, it felt disrespectful to ask.”
“Yes, of course,” Libby reassured me, and I felt relieved, and I imagined she did, too.
“Wait,” Libby said. “Then who’s Evan?” Someone who’s helping Savannah and me, Holly had said. I remember thinking that was an odd way to describe him. But I just shrugged. “She didn’t say.”
“New boyfriend?” Libby postulated, and I shook my head.
“I didn’t get that, talking to her. I think she would have told me.”
Now it was Libby who shook her head. “Her husband’s only been dead for three months. She’s probably self-conscious about it. Maybe they were even a thing before the husband died?”
That was not my instinct, but I supposed it was possible. “Yeah, maybe . . .”
“I mean, look at her. She’s kind of a bombshell,” Libby said, and I took that as my warning—Don’t get too close. “I would totally believe she could snag a rich boyfriend,” she added, and though it was a backhanded compliment, I had to agree.
“I’m sure the truth will come out in time,” I said as I closed the computer, indicating that I was not going to do any more digging. I had other things to focus on. My （rescheduled!） big meeting was coming up, and I needed to finish the spec script I was writing and get my pitches in order in case he wanted something different.
I looked at Libby. Her gaze was distant, and I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. Is she threatened? Jealous? I’d never known her to be either, but perhaps this was a first.
We both sensed there was something untoward about Holly and Evan’s relationship. I didn’t think they were lovers, their body language was closed bordering on antagonistic—chairs far apart, arms crossed across their chests, rarely meeting each other’s gaze. But Holly didn’t consider him a friend, either—she had made that abundantly clear.
I had a hunch she was hiding something. And events would prove me right.
But I also thought whatever they were up to had nothing to do with us. It was none of our business, and we had no reason to be concerned.
And that’s where events would prove me wrong.
PART 2
SAVANNAH
Three months ago
A police officer came to my school.
Sadly, this was not unusual. I wouldn’t call it a weekly occurrence, but seeing a cop strutting through the quad in his collared pajamas and shiny black strap-on barely got my attention anymore. Usually it was because of some sort of divorce-related brouhaha. So-and-so does not have custody anymore. Today’s not so-and-so’s day. So-and-so has a restraining order against him and is not allowed to be here. We never made a big deal about it. Whoever the kid was, we figured he had already been through enough, we didn’t have to make it worse by staring. It wasn’t his fault his parents were psycho. Plus, who knew which one of us was going to be next?