And that’s when it happened. Sometime in the night, the final puzzle piece fell into place, and I remembered the whole truth of the night Heather died. But “remembered”—that wasn’t right, was it? After this weekend, I knew better.
I’d had the pieces inside all along, a quilt of light and dark, but for years I’d refused to look. When had my body first tried to tell me the truth? Was it the moment in Blackwell when Mint confessed what he’d done, and I felt the heart-quickening pang of sameness? When Eric shoved him out the window, and I was flooded with adrenaline, with the urge to offer myself in Eric’s place? Or was it when I jumped off the float and ran through the crowd, legs driven by a guilt I was only just finding words for?
Whatever the answer was, I woke after two days of solitude with the last memory in my head, only to find the five of them staring at me. And my first thought was: They know. Every horrible, incriminating detail I’d just dredged out of the black hole, like a bloated corpse from a lake, they knew, and they’d come to see me punished.
“The police aren’t going to charge you,” Coop said, filling the silence. I could only stare, heart pounding. “It’s a solid case of self-defense, and Davis—your lawyer—is working his magic. It should only be a day or two before you’re free to go.”
Coop’s face, like Frankie’s and Eric’s, was still pink and shiny from the fire. When he spoke, his hand hovered almost unconsciously over the place in his chest where Mint stabbed him. But his expression was neutral—like he was taking pains to be businesslike. I looked closer at each of their faces. No accusatory stares, no We know what you did hinted on their faces.
I calmed. They didn’t know. But of course not; how could they?
Frankie adjusted his tie. He was wearing a sharply tailored blue suit, dressed like he was headed to the ESPYs. “We all told the cops the same story. You pushed him in self-defense.”
There was a moment of heavy silence, and then Jack stepped forward, lowering his voice. “We can talk openly here. The cop guarding you went for a cigarette.”
Jack, Eric, Coop, and Frankie studied me grimly. Caro, whose arms were crossed tight over her chest, wouldn’t meet my gaze.
I sat up straighter and wiped my eyes. “Where’s Courtney?”
“Rehab,” Coop said. “Her parents came and shipped her off. Apparently extreme stress didn’t mix well with the pills she takes. That’s why she fainted in Blackwell. They’re trying to hush it up.”
“Good luck,” Eric muttered. “It won’t stay buried forever.”
It felt like a warning. I bit my tongue and tasted iron.
“Courtney can follow Mint to hell for all I care,” Caro said suddenly. “After what she did, drugging Heather.”
The room chilled. The words were harsh, but maybe the harshest part was that they came from Caro. I remembered something I’d said to her once when I was annoyed—maybe sophomore year, maybe junior: Caro, toughen up or the world is going to chew you.
Well, she’d toughened. After we’d broken her.
Frankie spoke carefully, eyeing Caro. “It’s a good thing Courtney’s hiding, anyway, with the media shitstorm over Mint. I gave her mom the number of my PR guy, but there’s only so much you can do when you’re the wife of a famous murderer.”
I looked at him. “Everyone knows Mint killed Heather?”
He nodded. “We told the cops first, but then we talked to the reporters.”
“We went to the Journal,” Jack said, “and found the reporter who’d covered Heather’s case ten years ago.” His face darkened. “The one who was so convinced I did it. Who smeared me and would never take down those old stories. Boy, was he surprised to see me.”
“We didn’t come here to chat,” Caro snapped. “Let’s get on with it.”
Jack glanced at her. “Right.” His voice lowered. “We’re the only people alive who know what happened at Blackwell. We need to swear to each other we’ll take the truth to our graves. If the cops ever found out the real story, Eric would go away for a long time. The law’s pretty black and white when it comes to killing people, even if they killed your sister first.”
What would the law say about me?
“Not to mention,” Eric said, “the minute the cops got hold of my laptop, with all my research on it, they’d have a strong case for premeditation.”
I studied him. His tone was dry, like this was all vaguely amusing. What was he feeling, now that his sister’s death was solved, her killer dead by his hands? Peace, or purposelessness? His face was drawn, like he hadn’t slept for days. Was he still haunted?