Nobody saw Lizzie. But I had forgotten how Adrienne, in that stupid hat and those giant sunglasses, always drew attention in a way that I never could, never did.
I didn’t realize she was following me until I was on my way out of town, stopped at the gas station to top off the Mercedes’s tank. I didn’t hear her footsteps behind me; I didn’t realize the voice that called out, “Hey, you,” was meant for me. But then a finger jabbed into my shoulder blade, hard, and I turned to see Jennifer Wellstood, legs braced, hands on hips, glaring at me with utter loathing on her face.
“Remember me?” she said, and I had to fight the urge to laugh, because of course I did. I did, and what I wanted to say was, Bitch, I remember everything.
I remember the way you chewed the inside of your cheek while you curled my hair on my wedding day, and told me you thought my dress was nice, even though it wasn’t white.
I remember the ridiculous look on your face when I caught you with my husband, and how after I stopped being pissed, I couldn’t stop laughing, wondering where the hell you got the idea that it took two hands to jerk someone off.
I remember the time you got drunk at a party and dared Jordan Gibson to let you wax off his back hair, and he was so wasted that he actually let you try.
I remember that I liked you, in spite of everything.
I remember that you were more decent than most.
But Adrienne Richards wouldn’t remember Jennifer, and if she did, she would never admit it. So I gave her Adrienne’s tight-lipped smile, and I kept Adrienne’s sunglasses on, and I used Adrienne’s snottiest voice to say, “Oh, I’m sorry, no. I don’t.”
Jennifer let out a short bark of laughter and shot back through gritted teeth, “Yeah, well, I remember you. Fucking hoity-toity bitch. You’ve got some fucking nerve, coming back to this town. Haven’t you done enough?”
“Excuse me?” I said.
She was yelling now. “Lizzie and Dwayne are dead because of you. Nobody wants you here. So why don’t you get in your car and leave, and never come back!”
“Oh, I intend to,” I simpered, even though my heart was pounding. “Don’t you worry, honey. You’ll never see me again.”
I turned away, got back in the car. As I twisted the key in the ignition, a hand smacked against the driver’s-side window so hard that it made me yelp. I looked up: Jennifer was standing beside the car, glaring at me through the glass. Her face twisted in a funny way, and for one wild moment, I wondered if she’d recognized me after all. Instead, she opened her mouth and yelled, “And your hair still looks like shit!”
I laughed most of the way out of town.
Cried too, just a little.
As much as Copper Falls hated me, they still hate outsiders more.
But I can live with that. I’m sure I can. That’s the nice thing about being dead. I don’t have to care anymore, about any of them, save one—and he’ll be okay. I will be sure that he is. I think he knows I’m in a better place.
I just wish it weren’t so lonely.
I didn’t lie to Ian Bird when I said I’d been to see Adrienne’s mother. I did. I wanted to. The press had stopped harassing me sometime before Thanksgiving. By mid-December, there was snow on the ground and only the occasional footprint in it from a photographer hoping to snap a picture of me as I came or went, a preview of the moment I knew would come, someday, when nobody cared anymore about Adrienne Richards. Kurt Geller looked at me strangely when I told him my plans, but I was getting used to that, the way the people in Adrienne’s life flinched when she did something unexpected. I was learning that I could push back.
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t visit my mother?” I asked, and he pursed his lips.
“I suppose not,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t leave the country just now, if I were you, but South Carolina—”
“North,” I said immediately.
“Of course,” Geller replied smoothly. “My mistake.”
I smiled and told him there was no need to apologize, but I wondered, the way I always do. If he suspects something, if he’s testing me. Toying with me. I don’t think Kurt Geller has ever really trusted me, but perhaps he never trusted Adrienne, either. I also don’t think he cares much, as long as the checks keep clearing and he gets his commission from the breakup of Ethan’s estate. And then I think about what he said to me that day, before I left—a gift, although he’ll never know it.
“You look so tired, my dear,” he said. “Of course, nobody would blame you for letting certain things fall by the wayside, and tragedy can be so aging. But have you considered a little Botox, perhaps? Just to make you look more like yourself again. I can recommend an excellent dermatologist.”