I fel asleep. I feel super groggy. Tom hasn’t come. Should I be worried? I think I’l go and cal him.
Monday, August 15, 1994, 8:00 p.m.
Everything’s over. Everything’s done. Tom is dead.
Monday, August 15, 1994, 11:30 p.m.
I’m in my room. In my bed. The sheets stil smel like him. Why can’t I cry? What’s wrong with me?
I cal ed the house, but there was no answer. I thought about biking over there but then Rosa came to find me. She’d heard about it from someone. I don’t know who. A cop friend, maybe? The island grapevine? They’re saying that Tom died because he got drunk, that he fel and hit his head on the jetty and just slipped into the water.
They’re saying al of this happened last night, after he drove me home, but that they didn’t find him until this morning. It must have been Mike who found him, Mike who cal ed the police. Last night when I lay sleeping, today when I was working and daydreaming about him, when I was waiting for him to pick me up, al that time he was already dead.
I should have known, shouldn’t I? Shouldn’t I have felt it? I was so happy. And he was already dead.
Wednesday, August 17, 1994, 4:30 a.m.
I don’t understand why Tom was drinking. That doesn’t make any sense. Unless . . . unless he and Mike got into a conversation, got over their fight, and had a few drinks together. That’s the only explanation I can think of. They must have been drinking together.
But then, what . . . Tom went for a drunken solo walk down on the jetty?
Friday, August 19, 1994, 6:00 p.m.
I’m such a mess. I can’t pul it together. I’ve been working, kind of, going through the motions, but I can’t seem to remember much of the last few days so I don’t know what I actual y did in those hotel rooms. I think maybe Rosa fol owed me from room to room, cleaning up after me, doing what needed to be done. I feel broken. I knew him for exactly five weeks. That’s nothing. People wil say that I have no right to mourn him. Not like his real friends. Not even like his shitty family. I am the only person in the world who knows what we had.
I . . . oh God, I can’t write anymore.
Hannah
SEVEN
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 28, 2019
Camila and Hannah said nothing as they walked away down the path of the inn toward the car. Hannah had that crawling sensation of being watched, was conscious of Angie’s eyes on their backs until she heard the latch of the door close behind them. They climbed into the car, closed the doors.
“Jesus,” Camila said, with a burst of energy. “That was so risky. I nearly had a heart attack when you asked her if she had any reason to think that Dandridge went to the Fitzhugh house that night. I thought . . . you know, suggesting it even might lead her down a path we don’t want her to go down.”
“Better to know than wonder what she might say when there’s someone other than us in the room.”
“Maybe,” Camila said, frowning. “But you need to be careful. Like I said, witnesses can be suggestible. We’re here to help our client, not find more people who are wil ing to say he could have done it.”
“Right,” Hannah said. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” Camila’s sharp eyes were stil on her but after a moment she moved on.
“We got so much, though. Sean is going to lose his mind that he missed this. Parekh wil be thril ed. I mean, this is major corroboration for Dandridge’s alibi. And did you see her? She’s like the perfect PTA mom. Put her on the stand and the jury is going to love her.”
“I don’t know,” Hannah said. “I mean, she says she went home at ten. And that she went home angry, that she had argued with Neil Prosper. A prosecutor could do a lot with that. Al we can show is that Prosper and Dandridge were drinking and smoking weed together at ten P.M. There is nothing to stop either or both of them from leaving the house an hour or so later, going to the Fitzhugh home, and committing the murder.”
“Except that we know they didn’t,” Camila said.
“Sure,” Hannah said. “But you know, Camila, even if this stuff helped at trial it’s not going to help at the preliminary hearing. We’re the defense. The judge wouldn’t even let us cal her as a witness. I think Parekh’s looking for slam-dunk stuff.”
“We need to get to Neil Prosper,” Camila said. “Have you got the number? Let’s cal Sophia from here.”
“Right now?” Hannah asked.
“No point in hanging around.”
They dialed the number on Camila’s phone, put it on speaker. It went to voice mail and Camila tried again. This time the cal was answered by a harried-sounding woman.