We stopped in front of my sedan. “I don’t think we should be drawing attention to the fact that we were there at that exact time.”
She rolled her eyes. “If we’re trying to act normal, news flash: Talking about yoga at yoga is normal.”
“I guess, but—”
“Em, no one is drawing a line between us and that,” she interrupted. “Here, if you want to keep discussing let’s at least toss our phones in your car.”
I complied, slamming the door with gusto, then turned to her, fists on hips. “You’re being reckless.”
“What, you think Priya is going to see the news and, like, call the FBI?”
“I know, but—”
“Hey, I’ve got a hot tip.” She held her hand up like a phone. “These two women I know, sweet girls, law-abiding. They were in that same region of the world as that backpacker sometime last month, so you should probably send a SWAT team. A million dollars, please.”
“I know. It’s not logical.” I shook my head. “You should read the article. It’s terrifying.”
“Fine, but it’ll probably just result in a deluge of false leads. If anything, it proves they’ve got nothing. And if they do miraculously get as far as talking to us: Yeah, we chatted with him at a bar, there were a ton of people there, I made out with him, he left, never saw him again. He was a vagrant, Emily.”
“But someone could have seen us…loading the trunk, or putting the shovels back, or, or maybe we didn’t clean as well as we thought in the suite or the rental car…”
“No one knows anything but us. You and me.” She narrowed her eyes. “Unless you’ve told anyone. Like Aaron?”
A sparkler of fear in my chest. “Of course not.”
“Emily.” She settled her hands on my shoulders. “We need to stay calm and stick together. Now is not the time to freak out and start acting weird.” She glanced at a gaggle of teenagers ambling past. “Okay? We got this.”
I nodded, because it felt like the right thing to do. But in truth, I couldn’t shut myself into my car fast enough. I watched her reach the corner and disappear behind an office building.
I had to face the facts: After Chile, Kristen and I had fundamentally opposing ideas of what Paolo’s death meant for our friendship. Even now, with the walls closing in on us, I could only see it as a reason to cut all ties. But Kristen saw things differently. And Kristen was used to getting what she wanted. In life, and especially from me.
I saw it again, Paolo’s legs on the floor. Toes upturned like a stargazer.
And Kristen’s eyes, pleading and wild.
Emily, she’d said. We have no choice.
* * *
—
I checked my email when I got home, and felt a cold jab when I saw one of the senders: Casa Habita, the hotel where we’d stayed in Quiteria. The spot with the charming wood-burning stove and extra-thick shower curtain. I clicked on it as nausea curled:
Dear Ms. Donovan,
Thank you for your recent stay at Casa Habita. I contact you regarding the unfortunate death of an American tourist in this area. At the request of the local police, all hotels in the region are asked to contact all visitors who stayed in the four weeks past. If you saw anything or have information about Paolo García, reply to this message please and we will connect you with the local policeman. Thank you.
Crap. We’d paid in cash, but I’d been the one to fill out the reservation form at check-in, since it was in Spanish. I texted a screenshot to Kristen with nothing but a question mark, and she replied immediately: Nope, don’t remember anything. But that is a long span of time—who would?
Who would? Who would? Alarm shot up through me and I stifled a groan. Then I saw the time and jolted; even if I left now, I’d be late for dinner with Aaron. Dammit, why was I always behind on things these days? Life was moving too quickly, jerky and unnatural, like an early black-and-white film. I ran to my car and backed into the street, then whipped through a yellow light.
At the next intersection, I breathed deeply. I had to relax, had to seem normal with Aaron. Had to not total my car in my distracted rush to meet him. Getting killed in a collision right now—my vital organs mangled by metal and plastic and upholstery and glass—would be a little too on the nose.
A hell of a way to add to Kristen’s body count.
* * *
—
I didn’t feel like talking about her, but Aaron was insistent. It was sweet, in a way—he asked how things were between Kristen and me, and when I blanched at the question, he grew determined to help.
“Is she jealous that you’re spending time with me?” He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. He looked so cute: fresh from the shower, his shaggy hair combed back, handsome in a slim button-down and jeans. “I thought when a woman gets into a new relationship, her friends give her, like, two months of intense couple time before they expect to see her again.”
I sighed. “It might be partly that. She moved home and I wasn’t sitting around, waiting for her with open arms and a wide-open calendar.” I pushed my plate of penne alla vodka away. Aaron had picked out a hole-in-the-wall trattoria with homemade pasta, and I was dousing my feelings with carbs. “You know this is my first real relationship in forever. She’s not used to having to share me.”
“Well, then we’ll invite her to hang out with us more! I don’t mind.” He twirled linguini against a spoon. “The more the merrier.”
His openness, his cheer—two of the big reasons I fell for him. But in this particular equation, they couldn’t save us. I swallowed, hating what I had to say next: “She’s kind of…judgy of people I date.”
He cocked an eyebrow and grinned. “Fine, but be honest. Have any of them been as undeniably charming as me?”
“Of course not!” I tried to match his smile. All night, I’d been distracted and distant, unable to keep up with his jokes.
Kristen’s words echoed between my temples: You seem to pick bad apples. And my grateful response: I know I can count on you to give me your honest appraisal.
“Let me put it this way.” I picked at the crust on my bread plate. “You know when a friend starts dating someone who, deep down, she knows is bad news? So she keeps him away from her friends because she thinks they won’t approve?” Aaron had several close female friends, so I knew he could relate. His eyebrows rose and I rushed to finish the thought: “This feels like that, but inverted. I know you’re amazing and I don’t want her to tell me otherwise.”
“So she doesn’t think I’m amazing?” His glasses reflected the candlelight. I couldn’t tell if his eyes looked wounded behind them. My heart squeezed.
“She likes you!” I shook my head. “It’s not personal. She doesn’t think anyone is good enough for me.”
“She’s not wrong. You are way out of my league.” He pulled a hunk of bread from the basket and chuckled. “I have no idea what you’re doing with me.”
“Shut up. You’re the best.” I grabbed his hand, then raised it to kiss his knuckles. “I mean it, Aaron. I really like you.”