Jason attempted to take charge. But he sounded lost, and afraid. “What happened? What the fuck happened—？ Elliot?”
“She’s gone.” I shook my head. “She’s—gone.…”
“What?”
“She’s dead.” I lowered her wrist, fighting tears. “Lana’s dead.”
ACT II
Every murderer is probably somebody’s old friend.
—AGATHA CHRISTIE, The Mysterious Affair at Styles
1
I still can’t believe she’s gone.
Even now, after all this time, it doesn’t feel real. Sometimes I think if I were to shut my eyes, I could reach out and touch her—as if she were sitting right next to me. But Lana’s not here. She’s in a different galaxy, light-years out of reach, getting further away by the second.
I read somewhere that hell has always been misrepresented. It is not a burning pit, full of fiery torments. In fact, hell is just an absence, a banishment from God’s presence. To be removed from Him is hell itself. And so I’m in hell. Condemned to dwell forever in some empty place—away from Lana’s radiance, away from her light.
I know, I know—I must cease this maudlin self-pity. It does no one any good—Lana least of all. It’s me I’m feeling sorry for—this poor wretch who must live without her.
In one sense, I still possess her. Lana lives on forever, immortalized in her movies; eternally young, eternally beautiful—while we mortals grow older, uglier, and sadder every day. But that’s the difference between two and three dimensions, isn’t it? As Lana exists now, preserved in celluloid, she’s only to be gazed at. Not touched. Not held; not kissed.
So, it seems Barbara West was right in the end （though in an entirely different way from how she meant） when she said to me spitefully one day, “Darling, I do hope you’re not falling in love with Lana Farrar. Actors simply aren’t capable of love. You’re much better off hanging a picture of her on your wall and having a wank over it.”
Funnily enough, I have a photograph of Lana here with me on my desk as I write. It’s an old publicity still—slightly aged, curling at the edges, faded and yellowed. It was taken a few years before I met Lana. Before I ruined her life, and my own.
But, no—that’s not fair.
My life was ruined already.
2
Okay, I have something to tell you.
Before I can go any further, before I can reveal who committed the murder—and, more important, why—I have a confession of my own to make.
It’s about Lana.
There is so much I could say about her. I could tell you how much I loved her. I could reminisce about our friendship, regaling you with stories and anecdotes. I could romanticize her, mythologize her—paint you an artist’s flattering impression, idealized beyond recognition.
But that would be a disservice to you—and to Lana. What’s required, if I have the stomach for it, is a “warts and all” portrait, like the one Oliver Cromwell famously demanded. What’s needed is the truth.
And the truth is, much as I loved her, Lana wasn’t quite the person I believed she was. She had many secrets, it seems, even from those closest to her. Even from me.
But let’s not judge her too harshly for that. We all keep secrets from our friends, don’t we? I know I do.
Which brings me to my confession.
Believe me, it’s not easy. I hate pulling the rug out from under you like this. All I ask is that you hear me out.
Here, in the imaginary bar in my mind, where I’m talking to you, I’ll order you another drink—and tell you to brace yourself. I’ll have one, too—not a perfect martini like in the old days; just a quick slug of vodka, cheap stuff that burns the throat.
I need it, you see, to steady my nerves.
When I first began writing this account, I promised you I would tell only the truth. But the thing is, looking back over what I have written, it occurs to me that I may have misled you over a few points, here and there.
I have told you no actual lies, I assure you—it’s a sin of omission, that’s all.
I’ve told you nothing but the truth.
Just not all of it.
I did this from an honorable motive: the desire to protect my friend; not to betray her confidence. But unless I do, you will never understand what happened on the island.
So, I must rectify this error. I must tell you things you need to know, fill in certain gaps. I must reveal all of Lana’s secrets.
And mine, too, for that matter.
That’s the tricky thing about honesty. It cuts both ways, that sword; which is why I am so wary of wielding it.