I glance over to Levi’s car next, a giant white Jeep with an Outer Banks bumper sticker peeling at the sides. It’s also true she would have recognized it. It’s noticeable anywhere, especially since she’s spent the last semester walking past it every single day. And I did invite her here. She never said yes, but it’s not unlike Lucy to show up unannounced. She does it all the time.
“I’m just surprised to see you,” I add.
“I’ll leave, if you want—”
“No, don’t leave,” I say, closing the distance between us, forcing myself to pull her in for a hug. “I want you to stay.”
Her arms hang limp by her sides until I feel them wrap slowly around my neck, squeezing me back, swaddling me in all those familiar smells: her vanilla perfume and warm coffee breath. The subtle smell of smoke always lingering in her hair. It’s tempting to fall back into the spell of her, to close my eyes and get swept away. Lucy never lets herself be vulnerable like this and I can just imagine her waking up this morning, the first hint of light leaking through the windows and the cold quiet of our house as she brewed a pot of coffee for one. I can see her curling up on the couch for the second week in a row, eyes glassed over as she flipped through the channels, read another book without registering the words. Pondering two more weeks of solitude and the last-second decision to jump in her car, make the drive here without asking permission or telling a soul.
Something selfish and impulsive that is, to be honest, the exact type of thing that Lucy would do.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say at last, my nose nudged into her curls. Part of me means it, I really do, the idea of Lucy needing me enough to put herself out there like this sending a surge of something warm through my chest—but the other part of me can’t deny what I saw through that window.
I think about these last seven months, the way Lucy has slowly singled Levi out in almost every interaction. From the moment his eyes landed on her at Penny Lanes—the moment I heard her throaty whisper as she leaned into him on the floor, asked him that question that’s been ringing through my mind ever since—I had been afraid of this. Afraid of Levi swooping in and claiming another thing that was meant to be mine.
Afraid of Lucy leaving me like Eliza did for a boy who doesn’t deserve her.
I open my eyes, detach myself from Lucy’s grip, and notice that Levi is still standing there, observing us curiously from the porch. He seems to be turning something over in his mind, dissecting it slowly, and I watch as he runs his hand along his jaw, wipes what’s left of Lucy from his lips, before he turns around and disappears into the house, closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER 43
AFTER
We’ve been outside for over an hour, waiting patiently as the police make their way through the house. We’re sitting in the backyard with our legs pretzeled on the ground when Detective Frank finally emerges, a swarm of officers behind him carrying plastic bags of evidence to their cars.
“You’re free to go in,” he says at last, stopping a few feet in front of us. Sloane holds her hand above her eyes, shielding the sun as she stares in his direction, while Nicole keeps playing with a pile of gravel in her palm. The pads of her fingers are chalky as she tosses the little white rocks back onto the driveway, one by one, like skipping stones at the beach.
“What is that?” he asks suddenly, something in the distance catching his attention. I watch as his eyes dart away from us and around the yard, his nose upturned.
“The boys,” I say, already knowing what he’s referring to. “They keep meat in the shed.”
“Meat?”
“They’re making jerky.”
Sloane and I watch as he walks closer, a single stubby finger pushing the door open with a creak. I can feel his grimace from here as that familiar smack of metallic hits our nostrils; watch as he takes in the long, lean strips of deer, rust-red and limp, drying from rows of metal racks. Tufts of pelt heaped in the corners and bloated flies buzzing around the room.
“Is that safe?” he asks. “For … consumption?”
I shrug, twisting back around.
“I don’t know,” I say. “They seem to know what they’re doing.”
Detective Frank looks back at me, at Sloane, then finally at Nicole, still busying herself with those rocks.
“You know, this whole situation seems like it has the potential to get awfully … volatile,” he says at last. “Trouble waiting to happen.”
“And what situation is that?” Sloane asks.