I say nothing.
“I’ll be the bad guy if that’s what makes you happy. If that’s what you need to keep kidding yourself you didn’t waste your life. Blame it on your old man, that’s fine. Why else did you think I gave you such a hard time when you kept asking for money? I expected more out of you. Especially with your advantage.”
“What advantage?”
Eli starts to answer, but then something catches his attention. He leans down into the car, comes back up with the device.
“Oh shit.”
“What?”
“I think I know where they’re going.”
Without a word I start toward the passenger door and climb inside. Eli hands me the device. On the screen I watch the red blinking dot move farther and farther away from our location.
“So tell me,” I say. “Why are you so certain they won’t kill her?”
He starts the engine, lets it idle for a couple long seconds, then offers up a sad, distant smile. “You mean you haven’t figured that out by now?”
fifty-two
The first thing Ashley became aware of was the smell. It smelled like … home. Not her home home-where she grew up as a girl, where she played with her dolls and stuffed animals-but her summer home. They had the same kind of smell-that perpetual familial scent-only this was slightly different. It smelled … like the ocean.
She opened her eyes.
It was dark. The curtains were closed. Hardly any light streamed in through the slits.
She was lying in bed-her bed, she realized a second later, noticing the pictures on the walls, the bedside table, even the white-painted dresser.
This was her summer home, or rather her parents’ summer home on Martha’s Vineyard. Growing up, Ashley had come here every summer, sometimes during the off season too for one event or another, and this had always been her bedroom, back when she was a little girl and even until recently when she visited her parents and stayed for a couple days.
But … no, that couldn’t be right. She couldn’t be here. Not right now, not after everything that had just happened.
A comforter was covering her, keeping her warm. She pushed it off and slowly sat up. At once her head pulsed with pain and she had to close her eyes, stop moving for a couple of seconds until the uneasiness subsided. On the bedside table was a tray with a soup bowl. The bowl was empty but she could still smell chicken noodle soup. Campbell’s, most likely, the only soup her mother trusted to fight a cold. A few saltines lay beside the soup bowl.
Feeling confident that her head wouldn’t throb again, she swung her feet out from under the sheets and onto the floor. Her feet were bare. She was, however, wearing pajama bottoms and a T-shirt.
She stood, just as slowly, and shuffled over to the window. She pushed the curtain aside. Water lapped away down by the sand. The light was fading-the sun almost set-but she could just make out Nantucket across the sound.
Well, that settled it. This was her summer home. But what was she doing here?
She went to the door and opened it as quietly as she could. She thought she remembered it squeaking at some point, but the door swung open without sound. She stepped out into the hallway. Here framed pictures lined the walls. Pictures of Ashley and her parents. Pictures of just her parents. Pictures of her father with important people-celebrities, politicians, even the first President Bush.
She tiptoed down the hallway, then down the stairs, taking them slowly, quietly, not wanting to make the slightest noise. The pain had faded, but her head still pounded. It was like she was hungover, only she couldn’t remember having anything to drink. What she did remember, though …
“Ashley, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”
She blinked. Her mother stood in the kitchen by the stove, stirring something in a pot. Her mother was smiling at her, waiting for a response, but when none was forthcoming the smile faded.
“Ashley? Are you feeling better? If you’re not, maybe you should go back to bed.”
“How did I get here?”
“How did you get here?” Her mother looked confused. “Why, you came here with us. We drove up yesterday. Then you came down with the flu, and …” Her mother’s voice trailed away, worry filling her face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Ashley shuffled farther into the kitchen. She pulled out one of the stools from the counter, carefully lowered herself down onto the cushioned seat.
“Oh dear.” Her mother leaned forward and touched the back of her hand to Ashley’s forehead. “You still feel warm. Maybe you should lie back down.”
“Why are we here?”
“Dear?”
“Why am I here with you? Shouldn’t I … shouldn’t I be at work?”
Her mother just frowned at her. “Why are you asking all these questions?”
“Is our little girl up?”
Her father walked through the French doors leading in from the living room. He wore his reading glasses and carried an iPad. He smiled at her and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Feeling better?”
Her mother said, “I think she’s still running a fever.”
The smile dropped from her father’s face. “Well, that’s not good. Maybe you should go back to bed.”
Ashley quickly stood up, the legs of the stool scraping loudly against the hardwood floor.
“I want to know what’s going on here.”
Her parents exchanged a confused look.
“Honey,” her mother said, “we don’t know what you mean.”
“Everything”-Ashley shook her head, trying to get a sense of everything that had happened and all that was happening now-“it doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t make sense?” her father asked.
“Everything after Melissa’s death.”
Her parents exchanged another look, only this one was filled with sadness.
“Yes,” her father said softly, “we were sorry to hear about that.”
“Such a tragedy,” her mother agreed.
“That’s why we came up here.” Her father forced a smile. “You said it was too difficult to deal with and you wanted to get away, so we drove up. Then you came down with a fever and have been in bed most of the time.”
Ashley was shaking her head. “No. No, that’s not what happened.”
Her mother frowned. “Dear?”
“Melissa-”
“Yes,” her father said, “we know what Melissa did. It’s awful, but what’s done is done. I know it hurts, especially as she was a close friend and you just had lunch with her the other day, but we need to do our best to push forward.”
“What about Jeff?”
“Who?”
“I worked with him at the paper. He died.”
“Oh dear,” her mother said. “What happened?”
“He was killed.”
Another exchanged glance between her parents.
“Ashley,” her father said, “are you sure this wasn’t in your nightmare?”
“My … what?”
“You were having a nightmare earlier. You kept tossing and turning in bed, talking in your sleep. Your mother tried waking you to get you to eat some soup. Don’t you remember?”
Ashley wasn’t sure what to say. A nightmare? Yes, everything that had happened was a nightmare in one way or another. But it had been real. Hadn’t it? Yes, it had. Or at least she thought it had been real. Only …
“Melissa,” she whispered.
Another hesitant glance between her parents, and then her father, frowning: “Yes?”
“How did you know I had lunch with her?”
Her father hesitated. “You told us you did. When you came over to our place Monday night.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, dear,” her mother said. “You told us about her father and how he had … well, how he had taken his own life.”
Ashley was shaking her head again. “No, I purposely didn’t mention Melissa. So how did you know it was her?”
The look that crossed between her parents this time was filled with desperation. They both appeared completely lost, unsure what to say or do next. First her mother opened her mouth to speak, then her father shook his head and motioned at her to stop.