Hollis folded up the papers he’d been given and slipped them back into the envelope.
“So.” He tapped his envelope against his palm. His voice was steady but sounded higher. Twenty years younger. “My guess is, if we admit what really happened that night, in exchange, none of this, whatever your this is”—he held up the envelope—“gets out.”
“Well, my this isn’t a problem.” Maeve tried to fold up the paper the way Hollis had, but it wouldn’t go. She couldn’t make it bend. Her hands shook. “I had permission. She said I had permission. Why would . . . he, why would he think he could blackmail me with this? He’s wrong. He’s made a mistake.”
Oliver ripped the papers from her hand. Waved them in her face. “Stop saying he. It’s not him! And there is one really good fucking reason. You remember that, right? He’s dead. Callum’s dead!”
The name transported them. Now that it had been spoken, it could not be taken back. Now there was no pretending there was the slimmest chance that this was about anything other than him. They were no longer adults standing in a bed and breakfast but teenagers in the front room of a grimy house share.
Maeve stumbled and caught herself on the doorframe.
“Maeve?” someone asked. Lorna, she thought, but she couldn’t see because her eyes were closed, and she was trying to show them how hard she was trying not to cry.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. Don’t touch me! I’m fine.” She wasn’t sure if anyone had reached out to her or not, but it was easy to imagine they had. And easier to know they hadn’t. “I’m tired. I drove for hours. And as soon as I got here I was roped into whatever this is and I’m bloody soaked and freezing and all I want is to shower and change and deal with whatever all this is in the morning!”
When she braved a look, she saw they were staring at her, but there was no pity. Only annoyance. They were pissed off to be putting up with her again. Just as she knew they would be.
“Maeve,” said Hollis, “we should probably talk about—”
“No! I’m too tired for talking. Not tonight.” She stopped herself. She couldn’t completely break down. They wouldn’t listen to her then. “So you do whatever you want, but I’m not thinking about this right now. I’m getting a shower and I’m going to bed and we can discuss this in the morning.”
She gathered the papers—her papers—that Oliver had dropped to the floor and left without waiting for their response, found her way downstairs, and grabbed the handle of her red suitcase. The warmth from the fire felt good, though, and she stood there, wondering what it would feel like if she could stick her hands into the flames without getting burnt. But like so many things, this was impossible.
When she returned upstairs, she saw them dispersing. Oliver ignored her and slammed the door to Room 3 behind him. Lorna met her eye and tried to smile but did not and continued on to Room 1.
Up the next flight of stairs, she caught sight of Ellie before Ellie slipped into Room 5. Maeve found her own room—Room 4—as Hollis called her name.
“If you want to talk, I’m right here across the hall.” He looked at his door. “Just like old times.”
“Thanks, Hollis. Really.”
She stood alone in the hall, imagining Callum waving goodnight and disappearing behind a door just like the others. But that was impossible. And the reason it was impossible was the reason they had all been brought here.
45 minutes prior
The wipers streaked back and forth at full speed, unable to keep up with the relentless rain. Maeve drove with her chest leaning over the steering wheel and stared through the waterlogged windshield, trying to piece together a vision of the road. She had wanted to get to the island earlier, when there was still some daylight left, but needed to take a later ferry instead. The darkness amplified her terror, so much so her anxiety made her shake, even though she knew she should be happy. This was what she’d wanted for years. At least half her life. Everything was going to be perfect. Everything was going to be fine.
Unless, of course, it wasn’t. Because when did she ever get what she wanted?
“No,” she said. “This weekend is about change. Remember? Positive thoughts. Positive thoughts. Positive thoughts.”
Her phone chirped and she fought the urge to check it.
It chirped again. Her fingers tapped the steering wheel.
“You’re almost there. You can wait another five minutes before you check your bloody phone.” She resolutely kept her eyes on the road, counting the seconds. “See? Nothing’s so urgent that it can’t—”
It chirped a third time.
She grabbed the phone and checked the new text message, looking up in time to see the disabled SUV ahead. She yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, hydroplaning past the other car and spinning 180 degrees. Several seconds passed when all she could hear was her own breathing. When she could finally move again, she looked down at the phone and tried to type ok! but messed up the letters as her hand shook. It wasn’t canceled.
“See? Positive thoughts.”
She smiled, then kissed her phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat.
The turnoff welcomed her, and the house lights beckoned, promising warmth, companionship, change. It was all there. All for her. But once she parked the car and the rain fell harder, she couldn’t make herself open the door.
“It’s okay.” She closed her eyes as if in prayer. “You’re a good person. People like you. You have nothing to prove. You . . .”
She forgot the next line. From her pocket, she pulled out her laminated index cards.
“You’re a good person,” she read and flipped to the next card. “People like you. Well, some people, some of the time. I suppose. You have nothing to prove. Which isn’t really a nice thing to say, is it? If you don’t have anything to prove, doesn’t that mean you have nothing worthwhile that needs proving? I should talk to her about that one. Here we are. You can achieve whatever you set your mind to. Whatever you set your mind to.”
She looked up at the house as if its sturdy countenance could somehow be passed on to her. She drank it in—every window, every shingle. It would shelter her. Protect her.
“You’re a good person. People like you. You have nothing to prove. You can achieve whatever you set your mind to.” She tucked the cards into her pocket. “And if you can’t, you can lock yourself in your room and not come out until the end of the weekend.”
Suitcase in one hand, phone in the other, and her jacket draped over her arm for the short dash to the house, she hopped out of the car into the pouring rain. In her rush to get inside, she dropped her bag, then dropped her keys trying to get her bag. She managed to hold onto her jacket until it caught on a plant near the front entrance. Then it fell from her arm into a puddle. By the time she made it into the empty foyer with all of her belongings, her hair and clothes were soaked from the heavy rain.
“Hello? God, I’m so wet. Hello? Mother of . . .” Her bag slipped from her wet hand, and she let it drop. “Hello? I’m here to check in. I hope I’m not too late. I got lost. Missed the turning probably five times.”
The silence felt expectant, as if it were waiting for her to say more. Hearing noises from a room to her right, she approached the door, clothes dripping and shoes squelching. What an impression to make, she thought and opened the door.