“Go on,” Franny urges. “You two have a lot to talk about.”
* * *
—
At first, I say nothing to Theo. I simply join him on the lawn, my eyes on the lake. Theo is silent in return, for obvious reasons. I’ve now accused him twice. If anyone deserves the silent treatment, it’s me.
I glance at his profile, studying the scar on his cheek and a new mark on his forehead—a deep-purple bruise where I had struck him with the flashlight. I’ve caused him so much pain. Chet’s actions aside, he has every right to hate me.
Yet Theo still made sure I made it out of the lake alive. Detective Flynn talked at length about how quick Theo was to dive into the water after me. Zero hesitation. That’s how he described it. It’s a debt I’ll never be able to properly repay. I could sit here and thank Theo for hours, beg for his forgiveness, or apologize so many times I lose count. But I don’t. Instead, I hold out my hand and say, “Hi, I’m Emma.”
Theo at last acknowledges my presence with a turn of his head. Shaking my hand, he replies, “I’m Theo. Nice to meet you.”
It’s all he needs to say.
Theo shifts beside me and pulls something out of his pocket, which he drops into my hand. I don’t need to look to know it’s my charm bracelet. I can feel the chain curled against my palm, the weight of the three pewter birds.
“I thought you’d like it back,” Theo says, adding with a grin, “even though we’ve only just met.”
I cup the bracelet in my hand. I’ve had it for such a long time. It’s been my devoted companion for more than half my life. But it’s time to say good-bye. Now that I know the truth, I won’t be needing it anymore.
“Thank you,” I say. “But . . .”
“But what?”
“I think I’ve outgrown it. Besides, I know a better place for it.”
Without a second thought, I toss the bracelet into the air, the three birds taking flight at last. I close my eyes before it lands. I don’t want the memory of seeing it vanish from view. Instead, I listen, reaching for Theo’s hand as the bracelet drops with a light splash into the depths of Lake Midnight.
This is how it ends.
Franny passes away on a muggy evening in late September. She dies not at the lake but in the bedroom of her penthouse at the Harris. Theo and Lottie are with her. According to Theo, her last words are, “I’m ready.”
A week later, you attend her funeral on a Monday that’s been kissed by Indian summer. You think Franny would have appreciated that. After the service, you and Theo go for a walk in Central Park. You haven’t seen him since leaving Camp Nightingale. With everything that was going on, both of you agreed that space and time were necessary.
Now a host of unspoken emotions hangs over the reunion. There’s grief, of course. And happiness at seeing each other. And another, stranger feeling—trepidation. You don’t know what kind of relationship the two of you will have going forward. Especially when halfway into your walk, Theo says, “I’m going away next week.”
You come to a sudden stop. “Where?”
“Africa,” Theo says. “I signed on for another tour with Doctors Without Borders. One year. I think it’ll be good for me to get away. I need time to sort things out.”
You understand. You think it sounds like a fine idea. You wish him well.
“When I get back, I’d love to have dinner,” Theo says.
“You mean like a date?”
“It could just be a casual meal between two friends who have a habit of accusing each other of doing terrible things,” Theo replies. “But I kind of like the date idea better.”
“I do, too,” you say.
That night, you begin to paint again. It strikes you after hours spent lying awake thinking about changing seasons and the passing of time. You get out of bed, stand before a blank canvas, and realize what you need to do—paint not what you see but what you saw.
You paint the girls in the same order. Always.
Vivian first.
Then Natalie.
Then Allison.
You cover them with sinuous shapes in various shades of blue and green and brown. Moss and cobalt, pewter and pine. You fill the canvas with algae, pondweed, underwater trees with branches twisting toward the surface. You paint a weathervane-topped building submerged in the chilly depths, dark and empty, waiting for someone to find it.
When that canvas is complete, you paint another. Then another. And another. Bold paintings of walls and foundations hidden underwater, engulfed by plant life, lost to time. Each time you paint over the girls feels like a burial, a funeral. You paint nonstop for weeks. Your wrist aches. Your fingers don’t uncurl even when there’s not a brush in them. When you sleep, you dream of colors.
Your therapist tells you that what you’re doing is healthy. You’re sorting through your feelings, dealing with your grief.
By January, you have completed twenty-one paintings. Your underwater series.
You show them to Randall, who’s ecstatic. He gasps at each canvas. Marvels at how you’ve outdone yourself.
A new gallery show is planned, hastily put together by Randall to capitalize on all the publicity surrounding Lake Midnight. It’s set for March. Buzz steadily builds. You’re profiled in The New Yorker. Your parents plan to attend.
The morning of the opening, you get a phone call from Detective Nathan Flynn. He tells you what you’ve known all along—the bones discovered in the water belong to Natalie and Allison.
“What about Vivian?” you ask.
“That’s a very good question,” Flynn says.
He tells you that none of the bones are a match.
He tells you that both Natalie’s and Allison’s skulls were fractured in a way that suggests they were struck in the head, possibly with a shovel found near the bones.
He tells you that chains and bricks had also been discovered, indicating both bodies might have been weighed down.
He tells you the strand of hair in the plastic baggie you found buried with Vivian’s diary is actually processed polyester used mostly in the making of wigs.
He tells you that same baggie also contained traces of a laminate and adhesive that were once common in the production of fake IDs.
“What are you suggesting?” you ask.
“Exactly what you’re thinking,” he says.
What you’re thinking about are Vivian’s last words to you, when she knocked on Dogwood’s locked door.
Come on, Em. Let me in.