Emily had never heard it put so succinctly, but of course he was right. The question was—did Emily want Ricky back? How could Emily ever forget all of the awful things that Ricky had said? She would never be able to trust her again.
“Unfortunately, Mummy and Daddy have made it clear that I can’t do the gallant thing and fall on my sword for you.” Nardo chuckled to himself. “Can you imagine us getting married? Ricky would slit both of our throats before we made it to the honeymoon.”
Emily was so tired of useless boys talking uselessly about marriage.
“I can’t say I haven’t thought about it, though.” Nardo knocked over another book. “You and me. There are worse things. Though of course that’s not an option now. Spoiled goods and all that.”
Another book hit the floor. He was trying to act casual, but Nardo always had an agenda.
He asked, “You’re sure it was the night of The Party?”
Emily felt her body tense. “Yes.”
“And you don’t remember how it happened? Or who it happened with?”
Emily’s throat strained as she tried to swallow. Ricky had really told him everything. “No, I can’t remember.”
“Jesus,” Nardo said. “Well, I don’t recall much from that night myself, so I suppose I should cut you some slack.”
Emily looked at him for the first time since he’d shown up. The usual snide curl to his lips was gone. He seldom let his asshole persona slip away. This was the guy Ricky saw when she thought about how much she loved him. And in truth, it was the same guy Emily saw when she thought about Nardo Fontaine as one of her closest friends.
She asked, “It’s all a blank?”
“Most of it. But Blake was absolutely out of his mind. I know that much.” Nardo scooped up one of the books he’d let fall to the floor. He picked at the edge with his thumbnail. “I was face down on the couch watching two dustbunnies dance the opening scene from the Nutcracker, and then I heard this bleating upstairs. Like a sheep. It was Blake, if you can believe it.”
Emily shook her head. She wasn’t sure what she believed anymore.
“I go upstairs, and he’s locked himself in my parents’ bathroom, of all places. I had to break the lock to help the old boy.” Nardo turned over the book and examined the spine. “He was on his knees, hands out like he was holding his pecker, but his pants were still zipped. And he was about three feet from the toilet. I have no idea what he was thinking, but for godsakes, what an idiot. His first acid trip is thinking he’s taking a piss? The entire front of his jeans was soaked in it. And don’t ask me about the bleating. What a loon.”
Emily watched Nardo’s toothy grin come out.
“At least I saw an actual unicorn,” Nardo said. “What about you?”
Emily tried to swallow again. “I really don’t remember.”
“Anything?” Nardo asked the question for a second time. “Like, not even getting there?”
“Yes,” Emily admitted. “I remember walking to your front door. Taking the tab of acid from Clay. And then the next thing I know, Mr. Wexler is driving me home.”
“Yeah, well,” Nardo rolled his eyes. “That part I remember. You were hysterical over something. I couldn’t drive you home. I could barely see my hand in front of me. Blake was covered in piss. I had to bribe the old fuck with the rest of our acid just to get him to come get you.”
Emily listened to the cadence of his voice. There was a practiced tone to it, all of his usual vitriol stripped away. “What about Clay?”
Nardo lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Fuck if I know. You were screaming at him about something or the other. Then you ran into the house. You were actually a bit mad. I was afraid you’d break Mother’s good china. And you were partaking of rather too much of Father’s Scotch. They were going to be very pissed when they got home.”
Emily had never seen Nardo’s parents get pissed about anything.
“Well it sure as hell wasn’t Dean who knocked you up. The man’s balls got fried when he was a kid. He couldn’t make a baby if he wanted to.”
Emily looked down at her hands. That wasn’t the kind of information that Dean Wexler would randomly throw around. Which meant that he had talked to Nardo already.
“Do you—” Nardo dropped the book back onto the floor. “Do you think it could’ve been Clay?”
“I—” Emily stopped herself. She silently ran through the list of questions Nardo had thrown at her. He was Columboing her. All that was missing was the one more thing.
She cleared her throat, trying to keep the shake out of her voice. It wasn’t only Dean and Nardo. They had all strategized—Blake, Ricky, Clay, Nardo and Dean. They were all in this together. And they had all agreed that Nardo was their best hope of shutting this down.
She asked, “Do you think it was Clay?”
“I mean—” Nardo shrugged. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, old girl, but Clay has been very clear that he doesn’t see you that way. Acid doesn’t make you do shit you wouldn’t do when you’re sober. And frankly, he’s got a better selection at his hands, doesn’t he? No need to fish in the little pond.”
Emily stared at her hands.
“Come now, old girl, you don’t want to fall into wishful thinking, do you?” Nardo waited for her to look up. “An allegation like that could ruin Clay’s life.”
Yet again, they were circling the wagons around Clay. Emily wondered why no one ever really worried about her life being ruined. Even Ricky had focused only on the boys—what Emily’s pregnancy would do to them, how it might ruin their lives.
“You need to be careful,” Nardo said. “You’ve said yourself that you’re not sure who did it. You might even have the wrong night. I mean, who knows? You certainly have an expanded group outside the clique, with all your practices and debates and whatnot.”
She borrowed a line from Blake. “I know where my vagina has been, Nardo. I’m very attached to it.”
He looked surprised by her coarseness.
She put it to him plainly. “You claim that you were in the bathroom with Blake. Mr. Wexler is sterile. Who else could it be?”
“What about Cheese?”
She laughed for the first time in days. “You can’t be serious.”
“Of course I’m serious.”
“He wasn’t even there.”
“He was standing right in front of you when you walked into the house,” Nardo countered. “Jesus, Emily. Who do you think sold us the acid?”
7
Andrea watched the screen door close behind Ricky Fontaine. The only way to access the laundry in the garage was via the outside stairs. Ricky’s sandals slapped the concrete as she walked down the zigzagging flights to get the towels out of the dryer.
The shit that’s happening at the farm is the same shit that happened to Emily Vaughn forty years ago.
As a parting line, it packed a punch, but it didn’t hold up under scrutiny. Emily Vaughn hadn’t been starved nearly to death. She was seven months pregnant on the night of her attack. She was wearing a turquoise or teal prom dress, according to the witness statements, not a yellow shift. Her shoulder-length hair had been permed, not long and stringy to her waist. She was barefooted, but maybe Andrea’s southern roots were showing because she assumed that a lot of people on farms ran around barefoot.