Diane swayed, too woozy to pull away as I slid my arm beneath her armpits, catching her weight. The trickle of blood smeared against the white fabric of her tank top as I guided her to a chair.
“Sit here. I’ll get you something to drink,” I told her.
She slumped forward and rested her head between her knees. Her shoulders trembled from the release of deep, choking sobs.
I’d forgotten Diane had such a strong aversion to blood.
Of course. Seeing a head in a lettuce drawer would bring most people to their knees.
“Diane, honey, I know this seems crazy, I do. But I promise, it’s going to all make sense. You’ll see. I did this for you.”
Diane said nothing, but at least the guttural sobbing had stopped. “Why don’t I make you some tea, hmm? Some chamomile? Then we can chat, and you’ll see. I know you will.” I didn’t believe my own words. Diane could never understand, but I had to try.
Running my fingers over the neatly arranged row of mugs gave me a second of peace, because if I was doing such a menial task—making Diane a mug of tea—then maybe things would work out. Friendships didn’t end while partaking of something so comfy and warm. You didn’t have tea and then go to prison. That wasn’t a thing that happened.
It would be fine.
It had to be fine.
Finally, Diane spoke, her whispered voice raw and beaten.
“Is this the first time?”
I said nothing, only continued rummaging through the canister where I kept my best teas. Everything was fine, see?
“This isn’t the first time someone close to me has died. What about…in college.”
She didn’t say his name; she wouldn’t dare. It hadn’t crossed her lips since we were huddled together under a blanket watching the news of his death on television in our dorm.
Tension bunched in my shoulders. The question stretched between us. Miles and miles long. An eternity.
“Answer me,” she whispered.
I couldn’t. Even with tea, there was no coming back from that. No way to make her realize the truth after such a long time. Such a long silent deception.
I sucked in a breath, preparing the lie on my tongue. The shame I felt wasn’t shame for the death of a monster. The shame was only for this moment.
I’d lied to Diane before, but this felt different—somehow more personal. It had been an accident; I should’ve told her then. But she’d cried for him. There’d been so many tears. I couldn’t.
I couldn’t now. “No. Of course not.” I dug around for the kettle, unable to look back at my friend. “I…could never.”
It was all I could manage.
Behind me, Diane said nothing.
Then.
My front door banged closed.
The kettle clattered to the ground as I spun around. Headlights flashed through the window, followed by the sound of tires peeling against the wet pavement.
“Diane!” I screamed. “Diane, please wait!”
I ran after her, toward the door, pausing in front of the buffet table.
Proof. I had proof!
I grabbed Simon’s phone and SD card from the drawer, and hurried outside.
My best friend’s Jeep wasn’t in the driveway.
Diane was gone.