Phone pressed to my ear, I speed-walk to the art room. I have a free block between now and lunch. I’m so behind on my grading it’s not funny, yet there’s no way I can focus, not with Owen saying God knows what to Principal Bill.
Dana doesn’t answer when I call. It goes to voicemail. I hang up and redial.
The art room’s cold. I slip inside, shut the door, and dump my papers on a table. The parquet floor needs sweeping. It’s covered in shreds of colored paper, chalk dust, and glitter. The room’s utterly still.
Again voicemail. I lower my phone. Where the hell’s Dana? If Principal Bill’s reached her, she should be here already. Is she in his office?
I approach a window and scan the guest parking lot down below. There’s a Range Rover, but it’s not Dana’s. There is no silver Mercedes. My frustration spikes. Where is she? Maybe her phone’s on silent.
I send her a text—call me!!!—and another: call me asap!
If she sees them, she’ll know it’s urgent. I detest all caps.
The art room smells of gouache, an earthy scent like mud after heavy rain. It’s giving me a headache. I pace before the tall windows. Glitter is stuck to my dark pants. Damn. That stuff never comes off; I refuse to buy it for Ruby. I recheck my phone. Where the fuck’s Dana?
There’s no way she wouldn’t come when summoned by Principal Bill. Unless she can’t. This thought stops me cold. Dana’s never without her phone. She even takes it to yoga. What if she’s been arrested?
It’s unlikely, yet I can’t help but picture her in a cell, head in hands, her belongings confiscated, waiting—like Owen—to be summoned for interrogation.
I press my fingertips against the cool window. A man’s raking leaves off the school’s lawn and collecting them in shiny black garbage bags. The guest parking lot’s almost empty. I look up. The wind’s torn blue holes in the clouds.
I redial Dana’s number, get no answer.
I stuff my phone and my unmarked essays into my bag. I’d better find her. Who knows what Owen’s saying?
Teachers aren’t meant to leave the school grounds during free periods. I need this job, need a good reference to help hide the blot on my name from Chicago. I don’t want more trouble. But I have to find Dana.
I sneak down the back stairs and hurry to the staff lot. It’s full of respectable cars, not as flashy as the parents’ but none too bad, save for mine. A layer of grime coats my car. I wouldn’t normally let it get this dirty, but I’m hoping the hit-and-run detectives have noticed I have nothing to hide—ha ha. I bet whoever struck Alma Reyes headed straight for the nearest car wash.
As I drive, the local news comes on. I don’t pay attention until the announcer’s voice says, “hit-and-run.” I turn up the volume. “Alma Reyes, the forty-two-year-old Filipina struck in a hit-and-run in the Oaks early on the morning of October eighteenth, has succumbed to her injuries.”
Shock locks my chest. I can’t believe it. The poor woman died. She never awoke from her coma.
The newscaster’s voice echoes: “There have been no arrests yet, although police report progress.”
My eyes swim. Progress? I’ve been so consumed with worry about dumping Stan’s body that I’ve barely thought about Alma Reyes. Or running that stop sign. Guilt churns my stomach. And now she’s dead.
The news report ends as I approach Marlowe. I try not to look at the spot where she lay or remember her, frail and still, or that small, scrappy dog. It’s not fair. I’m shaking with guilt, fury, and sorrow.
I was sure she’d pull through. How old are her poor children? I clutch the wheel, overcome with rage at the man who hit her. He was speeding. He left her for dead in the drizzle! And he put me on the cops’ radar. Made me complicit. He obviously feels no remorse. I want him caught. And I want him to suffer.
The newscaster moves on to some local council meeting. Even he sounds bored stiff. I’m fighting back furious tears.
At Bennet, I turn right toward Beach, then left toward Dana’s. I could turn onto Beach earlier but don’t, out of habit. At this time of year, the road’s empty. Come summer, Beach Drive is full of tourists driving twenty miles an hour.
Since the closing of the cannery and the mill, Glebes Bay depends on tourism. Weekenders come up from Seattle, lured by waterfront lodges, forest hikes, and a coastal town billed as “charming.”
It is charming, yet there’s much the tourists don’t see. The off-season, for starters, when it rains nonstop. And the locals, scraping by in the poorer parts of town, like the Glebe, where I grew up, far from the movie-set locales of Beach Drive and Glebes Harbor, with its shiny white boats and flower baskets.
As I slow and pull into Dana’s drive, I check the security camera facing the mailbox. Its green light is blinking. I’m glad Dana remembered to turn it back on. At least she’s paying attention. Except where is she? I type in the gate’s code, feeling shaky.
I’m worried about Dana—about us. And I’m still reeling over the news about Alma Reyes. She held on for nine days! I hate to think of her, turned and washed by strangers. The indignity! And her poor family back in the Philippines, undoubtedly praying. If she had to die, it should have been instantaneous.
Pulling through the tall gates, I swipe the tears from my eyes. The oaks lining Dana’s drive are almost bare. Black branches reach skyward like charred witchy fingers. Through their lattice, Winderlea looks extra spooky.
I pull into a guest slot. Gloria’s car, almost as crappy as mine, isn’t here. It might be her day off. Where is she? I know nothing about Gloria. This is worrying.
Exiting my car, cool, damp air enfolds me. I zip my jacket. It’s always colder near the sea.
The vast grounds lie still. I walk briskly to the front steps. In shadow, the house looks grim. The porch is a dark mouth. No lights are on. I trot up the steps and ring the bell. Its clangs echo. I try Dana’s phone again. No reply.
Frustrated, I descend the stairs. Coming here was a waste of time. I should have stayed at school. I could get in trouble.
I’m near my car when a bird trills in the pines. It comes from the direction of Dana’s guest cottage.
I stop, uneasy. The sound’s odd, not quite a bird’s cry. I stare into the trees.
Behind me lies the service entrance to Dana’s studio. It’s also unlit. Where’s Dana’s assistant? I know nothing about her either. What if Daisy found blood in the studio? We cleaned up in a hurry.
That weird sound comes again. I veer onto the path leading to the guest cottage. I pass dormant rose bushes and a red-skinned madrona.
Through the trees, the guesthouse comes into view. Unlike the main house, it’s charming: a fairy-tale cottage with leaded glass in the windows. Its stone walls are embraced by climbing roses and ivy.
I’m a dozen steps away when the sound reoccurs: a short, shrill cry. I stop. Was it human? Or a bird chirping in warning?
I’m listening hard when movement yanks my gaze to a window. There’s a gap in the sheer curtains. Something gold flashes.
Without thinking, I step closer, over ivy, between prickly rose bushes. Come summer, they’ll be heavy with pink blossoms.
Just as I can picture the roses, I can picture the cottage’s bedroom. I stayed there for a week with Ruby last summer, just after we moved back to Glebes Bay. The cottage is tiny but heavenly, with a view over the water. I’d gladly have stayed forever, but Dana made it clear that wasn’t an option. It was hard to go from there to my dingy basement.
I peer through the leaded window.
Dana’s hair cascades silver-blond off the bed. She’s on her back, naked. Straddling her is a man with a photoshopped body. Caramel hair hides his face. His curls bounce as he thrusts. I’ve never seen him before, but who else could it be but Dana’s hot young neighbor? Ryan Reeve, the gorgeous drug dealer.
Dana groans and grips his ass. His head rears back. Dana moans louder.
Holy shit! I jerk backward and sideways, out of the window. Shock’s left me lightheaded.
I only saw his face for a second, but that was enough. I was wrong about never having seen him before. He’s the hit-and-run driver!