I send two messages to the real Beth, Greta’s former roommate. Both come from my social media, not my email, at Castillo’s request. At least with the social media, my identity is clear. I am who I say I am: the younger sister of Oliver Harding who runs a successful podcast on victimization.
After that, the plan is to go back to sleep, but it’s already five, and there’s no way I’m getting any more rest. When I notice the light is still on in Castillo’s room, I slip over and say softly, at the door, “I’m still up if you are.”
A moment later, he opens the door, still tugging on his T-shirt.
“You don’t have to come out,” I say. “Even if you’re up, that doesn’t mean you want company.”
“If the company comes with coffee, I’ll take it. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You aren’t. I’m anxiously awaiting return calls from Beth and Martine, while hoping I don’t get one from Oliver.”
“He’s been quiet since you asked for that?”
I nod.
“Good.”
Castillo pads into the kitchen and pops a pod into the coffee maker. When one cup is done, he passes it to me and starts another. “You want to talk to Oliver today? Maybe set up a meeting?”
“A negotiation?”
“Yeah. I’d offer to be there, but that’ll just make things worse. Someone should be there, though. Just in case. Do you want to ask Dinah? I know you were concerned about telling her the financial stuff while she’s still Oliver’s lawyer.”
“I’ll think about it. You’re right that I could use a third party here. I’m thinking—”
My phone buzzes. I’d downloaded my social media apps and turned on the notifications, and when I look over, that’s what I have.
“A DM from Beth,” I say as I quickly open the app. “It’s the middle of the night there. I didn’t expect an answer for hours.”
I tap on the message screen, and my heart sinks. I show it to Castillo.
Castillo swears. I start tapping in a response when she sends another.
I’m frowning at the phone when another message comes. This one is a snapshot of some kind of form. I squint at my phone. Then I enlarge it, which barely makes it legible. I scale and twist it until I can see the top line.
“It’s an NDA,” I whisper. “She signed a nondisclosure agreement.”
“With who?”
I recenter the document until I can see the names.
“My— Oliver’s father.”
“Shit.”
Another message comes in.
“Ironclad nondisclosure,” Castillo says, reading over my shoulder. “It stops you from saying anything about a specific person. At her age, she wouldn’t have realized that.”
Like I did with Oliver and my trust fund papers.
Behind me, Castillo grunts, and when I glance over, his narrowed eyes say he’s thinking the same thing I am. Is Beth going to set me up with a medium to talk to Greta’s ghost?
She starts firing more attachments at me. Before I can even open one, she sends another message.
Selected Entries from the Diary of Greta Haas
October 6
Beth finally dragged me out to a party last night. I met a guy, and we did something I never do with guys at parties. I couldn’t help myself! He was cute and funny, and before I knew it, I was throwing caution to the wind and . . . talking to him. Yes. I spent the entire party talking to a boy. Shocking, right? Now let’s see if he actually calls me.
October 7
He called! Oliver and I are going out for dinner next weekend. Fancy, huh? First, I need to study for midterms, because if my parents find out I went on a date during exams, they’ll kill me. Best thing about university? What they don’t know won’t kill them.
October 27
I failed my Business Analysis midterm. My parents are going to be so pissed. If they knew I was dating Oliver, they’d blame him, but he actually helped me study. I should never have let them talk me into taking business. I hate it so much. Of course, if I didn’t take business, they wouldn’t have paid, so there’s that . . .
November 20
Just got off the phone with my parents, and I’m freaking out. I hate this program. I hate it so much. I won a fucking provincial award for art, but oh no, you can’t make a living at that, Greta. You need a real job. Fuck them. At least Oliver understands. He knows I can’t drop out, but he’s helped me pick different courses for next term, ones he’s sure better suit me.
December 7
I just found out my high school friends are having a Christmas party and I wasn’t invited. It’s girls only, and they thought I wouldn’t come without Oliver. They’re just mad because I’m in university and I have a boyfriend and I’ve been too busy to keep up. Screw them. That’s what Oliver says. We’ll go out with Beth and Danny, someplace nice, Oliver’s treat.
January 3
New year! New term! I’m going to do so much better. I took Oliver’s advice and quit seeing my therapist. He’s right. I’m not getting anything from her that I can’t get from talking to him. I’ll tell my parents I’m still seeing her and just keep the money. God knows, I might need it if I don’t do better this term. But I will! Just watch me.
March 22
I’m supposed to go home for Easter, and I can’t sleep. My parents are going to kill me. I failed half of my first-term courses, and now I’m still failing. I’m not any better at this area of business, and Oliver’s disappointed in me. He never says that, but I can see it. I’ve failed everyone. I can’t do anything right. I’m going to do what Oliver suggested, though, and tell my parents I’m too busy to come home for Easter. They’ll understand. Then I can spend it with Oliver instead.
April 15
Oliver dumped me today.
I shouldn’t say it like that. Dumping sounds like he was mean or cruel. He wasn’t. He was as sweet as always.
I’m too much for him. Too needy. Too broken. He’d never say that, of course. He says he doesn’t want to tie me down over the summer term, but when I said I’ve never felt tied down, he didn’t change his mind. I’m the one tying him down. Weighing him down. I see that, and he has been so amazing, and I fucked up. I fucked everything up, and I can’t face my parents, and I don’t know what I’ll do without Oliver.
No, that’s a lie.
I know what I’ll do.
I’ve read the diary entries. Read them. Digested them. Read them again. Then I slap the phone down and stand.
“I need to go for a walk,” I say.
Castillo looks up from the copies I sent him. He pauses, and I brace for him to point out that it’s 6 a.m. and I’m not supposed to be wandering outside in case Laura’s accomplice is still around.
“Okay,” he says as he gets to his feet.
I shake my head. “Alone. Please.”
“Yeah, I get that. I’ll stay ten paces behind. But I wouldn’t want you walking around at this hour, in this neighborhood, whatever the circumstances.”
I head for the door, where I put on my shoes and pull on my sweater. He says nothing, only follows me out. I walk fast. Not trying to lose him. Trying to lose myself. To outrun what I just read.
I keep going until I spot a tiny playground. It’s empty, given the hour, and I veer into it. I walk straight to the dilapidated equipment and stand there, breathing as if I ran the whole way. Then I sit on a swing. When I look up, Castillo’s on the edge of the playground, glancing around as if wondering where he can hide himself to give me my privacy.
I wave to the swing beside me.
He walks over. “I won’t fit in that.”
I start to stand, but he waves me down.
“Fine, I’ll try,” he says. “If it collapses, don’t say you weren’t warned.”
It doesn’t collapse. It might be ancient equipment, but if it’s held up this long, it’s not giving way under the weight of one guy, even if he’s not exactly child sized.
Castillo settles onto the swing as I flex my knees, swinging ever so slightly.
“My brother drove Greta to suicide,” I say.
He makes a noise that has me looking over, jaw setting.
“What?” I say, sharper than I intend. “Are you going to tell me he didn’t?”
He pushes back a bit, matching my motion. “Nah, I was just going to say what you were already thinking, so there’s no point saying it.”
“That I’m overreacting.”
When he speaks, his words are careful and slow. “No, that there are many factors that go into someone making that choice, and Oliver was one of them for Greta. A significant one, but not the only one.”
A significant one.
My heart drops.
What did I want Castillo to say? That I was completely overreacting, and Oliver played only the smallest of roles in Greta’s choice?
I know better.
Oliver controlled and restricted Greta’s life under the guise of helping.
Had he thought he was really helping? Maybe. But he infantilized her. He took control in everything and made her completely reliant on him. He was her lover, her best friend, her tutor, her financial advisor, her therapist.
And then he dumped her.
Grief and self-hatred had poured from that final entry. Poor Oliver, who’d tried so hard to help her, and she’d failed. She’d been too much for him. The love of her life, lost because even he couldn’t put her back together.
That is truly the worst of it. That she never saw his role in what happened. That she died thinking it was her fault, that she hadn’t been enough.
“I’ve felt like that,” I blurt.
Castillo stiffens so fast that I’m confused until I realize what we’d been discussing.
“Not like killing myself,” I say quickly. “At least, not seriously. After Mom died, it got bad. Dark. I know it’s clichéd to say you’ve fallen into a pit, but that’s exactly what it was like. Everything was dark, and I knew I had to climb out, but I just wanted to curl up in the darkness. Not die. Just not . . . be for a little while.”
“Yeah.”
I glance over. He meets my gaze, almost tentatively.
“After the bomb,” he says. “The bomb, the hospital, the surgery . . . My sisters say I fell into a pit. I didn’t. I jumped in.”
He goes quiet and then shakes his head. “This isn’t about me. Sorry. Go on.”
“No, you go on. I’d . . . I’d like to hear it.”
He glances over, as if to be sure I’m serious. Then he says, “I jumped into that pit and drank until I couldn’t think anymore. Couldn’t feel anymore. My family worried I might do something. I wouldn’t have. I just needed time to ‘not be’ for a while, like you said. I thought I’d pull myself out when I was ready. I didn’t. I had to be dragged out, kicking and screaming.”
“Your family did that for you.”
“Yeah.”
“Oliver did it for me. There have been times I’ve felt like Greta did. Like I wasn’t worthy of his attention. I was the screwup little sister he had to keep rescuing.”
Castillo frowns. “Screwup? You’re getting your doctorate. You have your own podcast—and people actually listen to it.”
My lips twitch. “Yes, the listening-to-it part is important. When I step back and examine my life, I’m doing great. But sometimes, I feel like Oliver is still propping me up, and it’s not fair to him. He came to help me once, and he got stuck with me.”
“I don’t get that impression at all.” Castillo pauses. “Is it possible he’s the one making you feel that way, like he did to Greta?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I can’t specifically point to anything he’s done.”
“Maybe just a general sense that you need him? The guy took over your trust fund. Whatever he intended, that move says you needed his help, when I don’t get the feeling you did.”
I say nothing.
“There’s something I’ve been digging into,” he says. “I’d like to keep doing that. Even more now. Are you ready to head back?”
“I am.”
Martine messages me at nine o’clock on the dot.
I show the messages to Castillo.
“Okay?” I say.
“Not really.”
“But we can handle it?”
“Yeah.”