The rest of the hot day passed in a blur. Madge’s paranoia upon learning that the Gregorys were onto them had compelled her to set up an unnecessarily complex hand-off process (in Sloane’s opinion, anyway)—one that involved Sloane fishing the watches out of a garbage can in the ladies locker room.
Now she was home alone with the watches, obsessing over their brand-spanking-new eBay listing. The ceiling fan above her head spun and rattled like it was on decapitation setting, seconds away from flying down and chopping her to pieces. Although maybe that would be a good thing. Maybe if the stupid fan fell down, it would dice up her guilt, along with the rest of her, into such small pieces that no one would ever know it’d been there in the first place. Maybe the fan’s blades would open her up and reveal her guts, blackened and rotted for not being brave enough to save Willa and for failing her again when she’d spoken to James.
Of course if Sloane died in a freak ceiling fan accident, she wouldn’t be able to check the status of their eBay listing.
She rolled over to the opposite side of her bed where her phone lay nestled on a pillow, once again swiping and clicking her way to the post she had created for the “Rare Vintage Cartier Men’s Watches.” It was fascinating to watch the bids roll in, to wonder if the Captain took the bait after Madge had sent him the listing. It was downright exhilarating to imagine their plan, Sloane’s plan, working.
CCG1927 outbid a***y AGAIN. Up to $19,876.
She sent the message to the girls despite the fact that they could easily keep track as well. It felt good to be doing something right for once. Then again, she’d practically pulled her hair out over the listing, using a combination of a thesaurus, Wikipedia, and other eBay listings to cobble together what she hoped would be one coherent auction. But she was proud. She’d even learned how to return messages to potential buyers, copying and pasting vintage Cartier facts scored from a Google search. She liked to imagine the bidders—a creepy old man with gnarled fingers hunched over an old desktop computer buying back a watch from his glory days, a desperate housewife determined to win back her husband from his hot new secretary, a devoted mother buying a graduation present for her only son.
But there was one bidder who she didn’t have to imagine at all. Sloane was positive that CCG stood for a scrambling Charles Cornelius Gregory. Perhaps he was this much closer to disinheriting his worthless grandsons. Madge had been the one in charge of sending the Captain the link to the listing via a newly set up email address. Sloane could almost feel the satisfaction Madge must have felt when she’d clicked send. The very thought of the Captain having to register for an eBay account was a small victory.
Sloane refreshed the auction again. Another two bids came through neck-and-neck.
James. James. James.
She couldn’t stop thinking about him. The auction didn’t distract her; it only heightened the obsession. Willa had once told her that James used to black out when he was drinking. They’d have entire conversations that he wouldn’t remember the next day. It drove her insane. He’d been sober for the past year, so Sloane had nearly forgotten about James’s alcohol-induced memory loss. But now … what if James was telling the truth? What if he really didn’t remember anything that happened on the Fourth of July? She remembered him swaying on the boat, his eyes bleary and unfocused. Would that make Willa’s death a terrible accident or the murder they’d all assumed it was? Did murderers ever forget? The lines she’d always seen so crisply drawn were suddenly turning hazy, wavering along the edges. Destruction of the Gregory boys had only seemed fair when she was sure James had killed her best friend on purpose. Eye for an eye and all that. Now, the spark she’d felt that first day in the attic fizzled out, the smoke leaving a bad taste in her mouth.
But Sloane had to do her part. The War was for Willa, yes, but Madge was still alive and they all deserved to know the truth. Doing her part meant keeping the watches safe and hidden. Their housekeeper had come way too close to uncovering them earlier in the day. She could just imagine Helene reporting to her parents and the after-school-special-esque conversation that would inevitably follow. Her parents would probably think she was planning on selling them to pay for a boob job. In the end, Sloane decided the safest place for the watches was on her body, in a small fanny pack that she had used on her class trip to France to hold her passport and Euros.
She threw her phone in her bag and hopped out of bed. She needed something to do. Somewhere to go. Her legs were jittery and her brain was stuck on a new track, the one where it kept replaying James’s voice.
“I can’t remember. I can’t remember. I can’t remember.”
Sloane couldn’t stop herself from responding.
I can’t forget. I can’t forget. I can’t forget.
Ice cream. She needed ice cream. Something cold, creamy, and distracting. Ben and Jerry’s was a ten-minute walk from her house. It would be good to get out, stretch her legs, and maybe even find a new broken record for her brain.
Sloane slipped into her flip-flops, left a note for Helene, and trotted down her narrow driveway onto the sidewalk. The enormous oak trees that lined her street created a shady canopy for her as she meandered toward the ice cream shop. Sprinklers sprayed her legs as she went, the drops of water sparking in the sun. It felt good to be outside, alone for once. She hadn’t realized how much she needed this.
“Sloane?” Someone gasped for breath behind her. “Is that you?”
A red-faced, sweaty Jude Yang ran to catch up. If there was anything she didn’t need right now, it was Jude Yang. He was wearing a Yale T-shirt with the arms cut off revealing sinewy biceps. Every time Sloane saw him, he was decked out in head-to-toe Yale gear. He was only a freshman. He must have bought every single article of clothing they were selling at the damn school bookstore.
“Oh, hey.” Sloane lowered her head, turned, and kept walking, praying that he’d get the hint. She knew she shouldn’t hate him. Jude had been valedictorian last year, was an exceptional musician, a star lacrosse player, ridiculously good-looking, and nice. His father worked at the hospital with her parents. He was all they ever talked about. He was everything Sloane wasn’t, everything everyone wanted her to be. And she hated him for it.
“I just don’t see why you don’t give him a chance,” Willa had once said to Sloane as they lay on the deck of Sloane’s parents’ boat. “You’d make the perfect couple, and he’s always staring at you. Everyone sees it.” She’d hoisted herself up on an elbow then, peering over her sunglasses, waiting for Sloane’s reaction.
Sloane could have listed a million reasons why she shouldn’t give Jude Yang a chance but didn’t bother. When Willa got an idea in her head, it was impossible to change it. Willa waited a few more seconds, and when it was clear Sloane wasn’t going to respond, she flopped back onto her towel.
“No one’s perfect.” Willa had practically whispered the words.
Sloane had never been sure exactly who she’d been talking about that day, but the memory had a tendency to pop back up when Jude was around.
“Hey, wait up.” Jude trotted next to her.
Sloane angled her body toward the street and kept walking, pretending to be engrossed with her phone.
“I just wanted to say I’m so sorry about … about what happened,” he offered awkwardly. “I know you two were super tight.”
“Oh, um, yeah. It … sucks.” Tears welled in Sloane’s eyes, and she wasn’t sure if she was about to cry for Willa or because she sounded so stupid. She had no words and she hated being forced to find some. The last thing she needed was Jude moving in for an awkward hug or something. Her fanny pack felt as if it were squeezing the air out of her body. She grabbed at the strap, hoping to loosen it, but hit the buckle instead and the bag went flying out from under her shirt. It struck the pavement with a sickening crunch.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Ninja 101 must have been a required course at Yale because Jude was on the ground grabbing the bag before Sloane could even breathe.
“That didn’t sound good.” He handed her the bag carefully.
Sloane’s hand shook as she pulled the zipper. The watches were broken, they had to be. She was so screwed. So, so, so screwed. She gingerly removed one. Her fingers trembled harder. Sure enough, the glass on the face was cracked.
“Dammit.” She swore under her breath, tears pricking her eyes again.
“Oh man, I’m so sorry. Those look important.” Jude’s voice was so earnest, so kind. Sloane had the sudden urge to knee him in the balls. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t stopped her. Goddamned Jude Yang was ruining her freaking life.
“They’re like antiques or something, right?” Jude lifted one of the heavy gold watches and ran his finger over the face. If Sloane hadn’t been so miserable she would have swatted his hand away. “Cartier. These things have to be worth a fortune. Hey, at least this one isn’t broken.” He shot her a reassuring smile. “Glass half full, right?”
Sloane could think of a number of places for Jude to stuff his glass.
But then Jude flipped the watch and lines appeared on his forehead. He brought the back closer to his face and narrowed his eyes. “Huh. I’m surprised there’s no inscription on the back. My dad’s is engraved with the year and product line and stuff.”
Uh-oh. Doubt made her breath catch. What if they had stolen the wrong watches? Why did she always feel like she was one step behind? But more than that, why did it feel like it was everyone’s goal in life to make her look like a jackass? Including Jude.
He noticed her disappointment. “Oh … I’m sure these are just too rare. They probably didn’t start engraving the back until the eighties or something.”
“Yeah … right.” She took the watch from Jude and tucked it back into the bag in an effort to excuse herself.
“Hey, I know a guy who could fix the other one for you. It’s not too far. I could walk you.”
“No.” The word slipped out before Sloane could stop herself. “I mean, thanks, but you should finish your run. I think I know the place you’re talking about. I’ll be fine.”
“It’s right up on Cedar. If you tell him you know me, he’ll give you a deal. Yale man.”
Sloane squeezed her eyes shut, then forced them open. If he said the word “Yale” one more time, she would snap. “Awesome. Bye.” This time Sloane didn’t feel even the tiniest pin prick of remorse when she left Jude Yang standing near the curb. Honestly, she was bolting for his own good.
By the time she made it to the jewelry store, Sloane’s cheeks were moist with tears. At least the guy at the counter wasn’t emblazoned in Yale. He was just a paunchy middle-aged nerd with a grey beard and glasses. She handed him the watch, desperate for him to say he could fix the complete mess she’d made of the situation. But when the jeweler’s eyebrows pulled together in the exact same way that Jude’s had as he ran his rough fingers over the back, all remaining hope whooshed out of her. She was defeated. Done. The War was over.
“I don’t really see the point in doing anything here,” the guy said.
“But it’s an antique. It’s rare and expensive,” Sloane insisted.
“It’s antique. Antique junk. It’s a fake.” The jeweler scrunched his face a little, knowing the truth hurt. “You still want me to fix it?”
What the hell? Sloane couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat. She shook her head instead and gathered the watches together, stuffing them back into the fanny pack.
The door jingled as Sloane pulled it open, a notification buzzing on her phone as it slammed behind her.
Another bid. This time only one came in. CCG1927. $30,000.
Fewer than six hours and twenty-three minutes until the auction closed.
It made her brain hurt. Did the Captain know the watches were fake? If he knew, why would he bid the thirty grand? And what about the boys? Would supposedly selling their watches for cash on eBay even be enough to get them cut off? The fact that Sloane didn’t have any of the answers made her feel even more dumb than usual. It was like playing rock, paper, scissors. Sloane hated that game because she could never remember what was supposed to beat what so she always ended up playing rock. Rocks were hard. Rocks could smash. Rocks should always win. But the other girls must have figured out her strategy because they always played paper. She hated the feeling of one of their hands enveloping her fist. It wasn’t fair. Paper was weak. Paper shouldn’t beat anything. Not ever.
And now she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had somehow messed up the rules of the game again. That she’d thrown rock only to have the Captain wrap his wrinkled hand over her fist. Money was made of paper, and money was power. In the rock, paper, scissors game they played at the Club, the Captain always won.