I was sitting now, sitting on the cold, damp earth, knees bent, turned away from the scene. My limbs were shaking.
“Shh, don’t look,” a woman in uniform was saying. Implying that I did not have the constitution for it. I reminded myself that they didn’t know me. Kyle had left me there, entrusting me to someone else’s watch. To them, I was a schoolteacher, a woman living alone, a girl with a missing roommate. “Take slow breaths,” she said, crouching down in front of me.
I listened about the breathing part, but I peered over my shoulder as well—saw Kyle instructing other policemen, all of them branching out to order people back. His eyes met mine across the distance, then he turned away and went back to processing the scene.
Emmy’s car was on a flatbed truck now, and a new crew had arrived. Most spectators had left the area, but not all. This was the gritty part, the grisly part. This was the part you didn’t report—that turned people away. The truth. The gut-wrenching truth that only we bore witness to.
The woman in front of me handed me a candy bar, as though my reaction were a result of plummeting blood sugar alone. Still, I peeled back the wrapper and took a bite, felt the rush surge back to my head. The clarity of the scene.
I lowered my head onto my folded arms as if resting, and I watched: The photographer shooting the scene from every angle. The pieces of evidence, the car, the location, all tagged and marked and shot again—before prepping for the removal of the body. Thick gloves, face masks, a layer of protection over the clothes of the men who would do the dirty work, and Kyle standing a little way back, his arms straight at his sides, watching it all. The body itself so stiff and bloated as they wrenched it from the vehicle. More water pouring out with it. Heads turned away in grimace. Something carried on the breeze, thick and cloying.
More photographs, then, of him laid out on the tarp. Searching over him for evidence. Kyle pointing for another shot, an up-close of his face or neck. Eventually they covered him up and zipped him in a bag, then lifted him onto a stretcher. Two men pushed the stretcher up the hill on rickety wheels. They were coming right toward me, right up the hill, and the woman said, “Come on, we need to move out of the way.”
A trail of officers followed behind, looking at the ground. Kyle lingered near the car, pointing out places to check or mark. Then he pulled himself onto the ledge of the flatbed, looking back at me for a second. He nodded to the man beside him, who pried open the trunk of the car. Kyle looked inside, and I held my breath. I could picture the scene as if I were the one standing beside him—his face hardened against what he might see.
But nothing happened, just a shake of the head, words I couldn’t understand, his slow gaze turning to me once more.
“What’s your name, honey,” the woman was saying. But I ignored her as Kyle jumped down from the back of the truck and approached.
“Leah,” he said when he was close enough to speak at a normal volume. “You need to go back home. Do you need a ride?” Nothing about the scene unfolding that we’d both witnessed. Nothing about the body he’d seen and touched. Nothing about the person we both knew he was looking for inside the trunk, fearing the worst.
“No, I have my car,” I said, but my voice felt scratchy in my throat, too dry or worn.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“My students,” I said. “My students said there was a car being pulled from the lake. Brown. An old station wagon. It sounded like hers.”
He looked around at the few remaining spectators, their phones in their hands. The information getting out even before the police and journalists could decipher fact from rumor.
“Is it her car?” he asked. “In your best judgment?”
I set my jaw. Knew what I was doing, what it would mean. There would be no escaping an investigation and all that followed. Right now, when I opened my mouth and told the truth, I would be linking myself to her fate, to her case. I felt an unbearable weight of sadness, a loss of something I couldn’t quite place. “Yes,” I said. “It’s her car. Was it just him, then?” I lowered my voice. “James Finley?”
Kyle looked at the woman standing beside me, seemed to be choosing his next words carefully. “It’s just the man. I need you to get back home. I’m going to come by later, though, okay? We’ll go over everything. Soon as we’re done here.”
I shook my head, finding myself again, reorienting. “I have to get back to work.”
Kyle nodded once, and the woman placed a hand on my back, leading me toward the lot. I peered over my shoulder as I walked away. At Emmy’s car. At all that was left behind.
The police were peering in the car, around the edges, off at the horizon. They didn’t know exactly what they were looking for or how to know if they’d found it.
I ENDED UP BACK at school, sitting in the faculty lot. It was the middle of second period—returning mid-class would be as noticeable as my exit. So I rested my head back on the seat and closed my eyes. I kept seeing James Finley’s face, the one time we’d locked eyes. The way he’d sucked his cheeks in, lighting a cigarette, his eyes cutting to my own—
A sea of noise interrupted the memory. Footsteps, laughter, a kid yelling to his friend, all signaling lunch break. Seniors who were permitted off-site for the thirty-minute window. A brief reprieve from their temporary holding cells and all expectations. What could possibly happen in thirty minutes? the administration must’ve thought. All things happen in an instant. Everything could change in a moment.
I got out of the car, made my way to the front entrance. A stream of students was moving one way, and I went the other, hoping to blend in. But Mitch saw me, anyway. He was just inside the glass of the front office, and he held up his hand, asking me to stop.
I waited in the lobby, his footsteps echoing in the atrium.
“Did you leave first period?” he asked. He looked me over briefly and scrunched up his nose as if he could scent something on me. His face twisted, softened. “Izzy Marone came to the office and said you just up and left.”
I nodded, put a hand on the front of my neck, watched as his eyes followed. “They told me there was a car being pulled from the lake. It sounded like my roommate’s car.” I took a breath. “It wasn’t her, though.”
“Oh,” he said, looking me over again. “Good, okay, I’m happy to hear that.” He placed a hand on my elbow. “You need to tell someone before you do something like that, okay? Liability-wise, we can’t leave a classroom like that.”
I nodded, met his eyes, felt him soften in response. “It was an emergency. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”
“I know, I know. Just for the future. Is everything okay, then?”
I shook my head. Wasn’t sure. “Well, it wasn’t her, but it was her car.”
He frowned. “Heard they found a body, too.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
His gaze fixed on me. “You saw it?”
And for the first time since I’d been here, I realized I knew something they didn’t about the town. It was a feeling that always sent a little thrill, being the one to hold and disperse the information. Deciding what and how much to give. “A man,” I said.
He pressed his lips together. “That makes two down by the lake in the last few weeks. I’m worried about you.”
“It’s just coincidence,” I said. And yet he was right. One body at the Tavern on the eastern edge, on the other side of the lake from me; another along the southern coast, closer to my home on the west. Coincidence always led to story—I could feel it. Clusters of crime, of cancer, of suicide, for which there was no linking explanation—and yet we couldn’t look away; the mysteries that captured our collective consciousness.
He shook his head. “I don’t know what’s happening to this place. It’s a safe place. It’s always been safe.”
“There are crimes all the time, all over the place, Mitch.”
“It’s not like that here.”
“The population just doubled in size.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s not a city. It’s a nice community. People look after each other here. Or they used to. But now it’s overrun with people from other places.”
“It’s not just them. It’s a collision of worlds. The unemployed are still unemployed. They’re just buried under a layer of fresh shiny jobs. It’s a fucking breeding zone for crime. The new economy does nothing but make everyone else’s way of life unaffordable now.”
He stared into my eyes, as if realizing I was one of these new people. “Ms. Turner took over your class, by the way. You owe her one.”
“Okay, Mitch, okay,” I said.
“Leah,” he called after me. “Be safe.”
I TAPPED ON KATE Turner’s open door; she was eating alone at her desk. She gestured for me to come in, then stood, wiping the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “Oh my God.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Leah, I heard. They told me it was a brown car, and you took off. Your roommate?”
I shook my head. “Wasn’t her.”
Kate let out a relieved breath.
“I’m sorry for just leaving like that. Heard you covered for me. Thank you.”
“It’s nothing, it’s fine. Just next time, tell me first so some prissy little thing doesn’t end up in the front office tattling on her teacher.” She rolled her eyes, and I smiled.
“Seriously,” I said, placing my hand on her elbow. “Thank you.”
“Listen, why don’t you come over after work? Or we can go out somewhere. This whole thing is making me nervous.” Her whole body appeared on edge. This whole place would soon be on edge. But Kyle was coming over sometime this evening, and he’d have answers.
“I can’t today,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
The bell rang, and she groaned—third period about to get started. A student practically tripped into her classroom, earbuds in, music loud enough to hear from across the room. “And so it begins,” she said.
I backed up through the doorway. Thank you, I mouthed. I packed it all away, in a compartment in my mind for later.
Focus, Leah. Get to work.
IZZY MARONE FROZE AT the entrance to my class fourth period, the last block of the day—not expecting to see me back here. Her dark hair was brushed up into a slick ponytail, and her hazel eyes looked wide and innocent, lined with mascara. She had a perpetual tan, which she showed off with pale clothes, cut low and fitted across her skinny frame.
“I’m looking for my jacket,” she said. She stood at the entrance, not moving.
I tipped my head to the side. “Take a look,” I said, gesturing to the seats.
She moved through the rows, bending over, checking under the seats. A thorough commitment to the lie. Eventually, she straightened, hands on her hips. “Maybe Theo grabbed it for me. He’s my neighbor. I’ll check with him later.” As if she wanted me to know whose side she was on. Why was I not surprised that they came from the same place? That they both lived in giant homes, in new developments, the embodiment of shiny and safe?
I met her eyes. “Hope you find it,” I said.
She cleared her throat. “Is everything okay? Are you okay? Was it . . . Did you know them?”
I shook my head. “I’m okay, Izzy. Did you need anything else?” I assumed she was here for the gossip. The follow-up. The story.
She licked her lips again, moved toward the doorway, shook her head. “No, nope, that’s all.”
“See you tomorrow,” I said, so she would know: I was here, I was back, I wasn’t going anywhere.
It wasn’t until she turned away that I noticed she had a lined piece of paper in her hand, folded into a small square. She tucked it into the back pocket of her jeans as she walked away.