A MODEST BLAZE CRACKLED IN THE FIREPLACE, which made the living room the warmest spot in the house. Some of the chairs and the large sofa had been dragged in front of the fire, and everyone sat around talking. Meg entered quietly and stood near the window, half hoping no one would notice her.
“And no one saw anything?” T.J. said. He leaned against a bookcase with his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
Minnie curled up on a sofa next to Ben. “We,” she said emphatically, “were together up in the tower. Didn’t see anything.”
“You were the ones outside, dude,” Nathan said. Meg didn’t like his accusatory tone.
“Down at the boathouse,” T.J. said. “You can’t see the path from down there.”
“What was there to see?” Kumiko said. “Vivian slipped and fell. It was an accident.”
“Whatever,” Nathan said. “I’m tired of just sitting here talking about it.”
“What do you suggest we do?” T.J. asked.
Nathan bounced his leg furiously. “I think we should try to get across instead of waiting around for another ‘accident.’”
Nathan’s inflection on the word accident made Meg flinch. Did he suspect there was more going on too?
“What do you want to do?” Kumiko said. “Swim for it?”
“The storm’s let up some,” Kenny said. “We could make it across.”
Ben shook his head. “Did you see the waves crashing over that strip of beach? It washed the bridge away. No way we’d make it.”
“We don’t all have to go,” Kenny said. “In fact, we shouldn’t.”
T.J. stood up straight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Dude,” Nathan said. “Are you mental?”
“No, I’m just the black guy. Which means I should be grateful I’m still alive at this point, remember?”
“It was a joke,” Nathan said. His leg continued to bounce up and down.
Gunner edged forward in his chair. “Not funny.”
Nathan did the same. “Not my fault you and your boyfriend don’t have a sense of humor.”
“So now it’s gay jokes?” T.J. said. He clenched his fists. “Racist and homophobic?” He nodded at Kenny. “Why are you friends with this guy?”
Kenny pushed himself off the sofa. “Only matters that I am.”
Kumiko threw herself between them. “Oh my God, what is wrong with you guys?”
Nathan wasn’t about to back down. “Those marks on the wall? They didn’t appear by magic.”
The room fell silent. It was what they’d all been thinking, but Nathan was the first to say it out loud. There was no one else in the house. One of them had made the marks on the wall.
“Look!” Kenny kicked the leg of the sofa so fiercely Meg jumped. “One of us is an asshole. And I’m not going to sit around and wait to see what happens next.”
It was as if Kenny’s whole demeanor had changed since Lori’s suicide. That first night he’d seemed like a soft, gentle giant who barely said a word and just smiled a lot. Now he was a ticking time bomb.
“Exactly,” Nathan said, resuming his seat. “So excuse us if we don’t want everyone”—he looked pointedly at Meg—“along for the ride.”
Meg opened her mouth to protest, but T.J. beat her to it. “She’s the one who discovered the paint was missing from the boat. Why would she point that out if she was responsible?”
“Maybe she’s trying to throw us off.”
“She didn’t do it,” T.J. said through clenched teeth.
“Yeah?” Nathan said. His leg bounce was so manic Meg could actually feel it through the floorboards. “And we’re what, supposed to take her word for it?”
T.J. squared his shoulders. “Hers and mine.”
Meg glanced at Minnie, hoping her best friend would jump in and add her endorsement of Meg’s innocence. Instead, Minnie stared at the coffee table.
“Excuse me if that’s not good enough.” Nathan got to his feet again. “Kenny and I are heading to the other house,” Nathan said. “Alone.”
“Whatever,” T.J. said. “Good luck.”
Nathan and Kenny stormed out of the living room without another word.
“That was ridiculously dramatic,” Kumiko said.
“Shouldn’t we try and stop them?” Meg asked. “They’ll never make it.”
Ben stood and stretched his long arms over his head. “I’m sure they’ll be fine. The sooner we get hold of the police, the better.” He placed a hand on Minnie’s shoulder. “Why don’t you get some rest? It’s been a long day.”
Minnie jolted in her chair as if Ben had just woken her from a nap. She got to her feet without so much as a nod or a smile and followed him out of the room.
Meg was worried. It was so not like Minnie to be this calm, this stoic. Her usual MO was what Meg had witnessed that morning—total freak-out followed by slightly dramatic narcissism. So this reaction was … odd.
“Minnie, wait up,” Meg said, hurrying after them. She caught up to her at the bottom of the stairs. “Hey, are you okay?”
Minnie glanced at her briefly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Um …” Was Meg the only one who remembered the epic meltdown just two hours earlier when Minnie literally ripped their room apart looking for her meds? Ben was a few steps ahead of them, the only one within earshot. “You know. Without your anxiety medication? I’m worried everything that’s happened today has been—”
“I’m fine.”
“Oh.”
That was a first. In six years of friendship Meg had always been the only person Minnie confided in. And as bad as Minnie’s mood swings had gotten over the last year or two, Meg was used to that role. The shoulder to cry on. The one who fixed everything. Made it all better. That was the pattern. Maybe it wasn’t the healthiest of relationships, but it was the norm, and something about it made Meg comfortable. Now this? Had to be the lack of meds. Had to be.
They reached the second-floor landing and Ben peeled off to his room. Minnie started up into the tower, then turned abruptly.
“I’m going to take a nap,” she said matter-of-factly. “I need some time alone.” And with that she ran up the stairs two at a time, disappearing into the garret room before Meg could ask another question.
“Okay,” Meg said to no one in particular.
Meg stood on the stairs for a full minute. Alone time was Minnie’s nemesis. Her kryptonite. Her Achilles’ heel. In the face of a depressive episode, Minnie would call Meg at any hour of the day or night, keeping her on the phone for hours because she was so terrified of flying solo. And now in the midst of this nightmare, she wanted to be alone? Of all the freaky stuff that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, that topped the list.
Slowly, Meg turned around and wandered back downstairs. Was it her? Was she the social leper in the house? Nathan and Kenny clearly thought she was behind the slashes on the wall. T.J. had disappeared. Minnie didn’t want to be in the same room with her.... Well, crap.
At the bottom of the stairs, Meg paused. Where was she going? The study had a dead body in it. The foyer had the ominous red slashes that she didn’t want to be caught within twenty feet of. Part of her wanted to go upstairs and find T.J., or Kumiko and Gunner, just for the sake of having some company.
She needed something to do, something to occupy her time. Meg’s hand crept into the pocket of her coat and fingered the worn cover of the diary. Or she could find someplace quiet and find out exactly what was in that journal.
The pull was too great. Living room it was.
The room was icy and dark. The fire had died down and even when Meg stoked it, only a shuddering of orange sparks fluttered up the chimney. There wasn’t any more firewood in the log rack, so Meg was left with the dullish glow of dying embers that barely penetrated the gloom of the house. Definitely not enough light to read by. So despite the chill, Meg sat in the window seat, where at least she had some dullish sunlight by which to read.
With a slight shiver—caused by the cold or nervous anticipation, Meg wasn’t sure—she opened the diary.
They’ll know when I’m gone what a mess they made of things. Maybe they’ll be sorry? I don’t know. But at least they’ll know they caused this. It was their fault and someday they will pay.
All of them.
Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. What in the hell was that? The entry was written in black ink, uneven and smudged in places where the paper was slightly warped, as if drops of water had been sprinkled over the page. Tears maybe? Meg thought of all the tears she’d shed while writing some of her own journal entries and could almost picture the author doing the same.
It was hard to tell from the language whether this was a recent entry or something written years even decades ago. And still no hint as to the author’s identity.
Once again, Meg felt like she should close the diary, leave it on the window seat, and walk away. She shouldn’t be doing this. And yet she felt compelled, despite the author’s warnings, to continue. She was totally hooked.
Still, it was wrong, and Meg knew it. These were someone’s private thoughts, and when you read people’s private thoughts … well, things could go horribly wrong. Meg thought of what Minnie or T.J. or even Jessica Lawrence would think of her if they read what was in her journal. Just like most of Meg’s life, there were some things better left unsaid.
Which is why she kept a journal.
And yet Meg’s journal was, in some ways, the most concrete thing in her life. It was totally real and authentic, the only place where she could always be herself, always say exactly what she wanted to, when she wanted to. She was never tongue-tied, never shy, never unsure of herself.
She should have put the journal down.
Instead, she turned the page.