Jerome and Daniel were waiting on the front step when Emily returned to the house with Helen and Sam trailing just behind. By the look on Jerome’s face, Emily already knew she had some explaining to do. She met the men halfway in the garden.
“Marcia?” she asked.
Jerome shook his head. “Pamela’s playing it cool but I think she’s starting to worry.”
“Where is she now?”
“I’m not sure. Somewhere inside.”
“And the others?”
“Ben and Sylvia are sulking in their rooms. Janelle’s with Melody. That girl can certainly cry. Where’ve you been? I turned around and saw you sneaking off downstairs.”
Emily took in a breath. “Helen and Sam cut Oscar down.”
Jerome’s eyes looked as if they were about to burst out of his head.
“What did you just say to me? Emily Swanson, you better tell me straight you had nothing to do with that!”
“I didn’t,” she said, turning around to see Helen and Sam enter the garden. Sam still had the axe in his hand. “I realised what she was up to and I went after her to try and stop it from happening. I was too late.”
“You know you can play the innocent in front of your friend there, but I didn’t see you running away when we found that photo.” Helen moved up until she was by Emily’s side. “And come to think of it, you didn’t run away when we were in Oscar’s room.”
Shaking his head in confusion, Jerome stared at Helen, then Emily.
“Oh, she didn’t mention that?”
Anger ignited Emily’s insides. What was it with journalists?
“I heard noises through the wall, I went to see what it was,” she said, her jaw clenching. “Helen was searching through Oscar’s things, apparently looking for leads for her story.”
“Well, that’s one way of putting it, I suppose,” Helen shrugged. “But the fact remains, things aren’t what they seem here and I intend to find out exactly what’s going on, with or without any of your help.”
“Is that so?”
Heads turned towards the house. Pamela stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind her back.
***
Fifteen minutes later, Emily and Jerome were sat on the back porch, facing away from each other as they stared into the trees. When Pamela had learned what Sam had done, she’d taken him to her living quarters for what Emily imagined would be a serious talking to, perhaps even instant dismissal. Helen had quickly made her excuses and slipped off to her room, but Emily was sure Pamela would have something to say to her as well, just as soon as she’d finished with Sam.
As the minutes ticked by, the air grew thick and hot, until Emily felt as though she was inhaling molasses. Restless and irritable, she moved over to the railings, glared at the forest for a moment more, then spun on her feet.
“So you’re just going to continue to ignore me?”
Jerome pursed his lips and arched an eyebrow.
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “After the conversation we had. After everything you’ve been through, you still had to go and get yourself involved.”
“You’re not my keeper, Jerome. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“You’re right, I’m not your keeper. I’m your friend. I care about what happens to you. I’ve watched you go through hell this year and come out the other side. A little screwed up, yes. But you came out alive. I just don’t understand why you would put yourself in the firing line for more trouble. Are you a masochist? Is that it? Or are you still punishing yourself for what happened with Phillip?”
A flare of anger burst inside Emily’s head. She marched towards him. “This has nothing to do with Phillip! I heard someone moving around in Oscar’s room, I went to see who it was. I didn’t touch anything. I didn’t get involved. When I realised what she was going to do with Oscar—or should I say, what she manipulated Sam into doing to Oscar—my first instinct was to try and stop her.” She stabbed a finger in Jerome’s direction. “I don’t need to explain my actions to you or to anyone.”
“You know what, Emily Swanson? Sometimes you’re a real asshat!” Jerome stood up and headed for the back door. He stopped, his back turned to her. When he turned around again, his steely gaze had become swamped with hurt. “Maybe you should try letting people give a shit about you sometimes. Maybe you wouldn’t feel so alone. God knows, you might even start giving a shit about them too!”
“I tried that already,” said Emily, the words shooting from her mouth. “Look where it got me.”
They stood in silence, anger and hurt clashing in the space between them. Guilt pressed down on Emily’s chest. Jerome stood with his head bowed, hands hanging by his sides, looking like a scolded child.
“Something’s not right here, Jerome,” Emily said. The guilt spread from her chest up to her throat. “You saw the tree Oscar hanged himself from. That branch was too high for him to have reached it without standing on something.”
Jerome scuffed the floor with his shoe. He looked up, then back down at his feet.
“So he climbed the tree, then jumped.”
“How do you climb fifteen feet up a tree trunk with nothing to hold on to?” Emily paused, the fight already being pushed to the recesses of her mind. “Last night, I hear him arguing with a woman in his room. This morning he’s dead. When they cut him down, there was a photograph of a man in his shirt pocket. White, dark-haired. A few years younger than us. It has to mean something.”
Jerome was quiet for a long time, staring past Emily, towards the trees. Then, he said, “I just want to go home.”
“We can’t do that. Not until we’ve been given the all clear by the police.”
“It’s been hours. Where are they? Where’s Marcia?”
“That’s the million dollar question.”
Emily moved towards him, her feet testing the ground like a soldier in a minefield.
“We’re stuck here for the time being, Jerome. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
“So, you’re going into detective mode just to kill some time?”
“I’m not going into any sort of mode. But I am going to go and check on Pamela. Just to see if she’s all right. She must be worried about Marcia. Plus, her business is going to take a hit when this gets into the papers. I’m sure our journalist friend will see to that.”
Jerome folded his arms across his chest. “And while you’re in there playing Good Samaritan, I don’t suppose you’ll be casually dropping the odd inquisitive question about a certain photograph you’ve just uncovered?”
Emily reached a hand towards him, then drew it back. “I’ll be five minutes.”
“Speaking of our journalist friend,” said Jerome, holding the door open. “I’d be very careful to avoid answering any of her questions. She clearly doesn’t give a rat’s ass about who she hurts to get her story.”
Emily nodded. “Let her ask. As Martha Graham once said, what people in the world think of you is really none of your business.”
The words felt strange on her tongue. A few hours ago, she’d been worried about how the others would react if they found out about her past. But in comparison to Oscar’s death, what she had or had not done now felt inconsequential.
“I thought RuPaul said that,” Jerome said.
“Philistine.” Emily stopped in the doorway. “And you’re wrong about something else too.”
“What’s that?”
“I do care. I care very much.”