36

CASS

Slowly, Greta’s features morph. Her face washes clean of emotion, her eyes hardening into two beads. Focused, like an animal ready to pounce.

She lunges toward me.

I turn and throw myself down the hallway. Almost immediately, Greta’s behind me, close enough that her outstretched fingers graze the skin of my neck. I force my body toward the bathroom door, the only thing in the hallway that can offer any protection.

And then I feel her. Her hand clenches around the fabric of the sweatshirt that I’d thrown on. And pulls it clean off me. In my haste to eavesdrop on her phone conversation, I never zipped it.

The unexpected movement is enough to propel Greta backward, and I reach the door a step before her, whirling myself around and back into the confined bathroom. I pull the door toward me to close it, but she gets to it first. She yanks the door back, her fingers grasped around its side. And I pull. As hard as I possibly can. I channel the anger that has been piling up in me throughout this day. First at Brooke, then at Logan, and now at Greta. All people I trusted completely, only to have them betray me.

My biceps flush with pain, and it feels as though my tendons might rip from the strain. But I keep at it until I feel the door press against Greta’s fingers. And when she rips them out amid a shout of pain, I slam the door so hard that the whole house seems to vibrate. The lock turns quickly in my hand, cheap and light. Easily breakable.

I don’t have much time.

I hear Greta’s footsteps retreat, but I know she’ll be back. I search feverishly for anything in the minuscule bathroom that I can use to defend myself. My wet clothes strewn across the floor, a plastic soap dispenser and toothbrush holder that rest on the sink beside a candle that throws shadows across the tiled walls.

And then I see it. A window in the upper edge of the wall, just above the toilet. My only means of getting out of here.

Suddenly, a banging comes from behind me, forceful enough to shake the entire bathroom. It sounds as if Greta is throwing her body against the door. With each slam, it creaks, the wood bending beneath her weight. The candle teeters precariously on the edge of the sink before crashing to the floor, plunging the bathroom into darkness.

It’s now or never.

As my eyes adjust, I grab my soaking wet T-shirt off the floor and wrap it around my elbow as many times as the fabric allows. I try to clear my mind, but as usual, it returns to her.

Robin.

With the pressure bearing down on me from all sides, the memory forms like a diamond, rushing back in one forceful shot. The beach during the Full Moon Party. Making some excuse to the others, walking far enough away from the crowds so that the music was nothing more than a distant memory, allowing the Xanax to bathe me in a sentimental haze. Finding a spot up near the trees that separate the beach from the road. Digging my toes in the sand and pretending that Robin was there with me, living out the life she’d always dreamed of, the one she deserved. Before I fell into sleep, I remember a woman’s voice drifting past me, riding on the faint night breeze. “No, no, no.”

It wasn’t me who made that sound. And it wasn’t Lucy. Or if it was, I didn’t cause her to say it.

I remember waking up, disoriented and dry-mouthed. Walking back to my bike and tripping over something left on the beach. A phone. Slipping it in my shorts pocket to bring to the dive shop’s lost and found the next morning. It must have fallen out when I changed into my pajamas that night, and by the time I woke the next morning, the memory had been completely erased. All that remained was the fragmented feeling of carrying something home in my pocket. That must be how Brooke found Lucy’s phone under my bed.

Despite everything happening outside the bathroom door, I feel a small release.

I didn’t kill Lucy.

I flip down the toilet seat and step on top of it, praying it will hold. And before I can think about what I’m doing, I throw all my weight into my elbow as it connects with the glass in the window. It doesn’t budge, and I propel backward, pain coursing up my arm.

The memory of Robin urging me on in that faded home video of us running behind our mother at the beach comes rushing back to me. “You’re my big sister. You can do anything.”

I ignore the pain and pull my elbow back again, my fingers coiled around themselves, nails digging into my palm. And I throw all the force I have against that window.

This time, the impact is immediate.

Shards fly around me, and I instinctively squeeze my eyes shut. Splinters of glass land on my face and naked arms, and when I finally open my eyes, slivers fall from my eyelashes. I shift the bundled T-shirt around my hand and run it around the border of the window, trying to clear as much glass as I can.

This is it.

The toilet teeters under my weight, but I have no choice. My fingers grip the sides of the window, and the remaining shards clinging to the windowpane dig into the flesh on my palms. I begin to hoist myself up with my biceps, thankful for the days I’ve spent hauling tanks from the dive shop to the pool.

And then I realize just how quiet it’s been. I haven’t heard anything from Greta in nearly a minute.

As if on cue, a crack echoes throughout the bathroom. I’m perched on the edge of the window like a gymnast preparing to start her uneven bars routine, but I steal a glance back toward the door. A slice runs through the middle of it, broken wood splintering from each side.

And then the sound comes again. This time, the gap appears almost directly next to the first slice, creating a wider hole. I notice a flash of metal before it retreats. A knife, inches away from my calf.

Greta is cutting through the door.

I’m only halfway out of the window, trying to ignore the shards of glass digging into my torso, when she gets in.

I don’t dare turn around. Even if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to position myself to see. Instead, I shoot my leg back.

It meets only air. I swear under my breath, clawing my fingernails into the windowpane to try to steady myself when I hear the clatter of metal on tile. My kick didn’t connect, but it must have surprised Greta enough to make her drop the knife.

My relief doesn’t last long.

Almost immediately, her hands are around my ankle. And Greta yanks. The force pulls me back, and the shards scrape against my stomach, digging deeper into my flesh.

She pulls again.

I’m not getting out of here. I’m hurt. Bleeding. Lying on broken glass halfway out of a window positioned a meter or so off the ground.

And then I think of Lucy. Abandoned at the bottom of the ocean. And Jacinta, her body broken on those rocks beneath Khrum Yai. And Daniel, his throat slit, never able to make another joke again.

And of course, I think of Robin on that hotel bed.

And I kick again. For them. For me.

This time, I hear a crunch as my foot connects with Greta’s face, followed by a small yelp. Her hands are no longer on my ankle.

I take advantage and continue scrambling. The glass cuts through my torso, then my hips, and finally down my upper thighs.

And then I’m free. Falling, tumbling to the ground.

I crash onto the pavement with a sickening crunch.

I lie still for a minute, gauging the extent of my injuries. I try repositioning myself, and red-hot pain sears through my shin. Several deep gashes trail up my thigh, courtesy of the glass left along the window’s edges. I watch, stunned, as the pavement around me turns a dark red. Quickly, far too quickly. But as soon as it appears, the rain sends it rushing down the street. I should wrap something around my leg to stop the bleeding, but there’s no time.

I need to get up. I need to move.

It won’t take Greta long to recover. And she can make it from the bathroom to the road outside her door in a matter of seconds. I crane my neck both ways. It’s hard to tell with the constant stream of water, but it doesn’t look like there’s anyone else out here. Which means no witnesses.

The thought alone is enough to get me up. Every movement feels as though I’m being sliced, pulled apart at the seams, but I move anyway. After what feels like an eternity, I’m upright. Just in time to hear a noise. Something slamming open.

The front door.

I turn around, and Greta is on the street. Close enough for me to see the trail of red flowing from her nose. She’ll be on me in seconds.

I run. My right leg drags, each step sending a shooting pain through my core. But my adrenaline wins out.

I make it to the end of the street, hearing her coming closer with each step. I turn the corner without thinking, cutting through the empty intersection and heading left. I’m running blindly, the pain blurring my sight with flashes of black and red.

After a few steps, I realize I don’t hear her anymore. Have I lost her?

That doesn’t make sense. She has to be faster than me.

I turn around to see where she is, but I can’t spot anything through the sheet of rain. I keep moving, blinking hard and trying to clear the blood and water from my eyes.

I look up, just in time to crash into something.

I hit it with the force of a truck. The impact sends explosions of pain through every inch of my body, propelling me to the ground. My vision goes dark as I land on my back, but I cling to consciousness.

Slowly, my sight returns. Pixelated, as if I’m recording through my phone.

The colors form into the image I know so well, and I realize why Greta stopped chasing me. As my eyes lift upward, they take in the muscled, tattooed calves, the board shorts faded from years of sun, the slicked-back curls, wet from the rain.

“I’m so sorry, love.” The voice is so familiar, a part of me.

Logan.