Get in here—it’s freezing out there.”
I turned and, through lightly falling snowflakes, saw Rachel standing in her doorway, a smile on her face.
“Be right there,” I said. Mind spinning, I tucked the sheet of paper into my pocket, then let Dusty out of his crate.
He bounded up the driveway and straight into Rachel’s arms.
As I walked toward her, I tried to make sense of the note in my pocket.
THIS ISN’T OVER
When was the last time I checked my mail? I tried to focus, to remember. Could this have been from Vera, trying to make me think it was from Sam, just like the other one?
Rachel turned, and I followed her inside.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said instinctively.
Still smiling, she let Dusty down, then wrapped me in a hug that felt suddenly too tight. She wore red lipstick and an eggplant wool dress, but there were bags beneath her eyes. She looked older, and her voice sounded almost robotic. “I’m so glad you came over.”
“Me too,” I said as I sat down on her sofa, my voice cautious.
“Can I get you some wine?”
“Yes,” I said. Between what Claire had said and the note I’d just found, I needed something to take the edge off.
In minutes, she was back, two stemless glasses in her hands. “I just got this good cabernet, and I’ve been meaning to open it.” I could hear it, more clearly now, in her voice, the difference. Her words weren’t robotic, they were almost slurred, as if she’d been drinking even before I arrived. It hit me then, what exactly had changed—she was torn up about Vera. No matter what Vera had done, she’d still been Rachel’s friend.
She handed me a glass, then situated herself on the Eames chair. Dusty hopped into her lap. “To friendship,” she said, lifting her glass to mine.
“To friendship.”
We both drank, and my eyes flitted to her wall, seeking out the photo of Vera, but it was no longer there.
“Well,” Rachel asked. “How have you been, all things considered?”
“Fine,” I managed. “I mean, okay as I can be. You?”
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.
Briefly, I wondered if I should tell her what Claire had just told me, but something stopped me. Rachel had lost her best friend because of a rumor, something that hadn’t even been true. A story that had been so damaging, it had led Vera to kill her own husband. The irony was too cruel to share.
“You’re staying another month?” Rachel asked.
“Yes, I just paid my rent today.”
Her hand sank into Dusty’s fur, scratching him just where he liked. “It’s good, I think. So much has happened—it’s a lot to think about, just up and moving in the midst of it all. You’ll have to deal with our winter, though.”
“I can handle it,” I said. It was hard to imagine another month of sitting in my cottage, alone, but I didn’t know where else to go. Perhaps the absence of Vera and John, the hole they’d left in this place, and in me, was tether enough for now.
“Do you miss her?” Rachel asked, her lips pressing together.
“Desperately,” I confessed. “You?”
Rachel took another sip of wine—a gulp, almost—before answering. “I’ve been missing her a long time. I don’t think I’ll ever stop, actually. It’s just horrible, that it all had to happen like it did.”
For a moment, I wondered if Rachel blamed me, just like I blamed myself. If I was the enemy to her now, the reason her estranged friend was dead.
But she smiled again, and I pushed the thought out of my mind. Rachel had encouraged me to stay. She had invited me over.
She took another sip—her glass was already almost drained. “I don’t think I’ll ever forgive her, you know.”
I gulped. “For killing John?”
Rachel laughed bitterly. “God, no,” she said. “He deserved it.”
He didn’t, my mind practically screamed. We were all so terribly wrong.
“For attacking you,” Rachel said.
My chest seized up, and the glass felt slippery in my hand.
Her eyes narrowed. “I mean, she did attack you, right? That’s what Maggie said.”
“Yes,” I said weakly. “Yes, she did.”
“Vera was never good at knowing who to trust,” Rachel said. “If she hadn’t cut me out of her life, if she hadn’t turned on you . . . if she’d leaned on her friends instead of lashing out in anger, maybe none of this would have happened.”
She stood suddenly. “I have some cheese and olives in the fridge. Should I make up a plate?”
“Yes,” I said. I needed a moment to collect myself, to push Vera’s pleading eyes out of my mind, to pray that one morning, they wouldn’t be the first thing I saw upon waking.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I asked.
“First door on the left,” Rachel said as she turned on her heel and headed to the kitchen.
Dusty followed me as I made my way down the hall. There was a door on the right and one on the left, and one at the end of the hall—probably Rachel’s bedroom, the only door that was shut.
I closed the bathroom door behind me, leaving Dusty to wait in the hall like he always did. Her bathroom was decked floor to ceiling in all-white tile. Vera’s blood, crimson against white, flashed into my mind, and I shook my head forcefully, trying to get the images out of my brain.
I leaned against the sink, half-afraid I might throw up. This had all been so pointless, so awful. John hadn’t even been a bad person—it had been a rumor, a miscommunication, a child who didn’t want to be slut-shamed—and yet it had triggered something unfathomable, one step after the next.
Vera killing him.
Me killing her.
I flicked on the faucet, splashing cold water on my face, then looked in the mirror. My eyes were nearly as baggy as Rachel’s, my hair a mess. The few sips of wine I’d taken had already stained my lips. I had to pull myself together. This wasn’t my fault.
Vera had tried to frame me. Vera had believed the rumors about her husband. Vera had caused this all.
Vera had been my best friend.
Drying my skin on Rachel’s clean white hand towel, I opened the door, returning to the hall in time to see Dusty scratching at the shut door at the end of the hallway.
“Dusty, no,” I said, but before I could stop him, he’d gotten it open—it must not have been shut all the way—his furry body disappearing behind the door.
I took a few steps, then checked behind me. Rachel must still be in the kitchen.
Pushing the door open, I walked into her bedroom.
It was as clean and beautiful as the rest of her house, her bed covered in a white duvet edged in black. I swiveled my head, looking for Dusty, then saw an open door—her closet.
Inside, it was a mess, a welcome change from the rest of the place, hangers packed full of colorful dresses and tops, a dresser, its drawers half-open, already-worn clothing littering the few feet of floor space.
Dusty had tipped over a beat-up leather tote and was nosing around inside. “Dusty, no!”
I leaned down, pulling him off it. In his mouth was a plastic baggie filled with what looked like doggie beef jerky—Rachel must have brought it over when she visited Maggie and Pepper. “Bad dog,” I said, but I almost wanted to laugh. Dusty had always been a pro at sniffing out a treat, used to lose it when Davis brought something new home.
I snatched the baggie, set Dusty down, and righted Rachel’s tote so it sat upright on the floor.
Then I paused.
On the top of the dresser, among tossed-aside jewelry and a pashmina scarf, was Vera.
Vera, the photo that had once hung on Rachel’s wall. And shoved into one corner of the frame, a Polaroid of the two of them—smiling, happy, maybe drunk—like Vera and I had been so many times.
My eyes trailed down, and beneath the frame I saw it:
A padded yellow envelope.
It looked just like the one I’d found at Vera’s. Same size. Same shape.
Unsealed.
Hands nearly shaking, I looked over my shoulder, making sure Rachel wasn’t there.
It’s nothing, I told myself. It’s probably nothing. So many envelopes look like this.
Carefully, I opened it.
I saw the photographs first. All extremely up close, so close they almost seemed intimate, snatches of brown hair and a salt-and-pepper beard catching the light.
Then there, in front of them, a small scrap of paper.
And the familiar handwriting of a dead man.
I’m sorry about the other night. Please don’t tell Vera. I’ll call you soon.