Charlotte kicks at a pile of foamy river slime. As if Jesse’s body is magically hiding underneath, rather than squirreled away. But by whom? Someone who’s trying to protect Anton? That’s what the others think, anyway. I don’t know what to think.
Everything’s such a mess. Rose’s ghost, as she promised, is revealing everyone’s secrets, and the whole damn web of lies and death is growing and growing. Matthew and his supposed affair, Charlotte and her trolling, Amber’s finances, and Erin’s desperate attempt to keep her family from ruin. Top that off with Emma snooping around, and like I said, it’s a mess.
It’s going to get messier.
Both Charlotte and I straighten up as Rose’s avatar crackles into life. My stomach pitches. All I can do is watch her play her game and see where it leads. I know where it will lead.
“Accomplices,” she says with none of her usual amusement. She sounds kind of breathless. It’s like she’s nervous, which is very unlike the Rose I knew.
“What does she want now?” Charlotte says. “Hasn’t she done enough?”
“It’s time for her to announce her next suspect,” I say numbly. I should have tried harder to find her. Now it’s most likely too late. I’ve dodged the bullet four times now. Surely it’s my time against the wall.
Rose lifts a handwritten letter. Yup. This is it.
I close my eyes. I knew this was coming. I’d resigned myself to it. It still makes me want to hurl myself into the Thames. I wait, but she doesn’t speak. I open my eyes, and the ghost is standing there, staring at the letter.
“What’s she waiting for?” Charlotte says.
“I don’t suppose the killer wants to confess? No, I guess not,” Rose says quietly. She clears her throat and starts to read. “Dear Rose. I can’t stop thinking about you, and it’s driving me crazy.”
“Oh, a love letter,” Charlotte says earnestly. “That’s so sweet.”
“I can’t get your face out of my mind,” Rose continues. “The way you didn’t even look back when you walked away has broken me. I love you so much, but I’m nothing to you.”
“A kindred spirit,” Charlotte says, placing a hand on her heart. “A fellow lover of language and romance.”
“You’ve ripped my fucking heart out and tossed it away like it’s nothing. Is that what I am to you—nothing? Something to be shitted on?”
Charlotte’s smile fades into a toothy grimace. “Oh. You know, that’s not actually a real word,” she whispers.
I think I’m going to throw up my internal organs.
Rose’s hand is shaking, and the letter rustles. “Why won’t you answer your phone? I need to talk to you. I keep thinking that if you’d listen to me, I could make all this better. I want to put my arms around you, and then you’ll remember what we had.”
“Shit,” I say, adrenaline forcing me to pace, otherwise I’ll explode. This isn’t good. In fact, it’s a total nightmare. Every word claws deep gouges in my heart.
“You made a promise,” Rose says. “And you broke it, like you broke me. Please, Rose. I can’t do this. I need you. I love you.”
She lowers the letter and spins her wheel. I want to tear the smart glasses off and run away, but there’s no point. Everyone else is seeing this. Charlotte is rapt, with a hand resting on her own heart. The wheel slows. Clicks. Stops.
“Everyone, meet my ex-boyfriend.” She rips away the featureless silhouette. The picture is a recent one. “Grayson Holt,” she declares.
Charlotte’s mouth falls open. “Seriously?” she says. “You dated Rose?”
“We split up five months before she died,” I say quietly.
She nods as she processes the information. “You know, I didn’t have you down as a poet. But that letter was actually very romantic. Some of it.”
I think she’s trying to make me feel better after Rose’s reveal. I’m presuming I look as hollowed out as I feel. I knew Rose would get to me at some point—everyone always suspects the ex—but it hurts much more than I was expecting. Yes, the letters and texts and voicemails that I sent her right after she dumped me are pitiful. But having her show other people the things I wrote is brutal.
I remember writing that letter, barely able to catch my breath through my tears, my knuckles bloodied from where I’d slammed them into a door earlier that day. Inside, I was tearing myself to pieces, but when I tried to write those feelings down, I couldn’t find the right words. It came out like I was some pathetic crybaby who couldn’t accept his relationship was over.
“What do you think, people?” Rose says. “Did Grayson come to that party to murder me in revenge after I dumped him?”
“Did you?” Charlotte says.
I numbly shake my head. Shame is filling me from head to toe. That letter made me sound so desperate and wretched. No wonder she didn’t call me back. No wonder she dumped me in the first place. Who’d want to be with someone like that? I sit on the wet ground and put my head in my hands.
“You don’t need to be embarrassed,” Charlotte says. “Putting your heart out there and being vulnerable isn’t something to be ashamed of.”
The fact that she’s trying to reassure me makes it even worse. I open my mouth to laugh it off like I usually would, but a hiccuping sob escapes. I bite my thumb to stop myself from crying.
“Our next challenge is in Highgate Cemetery,” Rose says. “I love it there. It’s so romantic, don’t you think, Grayson? Oh, and I’ve left a gift for Grayson on the front gates.”
At least this stops me from crying. I can’t think what she’s left for me, but I’m guessing it being made public will prove as traumatic as her reading my letter out loud. I need to get to the cemetery before anyone else and make sure that I’m the one who finds it. I move to stand, but then my hand falls on a hard object, hidden in a pile of washed-up trash. I surreptitiously move it with two fingers. A phone.
“Are we going to the cemetery?” Charlotte asks, eyeing me with such pity I can’t bear it.
“I’ll catch up with you,” I manage to say. “I need a minute to get myself together.”
She hesitates, clearly unsure if she should leave me alone or not. She does though. Girls rarely know what to do when a boy cries; it makes them too uncomfortable. Thanks, patriarchy.
I wait until she’s out of sight before retrieving the phone and brushing it off. It’s wet and filthy, but the screen lights up when I press the power button. I’m presuming it belonged to either Jesse or the person who removed his body. The background is the default blue. The owner didn’t bother to customize it or, it seems, set up a pass code lock.
I open it and flick through the photos. There aren’t many, but I do find a couple of Erin. Jesse’s phone, then. He doesn’t have email set up or any social media. There are some text messages, but nearly all of them are from Erin, asking where he is and why he’s not calling her.
The last one from her reads: Matthew came to speak to me. He was flirting with me.
He followed it up forty minutes later with: Fuck you Erin.
That message must have been sent right before he died. Erin didn’t reply.
I check the calls. Jesse wasn’t good at adding contacts to his address book. Other than the calls to and from Erin, most are numbers without names. I’m about to pocket the phone when something familiar catches my eye. I’m not good at remembering digits, but this is different. This number is Lenny’s.
“Why was he calling Lenny?” I say.
I try to figure it out, but it makes no sense. How could Lenny have even met Jesse? My head jumps between possibilities. Jesse spying on us contestants in advance of the game. Jesse investigating Lenny on behalf of Anton after she stepped in to help me.
Lenny couldn’t have been in on it. She wouldn’t do that to me. I know Lenny.
But do I? She has so many secrets, something I always wrote off as her being independent and busy. Now I’m questioning all those times she couldn’t meet for ice cream because she had schoolwork to do and all the times she deflected my questions about her past.
I can’t believe she’s part of this though. I tell myself Jesse must have been contacting her against her will. She probably didn’t tell me because she didn’t want to worry me. No way is my best friend deliberately lying to me.
Then the phone rings, and I bat it into the air in surprise. I catch it and focus on the screen. It’s Lenny’s number. Shakily, I answer the call and silently hold it to my ear.
“Jesse?” Lenny’s voice says. “Where are you?”
I stay silent, listening to her soft breathing on the line. “Jesse, you there?”
She hangs up.
I stare at the phone for a few heart-shattering moments. Then I tuck it into my pocket and head for the cemetery.