Now there’s only room for one of us. Mila has taken Chelsea’s place, and I drink for Ryan and for me.
Let the game begin.
Kennedy begins to walk past me toward the house, but I whistle and wave her over. She looks less than enthused, shoulders sagging and hair tangled in knots, but she slides into the seat next to me and reaches for the decanter. I study her, copper hair gleaming in the dying light, the lake almost the color of blood behind her, and last year comes rushing back to me,the moment the mirror smashed against her skull and all of those beautiful silvery fragments glittered around her like a crown. If this were an ordinary night, I would add those finishing touches to my tarot card. But I can’t. Another day. I place my hand on top of hers to stop her from drinking the decanter wine—that wine is reserved—and pour her a glass from the pitcher instead.
“I thought it would be nice to have sunset cocktails,” I say.
“We missed it by a few minutes.” She takes a sip. “Mmm. Did you use tomato juice or something?”
“Does it taste like tomato juice?”
She takes another sip. “It’s fabulous.”
Chase downs one glass immediately. “Definitely needed that.”
I eye the pitcher. I hope he doesn’t drain it too quickly. I pour him half of a second glass, and make Mila’s three-quarters full. “So how was the sail?”
“Fine,” Kennedy says flatly. “Good wind.”
“How was your séance?” Mila asks. She plays with a cigarette.
“I thought you were quitting?” Chase asks her.
“It’s a nervous habit.” Mila taps it against the table. “Everyone has one. Don’t judge me. Sitting is the new smoking. We’re all doing it right now.” She sighs. “My cousin got out of prison, and my mother forced me to hang out with her. She doesn’t do anything but smoke, play Scrabble, and tell prison stories. That place scares the shit out of me.”
“Sorry I asked.” Chase takes another long sip.
“Did the sail bring back any memories?” I ask.
Kennedy’s eyes go to me briefly. “Of?”
“Last year. Ryan.”
“No one wants to remember that.” Mila stands. “You keep obsessing. It’s not healthy.” But Mila was the one who wanted to go out on the boat in the first place. If it hadn’t been for Mila, Ryan would still be here. My last glimpses of my brother are like a slideshow, snapshots from the attic window. Mila on the boardwalk, running out to the boat. Turning back toward the house, beckoning. To follow her, into the darkness, the uncertain depths of the lake at night. Ryan sprinting after, a little while later. He never turned to look back. I saw him run, a swift pale figure darting down the boardwalk, from the safety of the lake house toSummer’s Edge, and then he was gone. I’ll add a final touch, an inscription, a warning, to Mila’s card too. To all of the crucial moments. The puzzle pieces.
“He’s my brother.”
“That doesn’t make it healthy.”
“Says the chain-smoker.” I grab the cigarette out of her hand and throw it on the ground. Kennedy covers her mouth with her hand. “Don’t you laugh about it. I want answers.”
Kennedy puts a hand on my arm, and I try not to visibly cringe. “Emily. Did you really think we were going to get on the boat and go out there and suddenly have some kind of epiphany about what happened to Ryan? It’s not logical.” I can’t stand the look of pity. It makes me want to scream. “It’s out of our control.”
“What about last summer? When you pushed Ryan into the water and watched him drown, and then lied about it for an entire year. Was all of that out of your control, too?” Thealbum ends, and I was right. You can’t hear Chelsea at all out here. Time slows down. A chill descends. The last of the sunlight is drowned in the dark, the sun sinking into the lake with a swift and silent sense of finality. The windows of the house glow with the light of the dozens of candles. I place the last unlit one at the center of the table and light it, and each of us becomes a flickering glow in the dark.
“That never happened,” Kennedy says with a practiced calm.
But at the exact same time, Chase blurts, “It was an accident.”
And Mila says, “Kennedy did it.”
I refill Kennedy’s cup with the decanter, a low buzz beginning to hum in my ear. We face one another, a circle of players—a killer, a liar, an accomplice, and half a twin.
She takes a nervous gulp. “That’s bullshit. You weren’t even there, Mila. You were belowdeck.”
“How else?” Mila’s voice shakes. “How else did he just disappear? He didn’t randomly go for a swim fully clothed. Chase, you know it’s true. Why do we keep lying to protect her?”
“Because it’s impossible! Kennedy is not a killer.” He looks at me. “Emily, you know that. We’re not monsters. People don’t just kill their friends.”