I fully expect Mom to cancel the party.
I listen to Ben’s miniepisode in disbelief the first time, and with more than a little amusement the second.
I didn’t know Mom had it in her.
I should maybe be a little miffed on Savvy’s behalf, but she was never that serious about Colin, and I honestly think she’d be amused as well.
I wait, clenched, for Mom to explode.
But she doesn’t. The next morning, I come downstairs to find her cheerfully sewing lace onto a baby blanket she made for one of the girls from church.
Denial always did work well for her.
So, I say nothing, send Ben a text message that just says damn, son, and pretend like nothing happened.
 |
Mom insists we get to the restaurant an hour early so we can micromanage the employees in charge of setting up the party. They don’t seem particularly put out by this, like they’re used to women in loud flower-print dresses fussing over the exact placement of mason jar candles.
Mom missed her calling as a wedding planner. She would have been so good at projecting a happy image for one day.
We’re in a large room for special events at the back of the restaurant. They’ve set up a long picnic-style table, with said mason jar candles and flower arrangements dotting the middle.
Mom doesn’t mention the daisies. Probably because they look so nice.
Or she’s totally forgotten that they were supposed to be pink roses.
Grandma arrives right on time, escorted by Ashley and Brian (my cousins, the asshole grandchildren). They’re both younger than I am—early twenties—and neither of them look particularly happy to be there. Brian barely looks up from his phone to say hi.
Their parents, Keith and Janice, follow them inside. My aunt Karen, the youngest of my mom’s siblings, sulks in after them, the usual sour expression on her face. She has an unfamiliar man in an ill-fitting suit with her.
I don’t know when they all got into town. Mom mysteriously disappeared a few times over the last couple of days, so I assume they’ve been here for a while. No one had any interest in seeing me early, apparently.
They all glance at me and then quickly away. Except for Ashley, who looks me up and down and then squints, like she disapproves.
I look down at my dress. It’s black, which is out of place with the rest of the colorfully dressed guests. It also has a plunging neckline, which would be more exciting on someone with bigger boobs. Still, the waiter circling the room, offering appetizers, seems to appreciate them. I do what I can.
Grandma hustles over to me, her purple sequins hustling with her. The birthday dress is very flapper-like, with a nod to a Vegas showgirl.
She squeezes my arm. “Everything looks lovely.” “You know Mom did most of it.”
Uncle Keith and Aunt Janice appear behind her and give me loose hugs and tight smiles.
“Lovely to see you, Lucy,” Uncle Keith says, rubbing a hand over his beard.
“I’m surprised you haven’t gotten remarried,” Aunt Janice says with a frown.
“Well, it wasn’t so great the first time.” I laugh. She doesn’t.
“Wow,” Ashley says. Her hair, which was light brown last time I saw her, is dyed a really nice auburn color, and I might have complimented it if she weren’t staring at me like I was an alien.
“Hi, Lucy.” Brian looks up from his phone long enough to glance at my boobs.
“Brian, you’re looking so handsome!” Mom is just telling outright lies now, I guess. She pushes his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes, and he reels back like this is the worst thing to ever happen in his twenty-one years.
The smile on Mom’s face fades to open-mouthed horror as she spots something behind me.
I turn. It’s Ben, holding a present with a giant pink bow, wrapped much too nicely for him to have done it himself. He’s wearing a blue button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and I notice that Ashley doesn’t disapprove of anything she sees there.
I can’t blame her, honestly.
“Ben!” Grandma exclaims at the same time Mom says, “What are you doing here?”
Ben lifts one hand in a wave. If he’s surprised that Mom didn’t know he was coming, he doesn’t show it.
I can’t help but think that he could have saved the miniepisode for tomorrow. He posted it before the party, when he knew he would see her after it went up.
I am both impressed and a little scared.
“Kathleen, don’t be rude,” Grandma says, waving a hand at Mom. “I invited him.”
“You invited him?” Mom practically screeches, and then looks at me, like I should also be horrified by this.
I smile at her, and then walk to him. I pluck the present from his arms. “Ben. You’re looking smug as usual.”
He lets out a short, startled laugh. “Thanks?”
Mom gapes at me as I deposit the present on the table with the rest.
Keith, Janice, and their offspring look confused.
“Everyone, this is Ben Owens,” Grandma says loudly. “He’s the host of that podcast. You know the one.”
Ashley’s mouth falls open. Brian starts furiously texting. Keith and Janice look like they’re still waiting for the punch line.
I steal a glance at Dad. He’s glowering in the corner. Karen rushes over to Mom and whispers something in her ear.
A group of older ladies with matching poufy permed hairdos appear at the door, and Grandma walks over to greet them. Mom joins her, pointedly avoiding looking at Ben.
Everyone else is staring at him, so I stroll over to stand beside him. Usually everyone is staring at me. Us being next to each other makes it easier for them.
We’re both silent for a moment.
I point to the small bar set up on the far wall. “Drink?” “God, yes.”
|
An hour later, I’m sitting in the middle of the table with Grandma on one side and Ben on the other, an arrangement Grandma insisted on. (“It’s my birthday, I get to decide where we sit!” she’d gleefully declared, ignoring Mom’s protests.)
I’m on my second glass of wine and the room is pleasantly blurry around the edges.
They squeezed every possible chair they could up to this table, and my arm keeps brushing against Ben’s. He is not blurry. In fact, he is in too sharp a focus, and I do my best not to look at him at all.
I’m suddenly reminded that it’s been at least a month since I had sex, since Nathan and I had been in a dry spell pre–murder revelation. It’s been much longer since I had really great sex (thanks for nothing, Nathan).
The waiter stops behind me and refills my nearly empty wineglass. Well, that’s not going to help me stop thinking about sex.
I reach for the glass, and then change my mind. Instead, I use two fingers to push it away a few inches.
Ben watches me, and our eyes meet as I sit back in my chair. I quickly look away.
Betsy is across from us—the friend of Mom’s who brought the excellent 285-calorie brownies to tea/wine—and she’s openly staring at Ben. He’s pretending not to notice.
“Bruce,” Betsy says.
“Ben,” I correct, and reach for my water.
“Ben. You know that saying, he had a face for radio?” I laugh mid-sip, nearly choking on my water.
“Betsy!” Mom exclaims.
“What? We were just talking about it the other day!” “I’ve heard that, yes.” Ben looks amused.
“You don’t have that. In fact, I’d say it’s a damn shame you decided to work in radio.”
Laughter rises up from the table. Even Dad chuckles.
“Thank you.” Ben reddens like he isn’t often complimented on his good looks. Like he hasn’t visited r/Podcasts on Reddit and seen the threads discussing how cute he is.
“How did you get into that?” Keith asks. “Podcasting?”
“I loved podcasts. I was obsessed with them, actually. Especially true crime. So, I decided to try one myself.”
“Just like that?” Karen asks. “You weren’t even a crime reporter before, were you?” I can tell she doesn’t actually need him to answer this question. She’d googled him extensively earlier. Probably made it all the way to page five.
“No, I covered mostly lifestyle and entertainment as a journalist. True crime was more like a … hobby of mine. I actually had a bunch of cases that I’d dabbled in over the years, participated in those sites online where amateur sleuths try to solve stuff. When I decided to do my first case, I picked the one that I had the most information on already, just to try and make it easier on myself.”
“Did you solve it?” Keith asks.
“Of course he did.” Janice bats his arm. “I told you all about it.”
Keith frowns like he has no memory of that conversation, or maybe most things his wife has said to him.
“I did,” Ben says.
“You remember,” Janice says to her husband. “The teenager who was killed on prom night out in South Carolina. They found her body in the
trunk of a teacher’s car, but the guy swore up and down he didn’t do it? Plus he had no motive and an alibi.”
Keith shakes his head, still clueless. “Did he do it?”
“No,” Ben says. “The girl’s boyfriend did. He put her in the trunk because he thought she was flirting with the teacher and maybe something was going on. There wasn’t, as far as I could tell.”
“That was easy though,” Ashley says, eyebrow cocked in a way that seems flirty. “It’s always the boyfriend or the husband.”
Her eyes flick to me and then quickly away.
Always the boyfriend, except when it’s the best friend.
“I have an idea!”
Not now.
“I did have a feeling, going in,” Ben admits.
“Got a feeling this time, Ben?” I ask. “Think you’re going to solve it again?”
“Oh, good, dinner is here,” Mom says loudly. Two waiters walk into the room, plates in arm.
I meet Ben’s gaze. His lips twitch up but he says nothing.
I eat quickly, because the wine really is starting to go to my head. A waiter hovers, ready to refill my glass again at a moment’s notice.
The wine is flowing freely, actually, and I hold mine but don’t drink it as I glance around the table. Keith’s cheeks are red. Ashley is laughing loudly.
I think this is supposed to be fun. Or, perhaps, it is fun. For everyone else. They could take a photo and put it on Instagram—#dinnerparty #sofun #lovemylife—and it wouldn’t be a lie.
“Are you going to write a book, Ben?” Grandma asks, apparently continuing a conversation I wasn’t paying attention to.
“A book? No.” He glances at me. “Someday, I might, but I don’t have any plans right now.”
“People are saying you’re going to.” “Which people?”
“You know.” She waves her hand. “Twitter.”
“Grandma, you’re on Twitter?” Brian looks so startled that I wonder suddenly what kind of shit he’s been posting on Twitter. Something he doesn’t want his grandma to see, clearly.
“You’re a good writer,” Janice says. “I read some of your pieces in the
Atlantic and Vanity Fair.” “Thank you,” he says.
“Lucy, didn’t you want to be a writer once?” Keith peers at me as if I’ve disappointed him, this relative I barely know. “What ever happened to that?”
I wasn’t that good, I guess, is what I should have said. People love that sort of shit—humility and honesty, tied together to make everyone feel more comfortable after a rude question.
I smile. “Well, you know. No one wants to read a book from a murderer.”
Keith reddens. Dad rolls his eyes. “Lucy,” Mom says wearily.
“Why didn’t you ever write a memoir?” Ashley’s clearly been waiting all night to ask that question.
“Bit hard to write a memoir about something you don’t remember.” “You could write about everything else.”
I shrug.
“Let’s kill—”
“You never tell your side of the story,” Ashley presses.
I’ve told it more times than I can count. No one believed me. “I’m telling it to Ben.” I take a sip of my wine.
Dad’s head pops up. His eyes spark with anger and questions.
“You’re telling it to Ben?” Mom says the words so slowly. Perhaps they’re even interpreted as calm by the rest of the table.
Maybe they are calm. I take a quick glance around and no one else seems nervous.
I shouldn’t be nervous. I’m a grown-ass woman free to give interviews to whichever smug podcaster I choose.
“I have an idea. Let’s kill—”
I clench my fingers into a fist and will the voice away. “Yeah. I’m doing an interview with Ben soon.”
“We already talked about a few things,” Ben adds. “That’s an interesting decision, Lucy,” Dad says.
Ashley snort-laughs and then claps a hand over her mouth. Others giggle nervously as well.
“Everyone has extremely high expectations of Ben.” I’m trying to sound casual. “Just trying to help where I can.”
“I appreciate it.” Ben is also trying to sound casual. I’m better at it.
Dad opens his mouth like he has more to ask, then seems to think better of it.
“It seems like Lucy should tell her own story instead of me telling it for her, wouldn’t you say?” Ben asks.
“That’s true,” Ashley says with wide-eyed sincerity.
“What a load of shit.”
The voice in my head is so loud that I barely stop myself from jumping.
“Let’s kill her.”
I eye my knife, but I’m too buzzed to kill Ashley. For real or otherwise.
“Or him?”
I shift in my chair. The conversation has moved on without me, and Mom is staring at me.
“Right?” she says. “What?”
“I have an idea!”
“The truth,” Mom says. “That’s all any of us have ever wanted. To just find out the truth.”
“Yes.” I nod. “The truth.”
I take a long sip of my wine, which I should not do, but I want to quiet the voice. It works.
“And the truth involves digging up people’s personal lives?” Keith’s face is even redder. Anger and alcohol coming together to make one very crimson man.
“Keith,” Janice says quietly, putting a hand on his arm.
He shakes her off. “I’m sorry, but why are we all acting like this man is welcome here? He—”
“You’re very welcome, Ben,” Grandma interrupts, patting his arm. He looks at her in amusement.
“Mom!” Keith throws his hands up. “For god’s sake. He went on that podcast and he said that—”
“Keith,” Mom snaps.
“—Kathleen slept with a twenty-year-old in a car!” “Wow,” Ashley says.
“Oh my god.” Brian actually puts down his phone. “Dammit, Keith,” Dad says.
“What? It’s not even true!” Keith points a furious finger at Ben. “You just get on that little podcast of yours with your fake news, and you spout these accusations from ‘anonymous sources.’” He does finger quotes around anonymous sources.
“Maybe it’s time for the pie?” Mom asks.
Keith ignores her, his attention locked on Ben. “Who are these sources?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t reveal that.” “Or presents?” Mom suggests.
“Of course you can’t! Because they don’t exist!”
“Or more wine?” Grandma suggests, holding up her glass. A waiter scurries over to refill it.
Betsy leans across the table. “Maybe I should go,” she whispers.
“Are you kidding? Things are just getting good!” Grandma exclaims gleefully.
Keith has both hands on the table, ready to fight. “And you implied that she and that boy—”
“Colin,” I supply.
“Wow,” Ashley says.
“—that Colin boy killed Savannah! We all know who did it—” I raise my hand. Betsy’s mouth drops open.
Grandma pulls my hand down. “Not the right crowd for that kind of joke, hon.”
“No offense, Lucy,” Keith says. “Really, Dad?” Brian asks.
“But we all know who did it, and you’re throwing around lies and telling people Kathleen killed her!”
“I’m just trying to get a handle on everyone’s alibis.” Ben seems remarkably unrattled.
In fact, his lips are twitching. The smug bastard might be enjoying this. “That is not—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Mom yells. Everyone freezes. “Yes, I had sex with Colin in my car the night of the wedding! Are you happy, Ben? You got me! I slept with the twenty-year-old, and to be honest, I enjoyed it.”
“Wow.”
“So that’s where I was when Savvy was murdered,” Mom finishes calmly. She smooths a hand over her perfectly coiffed hair, and it barely moves. “He’s my alibi.”
Uncle Keith gapes at his sister like he just realized she knows how to have sex. Dad lets out a long-suffering sigh.
“Oh, give it a rest, Don,” Mom says. “Like you have any room to talk.” I try so hard not to laugh, but a snort-giggle escapes my lips.
Neither of my parents has ever been all that discreet about their affairs. Dad used to leave his laptop open on the kitchen table and walk away while it dinged with messages, until Mom would scream for him to come answer his girlfriend. Mom, I’m pretty sure, only started sleeping around to get back at Dad, but it sounds like she’s enjoying the hell out of herself now. Good for her, I guess.
I’ll never understand why they’re still married. I thought for sure that they were just waiting for me to move out before they split, but it’s been over a decade since I left for college. I guess they’ve decided that tormenting each other for the rest of their lives is preferable to divorce.
Grandma puts down her wineglass and reaches across the table for Mom’s hand. “Kathleen, I just want you to know that I mean this sincerely
—I’m deeply proud.”
|
We eat pie in near silence. Grandma’s friends try to liven things up again while she’s opening presents, but we’re all still stuck on “I had sex with Colin in my car.”
Everyone scurries out as soon as they can, and I help Grandma into a sleek black car that has shown up to whisk her away. It’s another mystery man, this one at least ten years younger than she is. His fancy car smells too strongly of cologne, but his smile is friendly as he nods at me.
Grandma pats my cheeks as she settles into the front seat. “I told you I’d ruin your birthday,” I say.
“My dear, you made it the best birthday ever.”
I shake my head in amusement and close the door. She waves as they drive away.
I trudge back into the restaurant. It’s nearly empty, the waitstaff clumped together around the hostess stand. They abruptly stop talking as I walk by.
I head to the back room to grab Mom’s mason jars and the rest of the cake. I hear murmured voices as I approach, and I slow as I reach the door.
Dad stands near the end of the table with Ben, his arms crossed over his chest. Smoke from a recently extinguished candle billows up next to them. I stand back, out of view, absolutely shameless about eavesdropping.
“I know you don’t care about this, but I implore you to consider what’s best for Lucy,” Dad says.
“How do you mean?” Ben asks. He drank far less wine than the rest of us. His voice is much clearer than Dad’s.
“She’s told her story several times. It doesn’t need to be repeated.” Dad’s already frustrated.
“She’s never told her story.” “Of course she has.”
“Not directly. It was always filtered through the police or you and her mom or her lawyer or the media. No one has ever heard directly from her.”
“But why do you think that was?”
“Because you were protecting her?” “Yes!”
“And that’s what you’re doing now?” Ben asks. I wonder whether Dad hears the skepticism in his voice.
“Of course.”
“I’d love to interview you, if you’d like to go into more detail,” Ben says.
“I’m not doing an interview,” Dad snaps. He starts to turn, and I quickly backtrack a few steps. I wait until he’s coming out of the room to start down the hallway again. He frowns as he passes me.
Ben is typing on his phone as I grab a box and head to the table for the mason jars.
He looks up, and then walks over to grab a few of the jars. Our eyes meet as he puts them in the box.
My story is still being filtered through him. I wonder whether he realizes that. Savvy’s story is being filtered through him. Through everyone he’s interviewed who has sanded off the edges of the real girl to present the world with a perfect victim.
“I’ll see you Monday,” he says softly. He heads to the door but pauses, looking over his shoulder at me. “You know I’m only interested in finding the truth, right? For Savannah.”
“I know.”
He nods and starts to walk away. “Wait, Ben.”
He looks back at me.
“That’s what I want too,” I say. “The truth.” In my head, the voice snorts.
“To figure out what happened to her,” I amend. “I’m going to help you figure it out, no matter what those dumbasses say.” I gesture vaguely to the table, where the dumbasses (my family) were seated a few minutes ago.
Ben smiles. “I’m glad to hear it. We’ll figure out the truth together, Lucy.”
I swallow nervously as he waves, then turns and walks away. I listen to his footsteps fade.
The truth.
“The truth doesn’t matter.” The voice—Savvy’s voice—is so clear now, clearer than it’s been in years.
It’s always been Savvy talking to me. Since the first few days after she died, when her screams were so loud I thought my head was going to explode, to later, when she quieted to a murderous constant companion.
To now, when she’s apparently had enough of me ignoring her.
“Let’s kill—”
I close my eyes, willing the memory away, but it won’t go. She’s been there for days now, on the edge of every thought I have, yelling at me to notice her.
The memory forms, bright and clear, like it sharpened over the years instead of fading.
LUCY
FIVE YEARS AGO
“I know the truth doesn’t matter,” I said, sitting at the empty bar. Laughter echoed distantly from the kitchen where the staff were gathered. The restaurant had just opened, and the dining room was deserted. It was just me and Savvy.
She stood across from me on the other side of the bar, leaning her forearms against the counter. Her tank top revealed her tattoos—flowers on one arm and Harley Quinn on the other. She had a thing for supervillains. No one ever mentioned it. Maybe they thought it wasn’t important.
She was beautiful—big, downturned eyes, and dark blond hair tied up in a messy bun. Her eye makeup was almost always smudged. I was pretty sure she rarely remembered to take it off at night. She just touched it up the next day and called it good.
A guy once said to her, “You look like the fun kind of mess.” Rude, but not wrong.
I, on the other hand, was a mess and not even a little bit fun.
I had a small bruise on my cheek. I could easily cover it with makeup, but I’d wanted Matt to see it and feel bad. He hadn’t. Instead, he had pointedly held up his hand to show where I’d scratched him.
Savvy was right. It wouldn’t matter if I said I’d scratched him because I was defending myself. That he started it.
Well, no, he’d dispute that. Matt would say I started it by screaming at him again. “Don’t start shit you can’t finish,” he’d always say.
“He said he’d tell my parents I pushed him down the stairs if I went to stay with them,” I said.
“You didn’t push him down the stairs,” Savvy said.
I hadn’t, but I was fairly certain Matt actually thought I had. He’d said the lie so many times he’d started to believe it himself.
Hell, I was starting to believe it. The (fake?) memory of me violently shoving him now played next to the (true?) memory of me flailing out my arms in anger and him tripping because he was drunk again.
“But the truth doesn’t matter,” she said again.
“I should have controlled my temper,” I said softly. I should have just cried. Taken the hits and crawled away to show my scars. I should have been a better victim. The truth doesn’t matter if you fight back.
“I have an idea.” Savvy leaned closer to me, meeting my eyes. Her mouth was set in a hard line, her gaze steely and serious. “Let’s kill your husband.”
