Revelation (13 page)

"Is that what Carter told you?" Kitty asks, eyebrows knitting in confusion.

"N—no," I stammer. "I just assumed. I mean, I'm not really a jewelry person. It was blue and I thought. . . ."

"Look at the cut and the facets. A topaz would never sparkle this much."

"And Regina knows her diamonds," Gretchen says.

Gretchen is the ponytail, Regina the brunette.

"Learned
that
lesson the hard way," Regina replies, eyes rolling.

I pluck my hand away as the conversation shifts, studying the ring while they move on to pathetic first husbands.

A diamond?

He bought me a diamond anyway? That lying, sneaky. . . .

Blood simmers in my veins.

I'll kill him. I am literally going to
slay
him. Of all the. . . . I can't believe he bought me a diamond engagement ring and he didn't tell me! A diamond ring for a fake wedding
? I stifle a venomous laugh.
He didn't tell me because he
knew
I'd kill him.

I scrutinize the stone, twisting it this way then that, light penetrating from every angle.

It
is
awfully shiny.

A blue diamond.

I should've known he'd pull something stupid like this.

*          *          *

I down the last of the punch in a single gulp. Sugar courses through my bloodstream, heart drumming double time. I don't even know what glass I'm on. And the time. God. Every second ticking by, each minute seeping past. I set the empty cup on the dining room table, fold my arms, watch the driveway.

"Still no sign of him?" Kitty asks, easing beside me.

"Nope."

"Well, everyone's getting restless. We'll have to open gifts without him," she says, fingers brushing my hair, fixing my bangs.

I follow her to the formal living room, ignoring the oversized clock hanging above the mantel, hands frowning, seconds ticking away, unrelenting confirmation that Carter is late. Late. Late. Late.

Gifts are passed. Someone keeps track of what I'm getting, scribbling names, items on a notepad.

From the Desk of Kitty Fleming.  

Time passes.

A coffee maker.

Monogrammed wine glasses.

Silver picture frame.

More time passes.

Gift cards.

Monogrammed luggage.

Silver picture frame.

Our names and initials are emblazoned on everything.

More time passes.

When the doorbell rings my heart soars, until I remember this is Carter's house, and there is no way he would ever ring the bell. Not when he has a key. Not when we're expecting him. And deep inside I know, at that moment, something happened. Something unexpected and awful and altogether nightmarish. I shove gifts aside, stumble over designer shoes and piles of white wrapping paper and satin bows. Kitty Fleming's heels click across marble tiles, and, for a moment, I'm transported to this very foyer, both a thousand hours and barely a breath ago, twirling in a borrowed blue dress.

I reach her by the time she pulls the door open, and find myself staring at two uniformed police officers.

"Mrs. Fleming?" one asks.

"Yes?"

We both answer.

S
EVENTEEN

Seth's dark eyes catch mine, steadfast and unflinching.

"You're here," I murmur. "You're real." My thumb skims his jaw line. His cheek. The arch of his brow. His eyes close, head tilting into my hand. "I thought I dreamed you."

He jerks back, pulling away from me, as if my touch—the words—somehow burned him. The gesture wounds, shredding me from the inside out. After all this time, I don't want to—I
can't
be separated from him. I can't handle distance between us.

"What is it?" I sweep strands of hair fallen into his eyes. His fingers intertwine with mine. They're strong, warm, and they send tingles racing through my body.

"Let it go," he begs.

"What?" I ask, not understanding.

"Let me go."

For a moment I doubt the words, convinced I misheard.

Let him go?

"I—I can't. I've lost everything," I stutter, heart locking with grief. "You're fallen because of me. I have to get you back. They
promised
."

His eyes search mine, defeated. "You can't win. You won't make it out alive. They'll never let it happen."

"Then we'll be together again!" A half-crazed, delirious, laughter bubbles inside. "I'll be like you. We'll be together. And it'll be so perfect! Everything will be perfect!"

The words hang suspended between us, smile on my lips fading at the suffering weaved into each of his features. "We'll be together," I repeat. But this time I'm not so sure.

*          *          *

Carter is missing.

My stomach lurches. I shove the too thick, too heavy comforter aside and stumble into the Fleming's guest bathroom, stone tiles cold beneath my bare feet. I barely make it to the toilet before I'm heaving, bile burning my throat as it rises. It's tinted red from the punch, like bloody water, and the sight of it triggers more heaves and more bile and more heaves until my stomach grasps against itself, aching and empty. I flush the toilet once, twice, and collapse onto the floor, leaning my head against the papered wall, weary eyes stained with tears. I reach for the towel draped over the side of the bathtub, press my face into it, and bite the inside of my cheek, forcing back sobs threatening to rattle my shoulders.

Boat flipped upside down.

Search teams.

No sign of him.

Waves too rough.

Too fast.

But I know better. I know better because this
accident
has nothing to do with Carter at all, and everything to do with the fact that he was the last one left standing. The last person Viola needed to eliminate so she could have all of me.
Of course
he would be the next one she went after.

I should've seen this coming.

I should've kept it from happening.

Carter's gone. And it's all my fault.

*          *          *

I stare at the blank flat screen, sinking into one of the couches in the Fleming's formal living room, ignoring people traipsing in and out of the house, the din of conversations, the muffled speculations.

"What did I say about the TV?" An angry voice bellows, rattling through halls. Carter's father—Jack.

The TVs stay off
—that's what he said. No news coverage, period. But it doesn't matter. Not really. The damage is already done—images forever etched into our subconscious. The helicopters. The overturned boat. Miles and miles of empty, endless ocean.

The housekeeper sets a tray on the coffee table without a word. Pancakes. Eggs. Orange juice. She returns an hour later, hauls it away, untouched. For lunch: a BLT and side of chips. I curl against the pillow, legs tucked beneath me, ignoring the murmur of Carter's family. Friends. Their worthless apologies.

I'm so sorry.

I'm so sorry.

You will
never
be as sorry as I am.

I'm so sorry.

I'm so sorry.

Kitty Fleming rationalizes. Carter was responsible—cautious. Swim lessons at five and again at seven. He practically
lived
in the pool, at the beach. She refuses to believe anything other than Carter is still alive. Still out there.
 

Twenty-four hours.

The police arrive not long after the lettuce on that sandwich begins to wilt, asking for me, questioning my whereabouts at the time of the accident.

I burst out laughing at their audacity—
I was here. The whole day
—until my shoulders shake and tears leak from my eyes.

Jack Fleming screams at the officers, ordering them to get the fuck out of his house, threatening to call his attorneys. And even though Carter's mom is desperately trying to hold us—everything—together, at that moment she breaks, cracking under the burden of grief. I witness that fatal snap, the pain plaiting itself into her eyes, the sting of loss carving my memories forever.

The entire house seems to crumble, caving on top of us. Giving up.

It's like hell.

Seventy-two hours later, the search is called off.

E
IGHTEEN

The wheels on my luggage bounce over cracks, thumping against concrete as I wind my way down the breezeway. I move slowly, prolonging the inevitable. I never wanted to return to this place. To this home that was never a home. This dwelling to which I am unaccustomed, unadjusted.

But staying at Jack and Kitty's is out of the question. We need time. I need time. They need time. It's over. Now we adapt. We adapt to this new world—this life without Carter.

I am a coward.

The truth is I can't stomach living under the roof of a family when it's my fault their son died. Crashing a guest room. Sharing meals. It's like sheltering the enemy, and I won't let them do that. Because I'm the reason. The reason Carter . . . Selena. . . . Every bad thing that's happened to them in the last year is because of me.

I stop at the door of the condo, twist the key in the lock.

The door swings easily, and I haul the suitcase over threshold. Inside, the air is cold and stale, presents from the wedding shower stacked like a tower in the corner, delivered and waiting with no one left to truly appreciate them. I cross the room, push back the curtain, and sunlight tumbles across the floor. The familiar summer haze, humidity settling over sea has vanished. The world is clearer, brighter, bluer.

Indications of a hasty search surround me. In the bedroom, drawers are rifled through. Contents shifted. Items misplaced. Tossed aside. Evidence of policemen passing through—a trail of fragmented clues enough to piece together and know this happened then this happened then this happened. Policemen who don't care enough to put things back where they belong.