The invite, p.22
The Invite, page 22
Angelina was standing on the dock, staring morosely at the house across the lake. Richie had just slammed the trunk of his Jeep shut and was walking toward Mia. Unlike Angelina, who just looked sad, Richie looked angry and seemed to vibrate with nervous energy.
“I’m off,” Mia said. Richie nodded. “I’ll pass on your good wishes for a speedy recovery,” Mia added nervously. Did Richie realize she wanted to speak to Sheriff DeVries about him? Hopefully not.
“Don’t,” Richie snapped.
“Why not?”
“Because the way I feel right now, I’d happily finish what Noah started.”
“Richie, Remy is still your friend, no matter what he’s done.”
Richie shook his head sadly. “I’m not sure I have any friends, Mia. Not anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought I knew these guys. I trusted them and shared my thoughts and feelings with them without reservation. But it seems they never trusted me the same way. All this was going on behind my back, and I had no idea.”
“I’m not so sure they knew it was going on either, if that makes you feel any better.”
“I’m sure Noah suspected something was off. And Remy slept with Serena at least once that we know of. He never said a word.”
“Surely you don’t tell your friends everything,” Mia countered.
“I do, actually,” Richie replied. “Those I trust, anyway. Lesson learned, right?”
Mia nodded. She couldn’t argue with that. She didn’t think she’d be able to trust any of them after this, not even if they were all cleared of suspicion and life eventually returned to some sort of normal. Mia’s neighbor, who moonlighted as a bartender on weekends and slipped her free drinks, always said that old friendships were one third nostalgia, one third resentment, and one third delusion, a bitter cocktail some people were addicted to. Mia now realized there was probably some truth to that. What did any of them have in common anymore besides their college years and the misery of the pandemic, when they’d clung to each other, desperate not to feel so isolated and lonely with nothing but Zoom for company? She’d keep in touch with Angelina, but she didn’t think she’d ever see the guys again. It was time she moved on.
“See you later,” Mia said.
Richie raised a hand in farewell and stalked off, heading away from the house. Angelina never turned around, not even when Mia started the engine.
A sense of relief settled over Mia as she drove down the narrow track, then turned onto the two-lane road that led into town. There wasn’t much traffic, just the occasional car passing in the opposite direction. The asphalt was dappled with autumn sunshine, the trees that lined the road thick and tall, their towering canopies as wild and bright as a child’s drawing. It felt wonderfully liberating to be on her own and surrounded by nature, and, although she had initially felt conflicted, she knew she had to do the right thing. Mia had been taught to protect her own, never to betray her family’s trust, but, as much as she’d come to rely on this group of people who’d at one time felt like family, she couldn’t justify sitting on evidence that could potentially crack the case. If Richie was innocent, he’d find a way to prove it. And if he was guilty, then it wasn’t her responsibility to shield him from the law.
Mia turned on the radio and found a local station that played music from the 1980s. She loved some of those old songs and had danced to them with her mom when she was a kid. That was when they had still been allowed to listen to pop music. Boy George crooned lyrics that were oddly appropriate to the situation and her surroundings, and Mia sang that loving would be easy if colors were like dreams, red, gold, and green.
She didn’t immediately react when she heard a pop that sounded like a gunshot. It had probably come from the woods. Were people permitted to hunt so close to the road? Then the car suddenly lurched sideways, skidding off the road with a screech of tires. She gripped the wheel and tried to hold it steady, but the vehicle careened into the woods as Mia cried out in terror. The hood collided with the massive trunk of a leafy maple at full tilt. Her last conscious thought was that she should have put on her seatbelt, and then the vivid colors of the world around her faded to black.
FIFTY-SIX
ALAN
“Boss, an accident has been reported on Route 39,” Linda Nunes called out through the mic on Sheriff DeVries’ shoulder. “The driver is Mia Olsen.”
Alan sat up straighter, immediately alert. Mia had to have been on her way to the station. “Is she hurt?” he called back.
“She’s on her way to the hospital.”
“Which hospital?”
“Kingston.”
“Who’s at the scene?”
“Jim Salter.”
“What was the cause of the accident?” Asha asked.
“Jim says she went off the road and slammed into a tree. No other vehicles were involved.”
“I want a forensic team on that car right now,” Alan exclaimed.
He was already halfway out of his seat and shoving the remnants of his lunch into the bag it had come in. Asha was doing the same. Alan tossed his garbage into the bin near the entrance to the station and hurried toward the police cruiser, while Asha disappeared inside the building. As Alan got in the car, he was faced with a choice. He could go to the scene of the accident and see what had happened for himself, or he could drive straight to the hospital and speak to Mia. He decided on the hospital. Officer Salter was young, but he was a smart kid and could be trusted to preserve the scene until the CSI unit arrived. They’d take it from there. Perhaps Mia had become distracted, or maybe she’d spotted a deer, or had been drinking. Until he saw her for himself, Alan wouldn’t know what he was dealing with.
When he arrived at the hospital, Alan headed directly to the ER.
“Mia Olsen was brought in about ten minutes ago,” the triage nurse confirmed. “Dr. Lansky is with her now.”
“Can I speak to her?” Alan asked. “It’s important.”
The nurse shook her head. “I’m afraid not. She’s unconscious. Cracked her head on the windshield.”
“Did the airbag not deploy?” Alan asked.
“I really don’t know. If you care to wait, I’ll ask Dr. Lansky to come and speak to you as soon as he’s finished.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Alan took a seat and looked around. There were several people in the waiting area, but although a few were in obvious discomfort no one looked seriously injured. A little boy was crying that his stomach hurt, a man was clutching his arm, and a frightened older woman kept poking at her left cheek. Alan’s mother had suffered a stroke two years ago, and he thought he detected a touch of paralysis in the left side of the woman’s face.
Turning away, he pulled out his phone. There was a message from Linda. The CSIs were on the scene and examining Mia’s vehicle. The crime scene manager, Mark Childers, would update him soon. Alan hated waiting, especially when he had nothing but endless speculation to occupy his mind, so he walked over to the shop, purchased Fly Fishing magazine and a Snickers, and tried to distract himself as best he could.
He was finished with the magazine and more than ready for another candy bar when Dr. Lansky finally came out to speak to him. Alan had met Robert Lansky before and knew him to be a thorough and compassionate man. He was tall, lean, and very attractive, in an impoverished European aristocrat sort of way, according to Linda Nunes, who read nothing but romance novels set in England and France.
“Is Mia conscious?” Alan asked. “Can I speak to her?”
Lansky shook his head. “Mia suffered a traumatic brain injury when her frontal bone collided with the windshield. Three of her ribs were fractured, probably by the wheel when she was thrown against it, and she has two broken fingers and a badly bruised clavicle. There’s swelling to the brain due to intercranial bleeding, and we will have no choice but to put her into an induced coma if the situation doesn’t improve within the next few hours.”
“Will she be all right?” Alan asked softly. He felt genuinely sorry for the girl and hoped she would make a full recovery.
“It’s too soon to call, but I’m hopeful. I had her admitted to neurology.”
“Rob, was she driving under the influence?”
“There was nothing in her blood, and I didn’t smell any alcohol on her breath,” Rob replied.
“Could she have suffered a seizure or a cardiac event of some sort?” Alan asked.
“No evidence of either.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“I’d rather not speculate. You are welcome to call later. Ask for Dr. Pass. He’s head of neurology.”
“Thanks. What about Remy Durant? How’s he doing?”
“Better than Mia. He is severely concussed and has suffered a fracture of the zygomatic bone. That’s the cheekbone in layman’s terms. But otherwise, he’s all right. We’re keeping him for observation.”
“Has he said anything to you about the case?”
Rob smiled and shook his head in obvious disbelief. “Alan, my job is to treat the patients, not to question them.”
“Can I see Remy?” Alan asked.
“That’s not up to me, since Remy is no longer in the ER. Maybe his treating physician will allow you a few minutes.”
“Okay. Thanks, Rob,” Alan said, and headed for the elevators.
FIFTY-SEVEN
RICHIE
Richie breathed a sigh of relief when the CSIs finally collected their equipment, piled into the vans, and left. He’d thought he might feel more at peace with them gone, but the house that had seemed so beautiful and welcoming only two days before now felt tainted and unbearably empty with just him and Angelina, who immediately began to clean. Richie could understand her need to keep busy—it was her way of controlling the chaos and imposing order on a situation that was beyond her comprehension—but Richie couldn’t stand her furious banging or the sharp smell of the kitchen cleaner she used. He needed to think, and he always thought best outdoors and often took solitary walks late at night, when the streets were nearly deserted and there were few cars on the roads.
He went outside, tore off the police tape that had been used to cordon off the deck and carried a chair that wasn’t smudged with black fingerprint powder to the end of the dock, and set it with its back to the house. The lake was calm, the surface mirroring the cloudless sky above and the gently swaying trees. Nature didn’t give a shit what people got up to. Their little lives were nothing more than fallen leaves, vibrant one moment, compost the next. But the leaves had their cycle, and humans should too. To die in your twenties, when you still had so much living left to do, was the ultimate waste. But before Richie could consider the weightier matter of untimely death, his thoughts returned to Serena and Remy.
What the fuck was that all about? And the operative word here was fuck. How could Remy be the father of Serena’s baby? Richie knew they had been friends, but he’d always thought the only reason Serena had made an effort to keep up with Remy was because he was the closest Serena could get to the world of fashion and celebrity. Remy had clout, as far as Serena was concerned. He met famous people and was sometimes invited to the sort of events she could only read about online. As far as Serena went, Remy was a rock star. But Richie had never, ever imagined that Serena would want to sleep with Remy, or that Remy would be game. For one, Noah was Remy’s friend, and some lines should never be crossed, and for another Serena had never had eyes for anyone but Noah. How and why had Serena and Remy got together, and how many times had Serena been unfaithful to Noah? Had Remy been the first? And had Serena threatened Remy as well?
This time a week ago, Richie would have had all the answers, but now he was ready to admit that he knew nothing at all. The revelations about Lexie’s death had shocked him to the core, nearly as much as the possibility that Serena had known and might have had a hand in what had happened to her best friend. Had she murdered Lexie to get to Noah? In the course of his work, Richie met people who lied, schemed, and cheated, but it took a lot to murder someone, especially someone a person knew and had presumably cared about at some point. To look someone in the face and hurt them took not only guts but the kind of detachment Richie had never seen in Serena. She had been emotional and needy and always worried what people would think. Sure, it took all sorts of people to commit murder. Some of the most notorious murderers had been people you’d never suspect—intelligent, respectful, often charming individuals who were never on anyone’s radar until their faces were splashed all over the news.
But if Serena had murdered Lexie, then who had murdered Serena, and who had killed Vince? Stunned as he had been to learn about Serena’s part in Lexie’s death, Richie simply couldn’t accept that one of the people he’d trusted would intentionally harm Serena, or have it out with her in the middle of the night and then stand by and allow her to drown if she fell in the lake by accident. And what had Vince to do with any of this? They rarely saw him, and he most definitely had not been in contact with Serena. She’d never liked him, and had been annoyed when Noah had insisted they invite him to the wedding. If Vince had seen something that had got him killed, why hadn’t he said anything to the cops? Had he tried to blackmail the killer and been killed himself because of it?
And could Noah really not have known that Serena was pregnant? He’d lived with her, for God’s sake. Richie had always known when his girlfriends had their periods. Hadn’t Noah noticed that Serena was very, very late? Had they not had sex on a regular basis? They hadn’t been married that long. Surely it took longer than a year of marital bliss for the passion to cool.
And why would Serena not tell him? She’d made no secret that she wanted to start a family sooner rather than later, so why would she not share the happy news as soon as she found out? It didn’t make any sense—unless she had known that the baby wasn’t Noah’s and had been terrified he’d figure it out. Had he? Was that why Serena was dead? Had Noah lost his shit when he found out? If he had and Vince had seen something, that would explain Vince’s death, but then why had Noah gone apeshit this morning when Sheriff DeVries had named Remy as the baby daddy? Was it because Noah had been humiliated that everyone would now know the truth or because he had to act surprised in order to divert suspicion?
Richie sighed. Poor Vince. He had been innocent in all this, and would still be alive if he’d refused the invitation. The only reason he’d come was because he’d hoped to get back with Angelina, but it was clear she wasn’t really into him. Angelina had seemed content with Jake and it was a shame they’d broken up. He had been the yin to her yang, or maybe the calm to her storm. They’d made a good couple, until Jake had traded her in for a newer, less complicated model. Maybe he was happier, maybe not. These days everyone seemed to be suffering from a raging case of FOMO. No matter what they had, they always thought something better was just around the corner.
Richie’s grandparents had met when Immaculata moved with her family from Alcamo to Palermo at the age of fifteen. Immaculata and Matteo had married when they were seventeen, had four children in quick succession, and never looked back. Now, nearly sixty years later, they were still happy, in that insane, never-hold-back, passive-aggressive way of people who were raised by poor, uneducated parents in a time before couples’ therapy and political correctness, and said exactly what they thought the moment they thought it. The things they said to each other were as outrageous as they were hilarious, but neither took offense, and once they vented their anger they simply kissed and made up, and never went to bed angry. Maybe that was the way to do it. Find someone you like and give it your all, without fear, reservation, or regret. And fight a lot so you can have incredible make-up sex.
For the first time in his adult life, Richie thought he might be ready for a serious relationship. He was tired of dating shallow, spiteful girls who were always on the lookout for something better. He wanted to matter to someone, to be loved. To be the one. And now that he had been reminded once again how fleeting life was, he suddenly wanted so much more. But the path to any goal began by taking the first step, and the first step was to leave this place as soon as possible, before the cops found evidence that would implicate him in these murders and the only person he’d have a meaningful relationship with would be his cellmate.
Getting to his feet, Richie strode toward the house, his decision made.
FIFTY-EIGHT
REMY
All things considered, Remy was comfortable. He’d been given Percocet for the pain and felt pleasantly weightless, as if his spirit wasn’t tethered to his body. After he’d gritted his teeth through an MRI the nurses left him to rest, and the other bed in his room was empty, for which he was truly grateful. He didn’t think he could bear someone who’d leave the TV on for hours or entertain noisy visitors. He wasn’t even tempted to look at his phone, which was just as well since he’d never taken it back from Richie. All he wanted was peace and quiet, and the opportunity to examine his feelings now that he’d had a chance to absorb the morning’s news.
At first, he’d thought what he felt was grief, then he’d understood it wasn’t really a feeling of loss but deep sadness at the realization that nothing would ever be the same again. He’d miss Noah, since there was no way they could ever get past this, but he hadn’t loved Serena, nor did he feel bad about the baby. The kid had been nothing but a tiny bean and wouldn’t have felt any pain when Serena died. It had probably just ceased to exist, quietly and peacefully, without any distress or fear.
Had Remy known the baby was his, he would have insisted Serena get an abortion. He didn’t want children, not now, not ever. He’d seen what fucked-up parents could do to a child, and he didn’t want to be responsible for ruining anyone’s life. No one deserved that, especially not an innocent child who only wanted to be loved and noticed. Pixie had never noticed him; she’d had more important things to think about. And his grandparents had never missed an opportunity to remind him that he was a burden, and they hadn’t signed up to raise a child at their age. Remy couldn’t say he blamed them. A person might do right by someone, but they couldn’t force themselves to truly love another human being if their heart wasn’t in it.
