After image, p.8
After Image, page 8
I turned around when Giles started laughing at a joke Matthew had made. Isabel, backlit by the Christmas tree, pulled her long, dark hair over one shoulder and toyed with one of her earrings.
“I know what we should do,” Mom said, clapping her hands together. “Let’s take a photo in front of the tree.”
I winced. You couldn’t just pull out a camera in a group like this. Allie had told me stories about her family being pestered by paparazzi—on vacation, during Isabel’s divorce, even on morning trips to Starbucks.
But Isabel smiled graciously. “That sounds lovely.” Then she turned to me. “Natasha, would you do the honors? Giles says you’re quite the photographer.”
I froze, taken off guard. It was news to me that Giles thought my photographs were good. “I mean, I take photos,” I said. “I’m not a photographer.”
“Oh, don’t be so modest,” Isabel said. “Giles says you’re very talented.”
So I ended up getting my Nikon SLR from upstairs and coming back into the living room, where I carefully balanced the camera on a shelf and set the timer. Everyone gathered in front of the fireplace, Matthew and Isabel looking as if they were ready for a magazine shoot. Allie stood as far away from Isabel as possible. As I positioned the camera and jogged over to join the group, Giles put his hand on Allie’s shoulder to draw her closer, but she shrugged it off.
“Smile,” Mom said cheerfully, and then the flash went off, momentarily blinding me.
At dinner, we sat around the brand-new dining table, the low-hung chandelier casting a warm glow over everyone’s faces. On the other side of the table, Allie was still sulking, so I amused myself by taking mental pictures, framing a shot and then—click—freezing it in my mind. Giles, pouring wine into my mother’s glass. Matthew, eyes crinkling as he told a story about getting stranded in the middle of nowhere in Turkey during a film shoot. Isabel, politely declining the offer of cranberry sauce—Oh, no, thank you. I’m not doing sugar right now.
When Matthew caught me looking at him, he smiled. “So, Natasha,” he said, turning to me. “When do we get to see some of your photographs?”
I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. “Um. I don’t know.” Giles had seen me tacking my photographs to the wall in my room as I unpacked, but he hadn’t said anything about them to me, other than, “You should get these framed. So you don’t have to put holes in these walls.”
In all these months we’d lived together, I’d never gotten a clear read on how Giles felt about me. With Allie, he fought constantly, but he seemed to have a certain respect for her stubbornness. She was difficult, but that was evidence of her having what Giles called spine. I, on the other hand, kept my room clean and brought home good grades. I got the feeling that, for Giles, this indicated a lack of personality.
“Are you thinking about art school?” Matthew asked, refilling his wineglass almost to the top.
“Actually, she’s interested in the law,” Mom said.
Across the table, Allie locked eyes with me and made a face, waiting for me to disagree.
“Yeah,” I said, folding my napkin over and over again in my lap. “If I can get a scholarship.”
“Scholarship?” Matthew thumped Giles on the shoulder. “Don’t you know what this guy is worth? You can take that worry off your plate.”
Matthew laughed but Giles didn’t, and there was an awkward pause in the conversation.
“Ignore my brother, Natasha,” Isabel said smoothly. In her mouth, my name sounded foreign, exotic. “These two are always teasing each other. Like children.”
“‘Old Moneybags’ is what I call him,” Matthew said, taking a sip of his wine. “Remember when you didn’t have two dimes to rub together? When we were living with Liam in that shithole apartment in Long Beach? Three writers who didn’t know what the hell they were doing. And then Liam got cancer, and we nearly got evicted because we couldn’t pay the rent.”
Giles frowned. “Can we talk about something else?”
Liam had died, I knew, soon after his diagnosis. Giles didn’t like talking about that time in their lives.
“Don’t you remember?” Matthew persisted. “You borrowed money from your dad so we could stay on a few more months. And that’s when we wrote the script for Alchemy.”
Giles looks faintly irritated. “You know, I really don’t recall.” Allie had told me once that Giles liked to think of himself as someone who’d pulled himself up by the bootstraps. Not someone who’d taken money from his rich father.
“No, well, you were very busy after Alchemy, weren’t you?” Matthew turned to me and lowered his voice, as if he was confiding a secret. “That was the beginning of Giles’s meteoric rise. Whereas I . . .” He made a whistling sound and then made a downward arc with his hand.
Another awkward silence. I knew from my magazine reading what Matthew was referring to. The constant partying, the DUI, the scandal with that model Nico Bissett. For a time, people had become reluctant to work with him. But then, mostly through Isabel’s efforts on his behalf, he’d begun to direct again. Blockbuster films, Giles had said to me once, dismissing them out of hand. Not what you would call art. But maybe Giles was just annoyed because Matthew made more money than him now, that Matthew’s fame—though it would never rival Isabel’s—would always overshadow his own.
“Oh, come on, folks,” Matthew said to the table at large. “I’m joking.” He took another sip of wine, and when he set down his glass, liquid splashed out on the white tablecloth, forming a bright-red stain.
“Jesus, will you stop?” Allie snapped.
Everyone turned to look at her. It was one of the only things she’d said that night.
“Allie,” Isabel said, a warning in her voice.
“What?” A dangerous expression crept over Allie’s face.
“Take it easy, all right?” Isabel said mildly. “We’re having a nice dinner.”
“He’s drunk,” Allie said.
Matthew raised his hands in the air, as if he were being held at gunpoint. “Hey, Al-ligator. It’s all good. I’m just enjoying myself.”
“Maybe you could try to do the same,” Isabel said to Allie. There was an edge to her voice now.
“Sure. Why don’t I drink a bottle of wine or two, and then maybe I could also get into the holiday spirit,” she said.
“Allie, that’s enough,” Giles said, throwing his napkin down beside his plate.
“Oh, screw you,” Allie lashed back. “You think you get an opinion now?”
My mom sucked in a breath. She reached out to put her hand on Allie’s shoulder, but Allie was already standing up, and Mom’s hand hovered, stranded in midair. Allie grabbed her plate of food, which she’d barely touched, and walked into the kitchen, where we heard her dump it into the sink with a crash. “I’m so sick of this,” she said, her voice carrying into the dining room.
Mom half stood, as if she was about to follow Allie into the kitchen. But Isabel said, “Elena, don’t.” Then, more gently, “Please. Let her be. Getting a reaction—that’s exactly what she wants.”
Mom looked bewildered, but she sat down. After all, Allie wasn’t her daughter; it wasn’t her place to disagree. But she looked to Giles, her eyes full of questions. “Is she all right?” she asked.
“She’s fine,” Giles said shortly, pushing his plate away from him.
Matthew looked around the table. “What did I say?”
“Nothing.” Isabel reached for the bottle of wine and topped up her glass. “That’s just Allie being Allie. These days, anyway.” She looked around the table, apologetic. “It’s been like this ever since Seabrook. She won’t forgive me for sending her there. And she blames Giles and Matthew for backing my decision.” She turned to Mom. “I do hope she hasn’t been causing you too much trouble.”
Mom looked uncomfortable. “Oh no. She’s been . . . well, to be honest, she’s been a delight.”
A wrinkle appeared on Isabel’s forehead. “Really?” She laughed as if she had a hard time believing that.
But it was true. Ever since Allie had moved in, she’d been a perfect angel. She helped with the dishes every night. She watched whatever TV show Mom and I wanted to watch after dinner. On nights when Mom graded papers at the kitchen table, Allie offered to make her green tea, saying it was good for concentration. And it’s, like, a thousand times healthier for you than coffee. One day I’d come home from an honor society meeting to find Allie in the laundry room, getting my mom to teach her how to work the washing machine. Later, my mom whispered to me, She’s never done a load of laundry in her life. But she wants to learn.
I glanced over my shoulder. It didn’t seem right for me to sit here while the adults talked about Allie behind her back. “I’m just going to . . .” I didn’t finish my sentence—no one was paying attention to me anyway—and slipped out of the living room to find Allie.
In the kitchen, the sliding door that led into the backyard stood partially open. I peeked out and saw Allie sitting cross-legged by the pool, smoking a cigarette and dangling her fingers in the pool water. I stepped out the door and walked to the pool’s edge, taking a seat beside her.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked, nodding toward the cigarette.
“Isabel’s purse,” she said, staring blankly at the stone wall that ran the length of the back garden.
She offered me a puff, but I shook my head. Someone could come out here at any time and catch us.
“She left her purse on the kitchen counter,” Allie said, taking another drag. “She’s supposed to have quit these. But she cheats all the time.” She dug around in the pocket of her jeans. “This is the real find, though.” She pulled out a small plastic bottle and handed it to me.
Valium. Prescribed to Isabel Andersen. The bottle was almost full.
“Allie . . . ,” I said. Before she came to live with us, Giles had made her sign a contract—An actual fucking document, she’d told me—that outlined the terms under which she could stay with us. She had to attend all her classes at Palos Verdes Prep, to maintain at least a 2.5 GPA, and to stay away from any and all drugs.
Allie plucked the bottle out of my hands. “Oh, relax. I’m not going to take them.” She rolled her eyes at me, then blew out a perfect smoke ring, which floated over the pool and disappeared. “But when Isabel can’t find these, it will drive her out of her fucking mind.” She took the pill bottle from my hand, popped open the cap, and stood up. Then she walked over to the garden wall, tapped out the bottle’s contents into one palm, and flung the pills over the wall. She recapped the bottle. “C’mon.”
“Where are we going?”
She didn’t answer, just crushed out her cigarette against the wall, then walked back into the kitchen. As she passed Isabel’s purse, she tucked the bottle back into it, a gesture so smooth that if I hadn’t been watching carefully, I would have missed it.
“Allie,” I hissed, following her. “She’s going to freak out.”
Allie turned and smiled, walking backward as she moved toward the stairway. “Um, yeah. That’s the whole point.” Then she turned and raced up the steps, taking them two at a time.
I hurried after her. “Why?” I didn’t see why Allie had to mess with her mom like that. Allie was already in so much trouble—why invite more?
“Because,” Allie said lightly. She turned into her bedroom. Once I’d stepped inside to join her, she closed the door behind us, smirking.
She wasn’t worried. But I was. Allie had been with us for four months now. And I’d gotten used to having her in the house. A sister, an ally. A friend. I didn’t want to think about what my life would be like if Allie got kicked out of the house. If it were just me here, living with Mom and Giles. What would I be then? The odd one out.
“Oh, relax, will you? Yes, Isabel will have a fit. When she opens her precious bottle, she’ll accuse me of stealing her pills. She’ll probably even get Giles to search my room. But what will she find? Fuck all, that’s what.” She flopped down on her bed, grinning. “And who’s going to look crazy then?”
CHAPTER 16
I scramble out of the Uber onto Linnie Avenue, muttering my thanks to the driver. The car can take me only to the edges of Matthew’s neighborhood, because the canals hem it in, a moat of protection for the wealthy. I have to walk over a small bridge and along the narrow walkways overlooking the water until I can reach Matthew’s front door. Usually I linger on the way, enjoying the carefully cultivated gardens outside each house, the sense of peace and order that feels otherworldly after the streets of LA. But tonight it’s too cold. The water, so bright and cheery in the daytime, looks brackish at night. Palm trees loom ominously against the moonlit clouds.
I pull my coat tight against the wind.
When I reach Matthew’s place, I jog up his wide front steps and press the doorbell. It’s a few moments before the door opens, and then he’s standing there, light and warmth streaming out behind him.
“Natasha,” he says. Like Isabel and Allie, he has a glamour about him, the ease of the very good looking.
After giving me a brief hug, he leads me into the large open room that forms both the kitchen and living area. The lighting, cleverly hidden in the space where the walls meet the ceiling, makes the room glow like a lit candle. The furnishings in Matthew’s house are minimal but striking: a battered antique leather couch, a low coffee table with some books scattered across it. A long credenza against one wall with framed photos arranged across its surface.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. It’s good to be back here. This is perhaps the only place that feels like home to me right now. As I shrug off my coat, I remember how the room used to look, back in the early days of the investigation. Papers spread across every surface, coffee mugs and takeout containers wedged in among the files. I often napped on this couch while Matthew talked to the private investigator on the phone, knowing he’d fill me in on the details of their conversation later.
“Drink?” he says, gesturing to a single wineglass he’s set out on the kitchen counter. His tan has deepened on his vacation. “I picked out something nice for you.”
After Allie went missing, Matthew went to rehab—a decision that was long past due, he admitted—and he’s been sober ever since. But he always makes sure to have a nice wine for me when I come over for dinner. No reason for you to go without, he always says. It seems a waste—I’ll drink two glasses at most, and he’ll have to toss the rest, but of course Matthew doesn’t care about little things like that.
I take off my coat and throw it over the back of the couch. As I settle on one of the barstools that overlook the kitchen, I watch Matthew busy himself with the saucepans on the stove. He’s put on weight since he started seeing Chloe. His body, gaunt for so long, now looks strong, athletic.
“Smells delicious,” I say. The air feels bright, full of citrus and pepper. He’s making shrimp and stir-fried vegetables, his movements in the kitchen practiced and easy.
He finishes slicing an onion with a gleaming knife, then slides the pieces into a hot pan. “So,” he says. “How are you?” His eyes are so dark that the pupils seem to merge with the irises. “Ruiz told me about this weekend. That you went down to look at the belongings.”
I shift on the stool, hoping that Ruiz didn’t also mention my episode of blindness. Matthew won’t lecture me about going to the station, not like my mother would, but the fact that I’ve had another episode would disturb him. “Yeah.”
“How was it?” he says. He continues cooking, but his eyes are on my face.
“Okay,” I lie. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
He makes a hmm sound.
“I was fine. Really.”
He stirs the glistening onions, nodding slowly. “Ruiz called just now. To say the body isn’t Allie. Definitively.”
I feel the breath whoosh out of me.
“The body had old fractures on the humerus,” Matthew says. “From childhood. Allie never broke a bone in her life.”
Tears prick at the edge of my eyelids. Even though I’d been sure the clothes weren’t Allie’s, it’s another thing to have that officially confirmed. At first, I feel a flood of relief. And then, exhaustion. The search isn’t over. It may never be over.
In Matthew’s face, I see the mirror of my own emotions. It’s a sadness at odds with his overall glow of health.
Then it occurs to me to wonder: Why did Ruiz tell Matthew, and not me? I pull my phone out of my pocket and realize that the call that came through minutes before was from Ruiz. I have a voicemail waiting to be opened.
“Everything okay?” Matthew asks.
“Yes,” I say, tucking my phone back into my pocket. It’s time to focus on Matthew. “How was the honeymoon?”
His face softens. “Good,” he says, and I catch a glimmer of a smile on his face. “Chloe loved it out there. Although she got homesick for Sara.” I’d spent some time with Chloe after she and Matthew started dating, when Matthew encouraged me to come to some meetings of the Lost and the Missing. Once, she’d told me that having a daughter had made it difficult for her to date. But that was before Matthew. Matthew is great with Sara. Sometimes when Chloe watches them goofing off together, her eyes film over with tears.
Matthew finishes up the cooking and serves our meal on large white plates, which we take to the dining room table. As we sit down, he pushes aside some real estate paperwork, and I feel a sudden pinch in my chest. I’ve gotten used to having dinner over here, but we won’t have these evenings for much longer. The Venice house will sell. And Matthew will, of course, invite me to the house in Beverly Hills—but it won’t be the same. Not with Chloe and Sara there too. He has his own family now.
