Will end in fire, p.25
Will End in Fire, page 25
I couldn’t stand this anymore, keeping track of the intersecting lines of the story for months, a story that was revised in the mouth of each protagonist. Finally, there was a narrative thread that made sense. “Auds, listen, I know. Not what Maddie told you, not that part.”
“What do you mean?”
“About you and Drew.”
“What about us?” Her voice quaked.
“You guys had sex that night. He confessed. It was a mistake.”
“What the fuck? I never had sex with him.”
I pushed out the explanation. “He said you were acting very uninhibited, that you came on to him. I get that you were drugged and can’t remember everything, but he didn’t realize . . . he really thought you were into it.”
“Is this some kind of sick joke? You’re saying your boyfriend did this to me and you knew?”
I hesitated. Her distress was sincere. Her accusation would be lacerating if I didn’t numb myself. But I had to argue on behalf of Drew, whose account also was credible. “He said you’d been doing that before then, that you were giving out signals you wanted to sleep with him for a while, not just at the party.”
“What, like a lighthouse? Are you saying I was asking for it?”
“Auds, please, no. That isn’t what—”
“How could you do this to me? So, all this time, you’ve been lying to my face!”
“I didn’t know who, what, to believe.”
“How could you not tell me? How could you live with him and pretend to be my friend?”
I had no good answer. “You are my friend. I just . . . He said you guys were into each other and—”
She screeched, like a cat whose tail had caught in a door. “Fuck you!”
chapter twenty-four
Before I could decide what to do next—call her back, text, wait—I heard Drew, his slightly slurred diction, “Why are you apologizing to Audrey?”
Rage radiated from him, yet when I swung around, he was barely visible. The lights were off in the bedroom behind the balcony.
“I was being insensitive,” I said, stepping further from his shadow.
“How much can you do for her? She doesn’t let up.”
“Yeah. It’s cold out here.”
“So come in. I’ll turn up the heat.”
I slipped through the glass door, careful not to as much as graze his arm, my loyalties pulled in opposite directions. “It’s so dark.”
“That can be fixed,” he said. “There is a solution to everything.”
“Not everything.”
“Between us. In this house. You told her, didn’t you?” When I nodded, he said, “And what, she denied it?”
“She’s upset that I wasn’t honest with her all along.”
“We should have been up front sooner.” His anger was gone, like a match extinguished. “But the rest . . . she’s lying.” He hugged me from behind, his breath on my neck. Even from this angle, I could smell the beer. “Let’s go downstairs. I could use something to drink.”
“Yeah, okay.”
I didn’t say: Don’t. No more. A little alcohol made Drew erratic, moody, a lot, and he became sleepy and sad. Better the latter.
In the living room, he sat in the deep-back armchair, next to the windows, his legs stretched out onto the matching ottoman. I was on the couch decorated in the same alabaster linen fabric. Every object in this room was tasteful, designed to be soothing. I was not soothed.
“You said Audrey came on to you,” I said, carefully, after he’d finished another half a bottle. “She swears she didn’t.”
“What kind of proof do you need? She said things to me in private that I can’t substantiate. But I have texts between us—from before then.”
“Was there anything sexual in them?”
“She never acted the way she did at Rory’s party. She wasn’t that stupid when sober. She’d already been caught by Josh more than once.”
Was that a dodge, an excuse for his behavior? I put my wine glass down on a coaster on the coffee table. I’d been careful to only have a few sips, to stay clearheaded. “Doing what?”
“She fucked at least two other guys,” he said.
Fucked. A hard growl.
“I thought he just suspected Auds of cheating.” I couldn’t keep track of all the lies.
“I was trying to honor my relationship with my friend. I’d sworn I wouldn’t say anything.”
“I get that, but Josh is dead. You can talk to me.”
He cocked his head, as if considering. “He spied on her, read her messages when she visited him in college. Things blew up after that. They broke up for a few months, but she begged him for another chance.”
“So Josh was humiliated.”
“Of course. She was sleeping around with these assholes, these faux artists that she thought were so cool. You should see these messages Josh sent me his senior year. Vicious. He was so pissed at her. I still have them. Do you want to see?”
“I believe you.”
“Good.” He smirked. “Finally. I’m going to get another beer.”
Soon, he’d be too drunk to grill for information. When he loped back into the living room with a fresh bottle, I slid closer to him on the couch to secure his attention. He didn’t try to cuddle.
“After they graduated, once Josh started having problems, did she do it again?” I asked.
Drew raised the bottle to his wet lips and bit the rim, as if ready to break the glass with his teeth. “Dunno for sure. I’m going to assume so. Things between them got worse once she moved on with her life, started grad school, and he just stopped functioning.” A bubble of spit came out with his laugh.
“The thing I don’t get is why she stayed with him.”
He shrugged. “Man, I tried to warn Josh. You can’t just live with your parents, take drugs, and expect a girl like that to be with you while you try to figure out your shit. Get any decent-paying job and roll with it.”
A girl like that. Drew had been in love with her.
“Fake it!” His eyes were cloudy as he stared ahead of him, yelling at my brother. “God knows, I had to learn to fake it. What do you think I did most of my life?”
I clutched my arms around my rib cage, uneasy. Alcohol was not having its usual subduing effect on him. He was furious and showing a side of himself I’d never seen before. My pulse was thundering in my ear as I asked gently, “How have you faked it?”
“I can’t be an obvious screw-up and have my mother adore me and let me hide away, like yours did. My mother would have gone apeshit. She would have worried I took after my dad. I had to make this life for myself. It’s not some calling I had, to be an aboveboard investment banker—one who doesn’t end up involved in some illegal shit. That’s the problem with people like you.”
Who was he referring to: me or Josh? I tried to lock eyes with him. Even though he was looking at me, he wasn’t seeing me at all.
“You have a passion: soccer or art or something that defines you from the time you’re a kid. The rest of us just go to school and hope to get some decent-paying work to get by.” He laughed again. “If you’re smart, you become a coder or a surgeon or—a banker. If not, you find a job you can tolerate.” He slapped his thigh with a thud. “God, what a waste! I loved Josh so much. I wanted to be him. Until he got stuck, pining away for his glory days of being a big-time athlete.”
He stared straight at me, his vision clear now. “You’re the same as me, Elle. We’re realists who wish we could have been the chosen one. That’s the thing about us, why we are so good together.”
How very sad.
“We both envied Josh for so long, we didn’t know how to stop. And then Josh screwed up his life so badly. How could someone who had everything do that?”
“He was going to get help.”
“Addiction counseling.” Drew sneered. “What about employment? What about making plans for your adult life? How come you weren’t freeloading off your parents?”
I’m freeloading off you.
“I’m wondering about Audrey,” I said, steering the conversation away from my brother, who never would be able to defend himself again. “Do you think she was there the night of the fire?”
His body was slack, his voice coated with drink. “She could have been there. I didn’t see her.”
Whoosh. The sensation of a knife thrown past me, tearing off strands of my hair.
“You didn’t see her?”
Drew’s mouth drooped and his eyes grew misty. “Shit. I’m wasted. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I’m going up to bed. You coming?”
I had to stall. There was no way I was going to lie down next to him. “Yep. Soon. Just gonna call Nora. She’s having some issues at work.”
That was the least controversial thing I could think of. Something of no interest to him, something that wouldn’t raise suspicion.
“K. See you soon.”
I waited over an hour, stunned, afraid to be near him. Even this minute, I couldn’t calculate how far he’d go, how dangerous he might be. Finally, I slunk up the stairs and into the room he’d commandeered as his workspace, the one with the single bed and the modular desk. His laptop was open on top, beckoning. I didn’t bother sitting in the swivel chair.
Find proof he was there.
I imagined a text conversation, never erased, between him and Audrey, planning to set our house ablaze. Maybe Drew kept a digital diary in which he revealed everything, including how he’d drugged and raped Audrey. Which was an absurd and oh-so-convenient notion.
The first two attempts at decoding his password—Josh’s birthday and Audrey’s full name—of course failed. I typed in Josh’s soccer numbers in high school and college. Nope. A few more configurations of names and numbers were equally unsuccessful. Then a memory from a couple of months ago came to me: Drew waving his arm with his new Apple Watch fastened onto his wrist. We’d been at the kitchen table, and he’d exclaimed, “Don’t you want one?” I’d barely paid attention to the demonstration of this gadget’s magic trick. He flipped up the lid of his laptop and the screen read: Unlocking with Apple Watch.
I tiptoed into the Cimmerian room, wondering how close I needed to be to get the results he’d shown me. Not very, as it turned out.
Cracking open the machine, I saw the watch was already unlocking it, as if on cue.
My heart was slamming. I retreated from the room backward, then, recognizing this mistake—in case he awoke—twisted around, hugging this precious prize without letting it slap shut.
In the second bedroom again, I felt my fingers, how they were apart from the rest of me as they worked steadily, unafraid, competent creatures.
I scanned the texts that appeared in the various chats. There were the prominent bubbles with my photo, Drew’s boss’s, Ty’s, a couple of other work friends I’d never met. Below was one of his mother. I scrolled until I saw Josh’s name and picture, his half smile, his half squint, his intact, living self. My legs weakened; my arms hung like ropes. I quickly skimmed the messages, ones from the previous year, for “vicious” attacks from my brother against Audrey. There were none. Backtracking further would be a waste of time. What mattered was plans between Drew and Audrey to meet at our house.
I did a window search for “Audrey” and “Auds” and found a stream of chats from a few months before the rape and the fire. Drew initiated their correspondence: Hey, how you holding up?
Audrey: Not good.
Must be really hard for you.
Yeah. He still hasn’t forgiven me for sleeping with Freddie and Ben. It’s been three years. I keep asking why he’s still with me.
He really loves you, Auds.
I love him, too. But before he was unavailable and far away. Now he’s so messed up.
Not your fault.
He needs a life. I’ve been close to breaking up with him for like a year now. What am I supposed to do, wait forever?
It went on like this, complaints from her, friendly commiseration between them. I started to skim, speed-reading. I zeroed in on the week of the party, my mind churning, hoping or not hoping—uncertain which—to discover if Drew had mentioned he was going.
See you there?
Audrey: Yep.
That was it, nothing more until a couple of days later, after our encounter at the hospital.
Audrey: OMG! Why didn’t you text me when you found out?
Drew: Sorry. I should have.
I had to call Josh’s mom like ten times. And you didn’t answer my texts.
I was in shock. I didn’t know how to tell you.
Audrey: This is SO surreal.
Yeah.
I feel SO guilty.
Drew: Why guilty?
I laid some heavy shit on him right before. Like, a few hours before!
Are you saying you think he did this to himself?
Audrey: IDK.
It was an accident. You’d have to be crazy to try and burn yourself to death.
After that exchange, Drew kept sending out messages and Audrey replied more and more infrequently. I calculated the timing in my head and discovered Drew was still contacting her once he was sleeping with me. But only for a couple of weeks—and mostly casual, just checking-in-with-you texts. Then they stopped.
I turned to emails, focusing on the ones from the time of the party.
There it was: from a car rental service dated the evening of the fire. Under vehicle information was listed: Vehicle ID Number, Make, Year, Model, Mileage, Registration Number. But the category that caused my body to turn to liquid, poured into the chair, was the color. Silver.
The roar in my skull felt like a riptide. I checked the make—a Mazda 6—then images of them online. It could have passed for the car I’d observed in Audrey’s garage. Similar shade and shape. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Drew had rented a car on that night. But was it a fluke that this particular one resembled the midsize sedan that Audrey drove in high school? The same make, the same color. Just as Mrs. Goldsmith had said. The same and not the same.
I stared at the computer screen as if it had frozen. But it wasn’t the machine that had frozen; it was me. My brain stem wasn’t discharging commands to my spinal cord. My motor neurons weren’t sending impulses to my muscles. My limbic system was . . .
Move!
Pack and go or just go? Clothes I could do without. But my cell phone and laptop were in the bedroom—with Drew. I had to return his computer as well. I would have to be quick and careful, graceful and more agile than I’d ever been. Escape was a mixture of a race and a ballet, fleetingly fast and balanced on the top of my feet to avoid making noise. Josh was the athlete in the family, not me.
Oh, Joshie. Oh, God. What did he do to you?
In Drew’s lair, where he lay on his side moaning softly, I decided to stuff my suitcase with whatever was nearby: MacBook and iPhone first, then shoes and hanging sweaters. Checking on Drew in the shadows—a dim light in the hall illuminated the room just enough—I noted he hadn’t changed position. His breathing was deep, filled with ahs and hums. His drunken slumber rendered me brave. I slid open the dresser drawers, pulled out my underwear in bunches like small bouquets of wilting flowers. My joggers and jeans, my T-shirts and bras. Then, as I tried to hang onto too many garments, I banged my hip against the drawer.
“What are you doing?”
Drew’s question was flat, without recrimination or even curiosity. He was still dazed, not fully conscious. But soon he would be.
“I have to go.” I spoke in a hush.
His body hit the bed frame as he sat up. “What do you mean? Did something happen? Is it your mother?”
The savvy answer would have been yes. “Just let me go,” I pleaded, my voice tremoring.
“What are you talking about?” He switched on the end table lamp. His eyes, fixed on mine, were yellow brown, the color of a tiger’s. “Where?”
“Back.”
“To the city?”
“Yes.” Shaking, I zipped my suitcase. The truth was, where would I go, if not Drew’s apartment?
“What’s the matter? It’s the middle of the night.”
“You’re right. It’s my mother. She’s not well.”
He waited a beat, then uttered a low, animal sound. “You’re lying.”
Alert now, he walked toward me, clutched my wrist. “Why are you leaving?”
“I could use another glass of wine.”
“Not if you’re planning to drive.”
“I won’t have much.”
Drew looked at me, a level stare, dark and empty. Then he unhooked his hand. “Sure. I’ll join you.”
I busied myself with filling my glass. All around us, the outside was pressing into the dark-suffused house, through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, the sliding doors to the deck. The woods and pond, the croaking frogs and buzzing insects were our closest neighbors. There were no Mrs. Goldsmiths or Mrs. Petersons nearby, privy to the goings-on inside here. Terror spread its huge wingspan inside of me.
“So, why were you creeping out of here?” he asked again. He glanced up the stairs, then back at me. He was piecing something together, even now, as he gestured for me to give him the half-empty bottle.
I watched him do both: awash himself in liquor as he appraised the situation. What of his laptop? Had I left the emails open? I envisioned us sprinting up those open-riser stairs. Would he push me over the railing, let me tumble to—if not my death—some limb-breaking, concussed state? I didn’t budge as he sauntered past me and raced up the steps. My eyes registered the empty kitchen table and I scrambled to the counter, scoured the empty canisters. Then I opened the silverware drawer, inspecting the spoons and forks, as if one would suddenly change form, like in a fairy tale. But if not on the table, my car keys were zipped away in my backpack, upstairs.
I considered slipping out of the house with none of my belongings, waiting in the backyard until Drew passed out. Maybe he’d forget to lock the door. But it was too late.
“Why were you going through my texts and emails?” Drew asked from the second floor, peering down. “How did you fucking get my password? I told you I’d share messages between me and Audrey, that we had nothing to hide.” His voice was hot as blood.
