Summer's Edge, page 24
And that’s it. Kennedy Ellis Hartford has played her last card. I step past her wordlessly and pull down the attic door. She looks at me distrustfully and then turns and rushes up the stairs to Chelsea. There are sounds of joy. Reunion. Love. Chelsea rushes down the stairs first, and the relief on her face is palpable. Then her eyes fall on me.
My eyes trail up the ladder. Kennedy is still up there. Extinguishing candles. Breathing a massive sigh of relief. She should be leaving. Protecting herself and the one she loves. But she protects the house. I fold the ladder back up, push the trapdoor closed again, then grab the hair-trimming scissors off Kennedy’s neat, meticulously organized vanity, and snip the pull string off.
Chelsea stares at me with a look of mixed horror and betrayal. “Why would you do that?” She jumps, straining to reach the lock on the attic door as Kennedy calls down to us in vain, but we both know it’s too high up.
“You know why.” I turn away from her, but she blocks my way out of the room. “If you don’t get it now, you’re never going to.”
“I loved him too, Em.” She pushes past me and positions herself behind the bed, throwing her weight against it. But with its heavy oak frame, it’s not going to move an inch. “You know why I wrote that note.”
“Because you didn’t save him. You didn’t call for help. You didn’t even admit he was gone. You may not have pushed him, but your silence held him under, Chelsea. You killed Ryan too.”
“I still loved him.”
“But you chose Kennedy.” I can’t say her name without bile rising to my tongue, venom.
She tries the vanity, straining from the effort, then pauses, gasping for breath. “I loved her more.”
I glare at her. I know she loved Ryan. Anyone knew who saw them together. And it hurts more that she let him die. That she buried him even before that. That she wouldn’t admit that she loved him until he was dead, because she wouldn’t dare risk Kennedy finding out. Wouldn’t risk losing the bigger prize.
“You kept him a secret,” I whisper. “That’s not real love. Loyalty doesn’t have two sides.”
She tries the last piece of furniture, the heaviest, the bureau, and starts to cry. I want to break her in half. “You were the one who convinced me I had to keep Ryan a secret or lose Kennedy. You always want us to choose sides. You don’t understand loyalty, Emily. I don’t think you understand love. All of us have loved you. You made the rules too strict. I’m sorry I broke Ryan’s heart, and I can’t forgive myself for not saving him. But we don’t deserve this. No one does. We’ve fought and made mistakes, but it’s still love that ties all of us together. Not Ryan’s death.” She believes all of this. I know she does, truly. But Chelsea lives in a fantasy. It is a murder that ties the rest of them together. And I have no love left in me.
She looks at me imploringly. “Let Kennedy go.”
“I am. I just wish you had.” I flee the bedroom, slamming the door behind me and pushing a decorative table in front of it. Chelsea screams, kicks the door, pummels the wood with her fists. I ignore her.
Chelsea. The willing witness. No more. Kennedy, the executioner, no more, sealed in with the melted wax and locked in with a cut cord. Your turn, Kennedy.
When I flipped the switches on the circuit breaker, I turned off the power to every room in the house. If they do blow out the candles, they’ll be in almost total darkness.
Power is a funny thing.
When you have it, you take it for granted. When you don’t, it’s the only thing you think about. I’m going to take yours before you die.
It’s the least I can do. Maybe not the least. But I can do it. That’s the whole point of power.
Every one of them will be stuck in a different place. Every one of them will die alone, like Ryan did. Kennedy is in the attic, and there’s no way out. Mila will never leave the cellar. Chase will be in the living room when he realizes there’s no saving Mila, and Chelsea is in the bedroom. If I know my friends, and by now, I think I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I do, Chelsea will panic and run for it, like she did while my brother drowned. But there’s only one way out for her, and that’s straight down from the balcony. Chase will play the hero, like he did when he covered up Kennedy’s inconvenient little murder. But I won’t let either of them get far. I can’t. It’s already gone too far. We have all gone too far.
Six candles burning in the dark
Find them fast before they spark
One is in the living room
One in the garden where the flowers bloom
One on the boat that bobs on the lake
One in the room where we sleep and wake
One in the attic over your head
One in the cellar where you’ll find one dead.
It occurs to me that I haven’t thought of a way out. There are still pills in my pocket. But I didn’t come here to die. I didn’t come here to kill, either.
I came here to learn the truth.
But the truth was murder.
The truth was lies.
So I leave Kennedy’s room. One last time before I go. There’s a sudden flare of light from downstairs, and I run to the balcony overlooking the loft. The candles on the living room table have finally burned to the bottom, and I watch in fascination as the cards from the board game ignite as if made of some hyperflammable substance. A sudden wind blows the front door open, and the cards go swirling into the air like leaves lifted from a bonfire. As each card makes contact with a surface, a brilliant blaze blooms, spreading with almost supernatural speed. Everything is light and heat. Everything is sick and strange. The smoke is poison, the fire is ruin, but the house is dying. There is nothing left to save. I focus on the door, the one I was sure I locked. This is the one chance to turn back. Chase is still in the cellar, administering CPR like the Boy Scout he is. He has a shot at escape, if he were smart enough to take it. By some miracle or act of god, almost a supernatural force, the fire hasn’t come into contact with a gasoline-coated surface. But I find myself running, unable to stop myself, down the stairs, to the front door, padlocking it, and sprinting back up again, my lungs bursting, out of breath. I lift the can of gasoline and spill the rest over the side of the balcony. There is no turning back.
Chase runs back up from the cellar and stares up at me from the living room. “What did you do?” He looks at me like a stranger. But he’s the stranger.
“Don’t ask me that.” I don’t like the way it makes me feel. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m the villain.
He looks around helplessly. “The fire extinguisher’s missing.”
“Bad luck.”
A wall of fire rises behind him, and he backs away from it. “You killed Mila.”
“You killed Ryan.”
“It was an accident. This is so fucked up, Emily. This is so fucked.” He whips his head around, looking for an out. It’s almost comical, like a cartoon. But he’s smart. Smart-guy Chase. If there is a way out, he will find it. So I search the room too, surveying the scene from above. “You planned this.”
Remain calm. Focus. Look. There’s still room for him to edge sideways to the bookcase. He could possibly climb it and pull himself up to where I’m watching him from the loft, or it could fall over and crush him. Flatten him like a pancake. I don’t see another way. Two walls of fire are now blocking his exit, and there are no windows in the cellar.
“Only a little.” I hold Mila’s unlit lighter over the railing. It’s going to burn my fingers, and if I’m not careful, it could set the rest of me on fire. I have to do it quickly or not at all. There’s pure terror in his eyes, but I see sedation there too. The pills work quickly.
“Emily. Em. You don’t need to do this.” His eyes focus on the bookcase, and he flattens against the wall and begins to inch toward it. It was only a matter of time. He begins tearing books off the shelf, leaving the bottom row filled. Clever. That will weigh it down, make it less likely to topple over as he climbs.
“Why do people always say that?” It irritates me. Does he think I don’t know that? Like I’m a child with no sense of agency? “I choose to do it. You made your choices, I get to make mine. And you made a lot of bad choices, Chase. Let’s be honest, this isn’t just about Ryan. You ignored me for years. You brought Mila to our place not once but twice, you had sex with her behind my back, and then you paraded her in front of me after…” I can’t even say it. The words stick in my throat like something rotten.
I watch little sparks of hope die in his eyes as he begins to climb, looking up at me, stricken, reaching one arm over his head and finding his footing. “Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?”
I open my mouth but swallow a cloud of smoke and choke for a moment, gasping for breath. “Nothing is wrong with me, Chase,” I gasp. “You are a toxic friend. All of you are toxic friends. I am cleansing my life of toxic friends. Like I should have years and years ago.” I double over, coughing, as he continues to climb. I shouldn’t let him. But I’m angry. He shouldn’t be allowed to say these things to me.
I can hardly make out his words at first through the sound of the fire, but I lean over the side of the balcony, straining. He’s coming closer. “Not like this.”
I struggle to see him through the smoke. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe. Chase is an athlete, but I don’t see how he can climb through this. I can barely stand. My head is beginning to swirl. The smoke is poisoning my senses, pouring in through my eyes, ears, and nose. And then his hands sweep out toward me, grasping only air. Again, embracing nothingness. Once more, so close, and I can’t breathe, and then his fingertips brush against the balcony, and my heart stops. Chase, who I loved. Chase, who I adored. Who I spent summer after summer, year after year, reaching and grasping and longing for, to have him slip through my fingers. I grab his hands, lace my fingers through his, feel the electricity surge through them, the warmth, the need. He needs me. In the most fundamental sense. But I don’t need him. Not anymore. I let go, gently, lovingly, pushing him firmly away, feeling his weight shift back and over, into the thick, poisonous air, feeling the crunch of his bones as sharply as I hear it.
There’s something I should tell you, before it’s too late.
“I really do love you,” I whisper. “Every last, damned one of you.”
And you are all damned.
Every last one of you.
I kick the bookcase over, just to be sure. Goodbye, love. Goodbye.
I ignite the lighter, and it burns my fingers. I snap it shut. Chase is quiet now. Chelsea is kicking the door. The smoke is so thick, I couldn’t find my way back downstairs if I wanted to. But I know what would be waiting for me. Rivers of fire. Blood red, electric. The heat is incredible. It scorches and comforts me at once. It will burn out all the parts in me that don’t belong anymore. The soft parts, the decay. The sadness and longing. It burns. The longing burns. It’s almost gone. I know now where my brother is, and how it happened. I’m finally done with Chase. I’ll never be second in Kennedy’s eyes, or third in Chelsea’s. I’m ready to let go. I grasp the railing dizzily and nudge the can of gasoline over the edge with my foot.
This is how I’ll say goodbye:
Not with words.
Not with a kiss.
But with a promise.
You will remember me forever.
I light the lighter one more time and drop it.
Flames leap up and I step back, humbled by their strength. The desire to not die hits me so hard it takes my breath away, and I run to the one place I haven’t been able to secure, the balcony in Kennedy’s room. I stagger to the table that’s blocking Kennedy’s room and push it aside to find Chelsea tearing the room apart, searching for a tool to open the attic.
She turns to me frantically, weak and coughing. “Help me.”
I smile. “The only way out is down.” It’s not a friendly drop, but it’s my only shot. I slide my legs over the railing and drop down, landing safely, then look up at the house.
Goodbye, friends.
I’ll leave you with this thought.
Before you ask about second chances,
Remember the Summer of Swallows.
Remember.
Remember.
Because it’s never, ever, ever going away.
Not after what you did.
So if you think this is over?
Think again.
And again.
And again.
Your very best friend,
Emily Joiner
SUMMER OF EGRETS Present
Kennedy
48
The attic door closes behind me, and with the slam of wood against wood, the last pieces fall into place.
I feel him behind me before he speaks my name.
“Kennedy.” His voice is hard and jagged, and I know my time is up. I feel him drifting behind me like an errant tide. I feel his presence like heartbreak, like something loved and lost, like a thousand past summers fading into photographs in dusty albums. Like something trying desperately not to be forgotten.
I know I’ve failed again.
I didn’t save Ryan. I lied to Chelsea. She was better than us. She couldn’t live with the guilt. So we tried to erase it.
It was one little lie.
We all tell little lies.
Chelsea tells them all the time. She lied about her relationship with Ryan. I’ll probably never know the truth about what happened between them, but it doesn’t matter. It was never any of my business. It was over and done the moment we became each other’s worlds.
Mila lies. She lies with every cutting word she says. She pretends to be harder, colder, than she is. She deserved better from us from day one. We could have been friends. We should have been friends. I should have taken her side.
Chase lies. He lied about helping Ryan run away. He faked all those letters from Ryan, proving he was still alive out there, spinning stories to ease our guilt. He lied to Chelsea’s face with his half-truths. He lied to Emily with his silence. It wasn’t malicious. None of our lies have ever been malicious. They were benevolent lies. Lies in service to friendship. Lies to keep us from falling apart.
We did what we had to, Chase and me.
We buried a body.
Ryan lied. He lied on the boat that night. He pushed me and I pushed him. He lied when he came back year after year, when all that remained between him and us was history and longing. He let us believe we could go back to the way things were. That every day could be summer. That our friendship was more than a ghost following me, waiting for the final cut.
I lie. I lie by omission. I lie every time I open my mouth and speak any words to Chelsea that are not I still love you. I lie to myself as often as I lie to my girlfriend. I have never been more frightened, with heat rising below, with smoke clouding my lungs, because there is love in the world, filling me, there are ghosts behind and before, all around me now, and I love her. There have always been ghosts, fires, death, distractions, lies, but the one that destroys us is the pain of not knowing we are loved, not telling. Not telling Chelsea. I press my palms against the scorching floorboards below and push, knowing they won’t give way.
I turn to Ryan, resigned. He stands over me silently, stale lake water soaking his clothes, matting his hair to his skull, dripping
dripping
dripping
and I finally understand.
“I was just a kid,” I say. “You tried to kill me.”
“You killed me first.” He stares at me dully. “It took me a while to understand. Why I was still here and you were all gone. And then I realized that here, there is no time. Not the way there used to be. It was like being everywhere at once. Only it was everywhen, not everywhere. Because this is the only place left now, Kennedy. You did that to me. You trapped me in the one place I never wanted to see again. So yes. I did try to kill you. A dead three-year-old can’t grow up to be a murderer, can she?”
“But it doesn’t work that way.”
“No. I’ve lived that moment over and over. I’ve even watched you die. It doesn’t change what happened to me. Maybe in some other reality. But all that matters is what we know, doesn’t it? What we live through. Or don’t. I’m stuck in some kind of loop with you, Kennedy. I always come back. And I always regret it.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, then begin to cough as smoke fills my lungs.
He turns to the window and begins to draw in the dust. When he turns around, the words too late are revealed. He grins at me, a cold, wet grin. I can’t feel sorry for him. I don’t. He settles himself down on the floor with his hands folded behind his head. “It’s just you and me, Kennedy. Can you think of anyone more fitting to spend your last moments with?” He aims a piercing stare at me. “Because I can’t.”
I slam my fists against the wood, shout Chelsea’s name, silently pray to space and time to bend for me. I want to go back. I want a redo.
It can’t end this way.
SUMMER OF EGRETS Present
Chelsea
49
I reach Kennedy’s room and throw the balcony doors open, but as I’m about to slide my leg over the railing, I hear a familiar, horrible, crushing sound.
Hands knocking.
Emily screaming.
From the attic.
Chase was right.
It’s happening again.
Exactly the same way.
I turn and face the monster. The crushing heat, the smoke, the fire creeping closer and closer, Emily’s panicked voice above me, the pounding in the attic. Not this time. I’m not leaving her this time. I position myself behind the bed and force it across the room, agonizingly slowly, throwing all of my weight, my heart, my terror, behind it. In a nightmare, you get second chances. This doesn’t feel like a nightmare. It feels unbearably real. But I can’t live with the guilt of killing her twice.
