closet. Clothes hung neatly on racks, and there were a bunch of old-school board games—Clue, Monopoly, Mousetrap—piled messily on the top shelf. “But it took a long time for them to get there. Some other stuff happened, though, and that put it in perspective.”
She shut the closet door again. Suddenly, Emily noticed faded pencil writing on the wall to the left of the closet. Jenna . Lines on the wall demarcated height, date, and age.
Emily sank back down to the bed. This must have been Jenna’s room once.
Chloe saw what Emily was looking at and flinched. “Oh. I keep meaning to paint over that.”
“So you . . . know?” Emily asked.
Chloe pushed a piece of brown hair away from her mouth. “I argued with my parents about buying this place—I worried there would be a bad vibe here. But they convinced me it would be okay. This is, like, the best neighborhood or something, and they didn’t want to pass up the good deal on the house.” She pulled the red sweater over her head, then glanced at Emily. “You knew them, right? The kids that lived here?”
“Uh-huh.” Emily lowered her eyes.
“I figured.” Chloe bit her bottom lip. “I recognize you, actually. But I didn’t know if you wanted to talk about it.”
Emily swung her feet, not knowing what to say. Of course Chloe recognized her. Everyone did.
“Are you okay?” Chloe asked softly, sinking next to her on the bed. “That stuff with your old friend sounded awful.”
Headlights on the street outside cast long shadows across the room. The scent of lavender and hair spray wafted through Emily’s nose. Was she okay? After she’d said her good-byes, after she’d understood that the Ali they’d reconciled with wasn’t the Ali she’d loved, she was as good as she could be. The Ali that had returned was dangerous, psychotic—it was a blessing that she was gone.
But then Jamaica happened.
Emily had been so excited to go. Spencer made the plans, picking The Cliffs resort in Negril and booking them massages, yoga classes, snorkeling trips, and sunset dinners in the caves. It was going to be the perfect escape, an ideal place to slough off all the horrible stuff that had happened. Emily had hoped the tropical air would cure the stomach flu that she hadn’t been able to kick, too.
The first afternoon had been perfect—the warm water, the welcoming fish-fry lunch, the soothing sun. But then she’d seen that girl on the stairs of the roof deck that first night.
When the girl stepped in the doorway, her blond hair blowing, her yellow halter dress fluttered around her legs. Emily’s vision tunneled. The girl was the only thing she saw. Her oval face, pointed nose, and slightly chunkier frame looked nothing like Ali’s, but Emily just . . . knew. In the back of her mind, she’d somehow known she and Ali would meet again, and here she was. Alive. Staring straight at her.
She’d turned to her friends. “That’s Ali,” she whispered.
They just stared at her. “What are you talking about?” Spencer said. “Ali’s dead, Em.”
“She died in the fire, remember?” Aria urged. She watched Emily suspiciously, like she worried Emily might make a scene.
“Did she?” Emily thought back to that night in the Poconos, guilt and anxiety rising inside of her. “What if she escaped? No one found her body.”
Hanna turned to the girl in yellow. She had moved off the landing and was walking over to the bar. “Em, that looks nothing like her. Maybe you have a fever.”
But Emily wasn’t going to give up that easily. She watched as the girl ordered a drink, shooting one of the bartenders an I’m-Ali-and-I’m-fabulous smile. How many times had Emily cherished that smile? Yearned for it? Her heart sped up even more. “If Ali survived the fire, she would’ve had reconstructive surgery for the burns,” she whispered. “That could be why she looks totally different. And that’s why she has those marks on her arms.”
“Emily . . .”
She shut the closet door again. Suddenly, Emily noticed faded pencil writing on the wall to the left of the closet. Jenna . Lines on the wall demarcated height, date, and age.
Emily sank back down to the bed. This must have been Jenna’s room once.
Chloe saw what Emily was looking at and flinched. “Oh. I keep meaning to paint over that.”
“So you . . . know?” Emily asked.
Chloe pushed a piece of brown hair away from her mouth. “I argued with my parents about buying this place—I worried there would be a bad vibe here. But they convinced me it would be okay. This is, like, the best neighborhood or something, and they didn’t want to pass up the good deal on the house.” She pulled the red sweater over her head, then glanced at Emily. “You knew them, right? The kids that lived here?”
“Uh-huh.” Emily lowered her eyes.
“I figured.” Chloe bit her bottom lip. “I recognize you, actually. But I didn’t know if you wanted to talk about it.”
Emily swung her feet, not knowing what to say. Of course Chloe recognized her. Everyone did.
“Are you okay?” Chloe asked softly, sinking next to her on the bed. “That stuff with your old friend sounded awful.”
Headlights on the street outside cast long shadows across the room. The scent of lavender and hair spray wafted through Emily’s nose. Was she okay? After she’d said her good-byes, after she’d understood that the Ali they’d reconciled with wasn’t the Ali she’d loved, she was as good as she could be. The Ali that had returned was dangerous, psychotic—it was a blessing that she was gone.
But then Jamaica happened.
Emily had been so excited to go. Spencer made the plans, picking The Cliffs resort in Negril and booking them massages, yoga classes, snorkeling trips, and sunset dinners in the caves. It was going to be the perfect escape, an ideal place to slough off all the horrible stuff that had happened. Emily had hoped the tropical air would cure the stomach flu that she hadn’t been able to kick, too.
The first afternoon had been perfect—the warm water, the welcoming fish-fry lunch, the soothing sun. But then she’d seen that girl on the stairs of the roof deck that first night.
When the girl stepped in the doorway, her blond hair blowing, her yellow halter dress fluttered around her legs. Emily’s vision tunneled. The girl was the only thing she saw. Her oval face, pointed nose, and slightly chunkier frame looked nothing like Ali’s, but Emily just . . . knew. In the back of her mind, she’d somehow known she and Ali would meet again, and here she was. Alive. Staring straight at her.
She’d turned to her friends. “That’s Ali,” she whispered.
They just stared at her. “What are you talking about?” Spencer said. “Ali’s dead, Em.”
“She died in the fire, remember?” Aria urged. She watched Emily suspiciously, like she worried Emily might make a scene.
“Did she?” Emily thought back to that night in the Poconos, guilt and anxiety rising inside of her. “What if she escaped? No one found her body.”
Hanna turned to the girl in yellow. She had moved off the landing and was walking over to the bar. “Em, that looks nothing like her. Maybe you have a fever.”
But Emily wasn’t going to give up that easily. She watched as the girl ordered a drink, shooting one of the bartenders an I’m-Ali-and-I’m-fabulous smile. How many times had Emily cherished that smile? Yearned for it? Her heart sped up even more. “If Ali survived the fire, she would’ve had reconstructive surgery for the burns,” she whispered. “That could be why she looks totally different. And that’s why she has those marks on her arms.”
“Emily . . .”
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