Page 22 of No Place Left to Hide

I feel sand under my feet, and I know, logically, I’m at the coast, but my mind has teleported back six months to a long wooden dock with nothing but black lake water beyond.

“You’re lying!” he shouts, his voice muffled by an arm, then a shoulder. “And I won’t rest until the whole world knows what really happened!”

Then he’s gone in a tumble of limbs and grunts, as they all disappear into the shadows along the side of the house.

I’m weirdly detached from my body. It’s like I’m watching this happen to someone else. But at the same time, I have this overwhelming urge to throw up. I try to control my face, smooth my expression into a mixture of shock and pity, but all I can think isescape.

I slip around people, hightailing it for the house. I need a bathroomor a closet or a fucking pantry. A space with walls and a door where I can be alone and gather my bearings.

Away from all the stares.

A hand slips into mine like a lifeline, and Jena’s perfectly chrome-manicured fingernails dig into my flesh as she gives a squeeze. “You need a minute?”

“Desperately.”

She nods, brushing her braids over her shoulder with her free hand. “I’ll try and get everyone talking about something else. You take a minute and I’ll come check on you, okay? I’m sorry he keeps coming for you like this.”

My response is automatic, monotone. “It’s okay. He’s grieving.”

“He’s an asshole.”

That too.

Jena leaves me on the porch, and everyone parts to let me inside. I see as many sympathetic looks as accusing stares. The whispers reach me no matter how hard I try to block them out.

“I heard that party was sketch.”

“What does he mean? I thought it was a boat crash?”

“Maybe something else happened?”

“There’s no way. Her dad is like a judge or something.”

“She looks like she could bury a body and then get an A on a midterm that same afternoon.”

I all but rip the French door off its hinges and burst inside. The group of seniors congregating in the living room turn away from the TV to stare at me in surprise. For a second, the only sound in the room is the CrimeFlx true crime documentary they’re watching. The screen flashes with a dramatized reenactment of some girl lying in a ditch in the woods.

I affix a smile to my face. They probably have no idea what happened outside, so there’s no sense in giving them any more gossip fuel. I wave and accept a few lingering Yale congratulations and look for the bathroom. A short hallway stretches out beside the kitchen. I look for the bathroom, but the only door that doesn’t open to a bedroom is closed and locked. It sounds like someone’s hooking up in there.

FML. Maybe I should make a run for the Subaru and get the hell out of here. Jena could probably catch a ride with someone else—

“Brooke, hey.”

I turn and find Beau right behind me. His floppy blond curls sit in a mess atop his head. His smile looks a little strained, and I can guess why. He was always a big fan of Claire’s, and her brother crashing his party like this is probably a significant downer.

He looks like a golden retriever that’s been kicked.

“I’m so sorry about what happened back there,” he says, quiet enough that the people in the living room can’t hear him. “If I had any idea Brandon would get wind of the party, I would have warned you or had someone watch for him or something. I’m so sorry he did that.”

I wave him off. “It’s okay. You couldn’t have known he’d show up. It’s a public beach, right? I just need a minute and I’ll be fine.”

He glances at the closed door and back to me. “Yeah, of course. Try the bathroom in the big bedroom. Nobody should be in there.”

I try not to show my surprise, but I’m floored that this shack has more than one bathroom. I follow him down the hall to the last room on the left. He walks toward what looks like a closet door and flips on the light. The world’s smallest bathroom waits on the other side.

Whatever. It’ll do.

I slip past him with a grateful smile and close the door.

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