Page 77 of No Place Left to Hide

Thirty-One

Before

September 8th

I’m in second-period French when they find her body.

My phone blows up with the news, silently vibrating with alert after alert in the pocket of my Waldorf uniform. I know what it is without even looking at the screen, and I slowly feel every tense muscle in my body release. I’ve been on edge every minute since I climbed out of that lake, waiting for this moment.

The longer it took for her body to surface, the more my imagination played tricks on me. I’ve barely slept all week, half expecting to see Claire pop up outside my window with that sarcastic smirk on her face, likeThink you can get rid of me that easily?

I’ve spent countless hours staring at my ceiling, miles from sleep, replaying what my dad said over and over in my head.

…If Claire Heck comes out of that lake with a story to tell, our family is fucked and it’ll all be your fault.

These alerts mean it’s really over. She’s really gone.

I feel a hand on my arm. Jena leans toward me from her desk onthe other side of the aisle. Her phone is in her other hand, and the screen is lit up with news notifications. When I meet her eyes, they’re rimmed in tears.

Her tears help get my own going. I suck in some quick breaths, hyping myself up, and fill my mind with every depressing thought I can manage until my eyes start to water and my body reacts to emotional pain I’m imagining rather than feeling.

Since word spread about the accident, I’ve had a lot of eyes on me, but today will be peak scrutiny. I’ve been preparing for it all week long.

Today I am at a loss for words.

Today I am heartbroken.

Today is the worst day of my life. Et cetera, et cetera.

I’ve already compiled sweet memories of Claire to share in the hallways. Some real, most fictitious. I’ll be the one suggesting the school set up a therapist to visit with classmates, sharing my own experience with therapy, of course, and the work I’m doing to deal with my grief and trauma in the days since the horrible accident.

(Yeah, sure. Like I have time for therapy.)

I’ve preplanned a candlelight vigil—complete with photos and a speech—that I’ll host by the end of the week. It’ll be a moving ceremony, full of tears, to solidify Claire Heck as a beautiful angel with so much potential, who will be sorely missed by the entire community.

A ceremony where I’ll hand out fliers for the water safety course I’ll be teaching this month at the Waldorf pool. So that this horrific tragedy doesn’t happen to another beloved classmate.

All my plans have just been waiting on the body.

But first, the grief. Because that’s what’s expected.

The backs of my eyes begin to burn with practiced emotion, perfect for mourning. I feel the attention of the room turn to me and Jenaas more and more students check their phones. I let the tears fall freely down my face, no doubt catching the deliberately nonwaterproof mascara I caked on again this morning. Soon it’ll be smeared down my face as I cry openly in the middle of the classroom.

I am the picture of loss.

“I can’t believe she’s gone,” I sob.

Thirty-Two

Now

The Subaru comes to a grinding stop, but everything still spins. Little pieces of my surroundings pop into my awareness but not the whole picture.

We’re on all four tires again.

We landed straight up.

Something is hissing under the hood of the car.

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