Page 38 of Find Me

Lindsay flipped the page to blank white space, then turned to the next pages and the next. Was that Hope’s last entry, or had she started in on another notebook?

She sat cross-legged in front of the bookcase and skimmed through the final journal on the bottom shelf. She recognized the blue-and-whitepolka-dotted cover of the notebook Hope had been scribbling in the weekend they came out here in April. She found herself smiling as she read her friend’s account of the trip—ice cream, real estate prowling, fishing—it was all there. She studied an entry from the end of the month more closely as Hope recounted a second trip to East Hampton—this time alone to recon her living and employment options. Lindsay realized she hadn’t given Hope nearly enough credit for pulling it all together so quickly. She blinked back tearswhen she reached the final sentence:I just hope Lindsay will understand that this isn’t about her.She closed the notebook and returned it to its rightful spot.

What else could she do here?

She eyed the bed next to her, and then stood up to pull the quilt back tentatively with two fingers. Nothing of note, at least to the naked eye, but depending on how the facts unfolded, the police would eventually want the sheets as potential evidence. She had bought them for Hope’s birthday two years ago. Of course, there was only a 1 in 365 chance that the date was her actual birthday, but it did mark the date of her arrival in Hopewell. It was also the anniversary of the day Lindsay first found Hope.

She stripped the sheets from the bed and replaced them with fresh linens she had spotted in the small closet outside the bathroom. As she was inserting the used sheets into a garbage bag, she paused on the final pillowcase and held it to her face. It still smelled a little like Hope’s shampoo. She spread it out over a pillow on the bed and rested her head on it.

So far, she could justify her intrusions into Hope’s private thoughts. To dig further into the past felt like a deeper violation of trust. There was no way the diary entry she wanted to read would include any information related to Hope’s disappearance. But she needed to know. If she never saw Hope again, she would at least know.

Two notebooks back. She got out of the bed, pulled it from the shelf, and thumbed to a date committed to memory, nearly a year earlier.

Tried to go to sleep but too much adrenaline. And the bed was spinning because . . . too much tequila. Oh wow, even my handwriting’s drunk. Will I even be able to read this in the morning? L is in town. Picked her up from the train station at 3 and she was hangry so we went straight to Picante for tacos and margaritas. Turned into a four-hour day-drinking situation, and then we came back here and made the tequila-soaked decision to open a bottle of wine, which I promptly spilled on my white shirt. I took it off as I ran for the sink. She came over to help, saying I needed dishwashing liquid and hydrogen peroxide, which of course I didn’t have, so we used salt because the internet said so. Anyway, the stain came out and . . . wow, I’m afraid to even write it down, because that will make it real. She kissed me. Or maybe I kissed her. But she definitely kissed me back. Finally, after all these years, it happened. And it was good. Really, really good. Gentle at first, but then she was the one who took it to the next level, pushing into me. When her hands started to explore, I was the one who stopped it. Like an idiot. And now of course I can’t sleep. Idiots don’t deserve sleep. They deserve to replay the entire scene over and over again, knowing it would have gone further. Imagining what we’d be doing right now. Knowing she’s in the next room, wondering what she’s thinking?

Well, I just got up the nerve to open my door under the guise of trying to convince her one more time to sleep in the bed instead of the pullout. She’s out cold. Lucky woman. Will she even remember in the morning?

Lindsay noticed that Hope’s handwriting became more even as she wrote. She was sobering up.

Maybe she’ll tap on my door in the middle of the night and slip in beside me. Or maybe in the morning, she’ll tell me that tonight was what she’d been wanting to do for years, too. But if I had to guess?She’ll laugh it off and blame the booze, and I’ll just play along like it’s mutual. And that is why I pulled away and ran to my dresser for a clean shirt, saying I was drunk and tired and needed aspirin, water, and sleep. The way she makes me feel scares me. And most of all, I don’t want to lose her. That’s what it comes down to. I’m that contestant on Deal or No Deal who’d rather keep the suitcase they have than go for the cool mil.

The base of Lindsay’s stomach began to burn. She felt like she was back on that pullout sofa again, nearly shaking at the possibility that Hope might reappear from the bedroom. When she finally did, Lindsay pretended to be asleep, faking deep, loud breaths even as her heart raced. And in the morning, she did exactly what Hope had predicted—brushed it off with a joke. “Wow, I guess there really is such a thing as too much tequila. Sorry about that.”

The truth was that Lindsay had wanted it to go further. How many times had Scott—and other men before him—complained that she seemed most attentive, mosthappy, when she was with her best friend? If someone were to poll the handful of Lindsay’s past boyfriends, the results would be unanimous: they were always second to Hope for Lindsay’s affections. While Hope was always welcome to crash a couple’s night, or even entire vacations, Lindsay and Hope protected their girls’ nights like the most sacred ceremonies of a secret society. Lindsay always defended herself by saying that female friendships were simply different, and it was clingy for men to compare themselves to their girlfriend’s girlfriends. But then that night happened, and the truth was undeniable. Lindsay loved Hope more than she’d ever love anyone else.

But when they had the chance to see if they might be something other than best friends, Lindsay let the moment slip by. She knew Hope feared she could never be in a serious relationship until she knew the truth about her own past, not to mention the anxiety she had describedover physical intimacy. Better not to ruin a good thing, Lindsay told herself at the time.

Or, Lindsay thought now, I was too chickenshit to deal with the truth about the feelings I kept trying to deny.

She was clutching Hope’s journal to her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks, when her phone rang. It was Scott. She almost let it go to voice mail, but that felt like another betrayal.

“Hey,” she said, wiping her face dry with the palm of her free hand.

“You need to turn on the news. Now. New York One.”

Lindsay hopped up from the floor and scrambled for the remote control in the living room. “Wait, there’s no New York One here.”

“Well, find the Long Island equivalent. If it’s running in the city, it’s got to be on there.”

“Damn it, there’s no cable. What’s going on?”

“It’s about Hope. Lindsay, it’s really bad.”

“Scott, you’re killing me. Just tell me.”

“They found a dead body in the water, and now they’re looking for Hope.”

She sucked in her breath. “So she’s dead.”

“That’s not what it sounded like to me. Shit, Lindsay, I gotta go. I saw the story in the break room, but they’re yelling at me to get back to the conference room for this closing. I’m really sorry though, okay?”

“Sorry about what?

“Just find the press conference online.”

She opened her laptop browser on the coffee table, typed in “Hope Miller East Hampton,” and hit enter. There was a video posted by the Long Island ABC affiliate twelve minutes earlier. Lindsay clicked on the link, and a young male correspondent standing outside the Suffolk County Police Department appeared on the screen.

“At a press conference held in Islip this afternoon, Suffolk County’s Homicide Squad, working with East Hampton TownPolice, announced that a death that had been widely rumored to be an accidental drowning has, in fact, been ruled a homicide. Thirty-six-year-old Alex Lopez’s body was pulled from the water near Star Island at the eastern end of Suffolk County early yesterday morning. His pickup truck was found in a public parking lot in Montauk, not far from the docks where Lopez operated a fishing tour operation. Though investigators released no official statement regarding Mr. Lopez’s cause of death until today, news of the discovery of his body spread quickly in the bustling Hamptons. On the heels of two other drownings already in this very early summer, it appeared likely that Mr. Lopez’s death was yet another warning about the potential dangers of unusually rough ocean waves this year.

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