Vegas. She thought it must be malfunctioning. She checked the display: seventeen text messages, nine voicemails. From whom? Well, five of the text messages and three of the voicemails were from Jake. The text messages said: Need 2 talk 2 u, Can I come see u?, Pls call me, Need 2 talk 2 u, Coming over now.
Right.
The other text messages were mostly from other people in Demeter’s class—Claire Buckley and Annabel Wright and Winnie Potts and Tracy Loom, Patrick’s younger sister—and then there were two texts apiece from Demeter’s two brothers, Mark, who was doing an internship with Deutsche Bank in New York City, and Billy, who was in England studying at the London School of Economics. Demeter scrolled through the texts: Claire and Annabel and Winnie had wanted her to come to the vigil that was held the day before, they had wanted her to
speak
at the vigil—and the others wanted to see if Demeter was okay, which was a euphemism for asking,
What the hell happened?
The voicemails, she supposed, were more of the same—people asking how she was,offering thoughts and prayers, people wanting to get close to her
now,
to claim a connection with her
now,
because she was, well, a
celebrity
of sorts. She had been in the car when Penny died and Hobby sank into a coma. It was likely that everyone knew that Demeter had been in possession of a bottle of Jim Beam that was found by the police—and what would they all make of that? Demeter had wondered if she would be blamed for the accident, but people knew that Penny had been driving, and Penny had, of course, been sober. So the fact that Demeter and the boys had been drinking alcohol that Demeter provided was just a sidebar. It was a given. After all, it was
graduation night,
and every single person who was out that night had been drinking, except Penny.
So there remained the mystery:
What happened?
Demeter’s phone buzzed in her hand. She was confused until she realized that a text was coming in at that very moment. She checked: it was from Jake. It said, R u awake?
Demeter was spooked. It was as if he could see her, but of course he couldn’t see her, she was walking down a deserted dirt road toward the ocean.
It occurred to her to ask him to meet her there.
Bad idea. She didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust anyone.
The Alistair house wasn’t a real house. It was a summer cottage that Zoe had done a middling job of winterizing. It sat on the bluff overlooking Miacomet Beach, which made it a great place to live in the summer. It had a wide deck and a huge outdoor shower and a staircase down to the beach. There were sliding glass doors off the great room, and the whole place would be filled with light and the smell of Zoe’s cooking. But in the winter, the doors rattled in the wind. Demeter’s father sent someone over every year to help Zoe shrink-wrap them in plastic. Zoe kept the woodstove burning, but the house was always cold. The cottage consisted of two parts. The great room was the public part, living room, diningroom, and kitchen, with a powder room. The private part was the three bedrooms—Hobby’s, Penny’s, and Zoe’s—and a full bath that the three of them shared. Demeter had slept over at the cottage numerous times as a child and had felt uncomfortable sharing a bathroom with an adult. At her house, her parents had a suite, she had a suite, and her brothers had the whole third floor to themselves. She couldn’t imagine using the same toilet as her mother—and yet that was what Penny did, every single day. In later years Penny had talked about sharing makeup and tampons and toothpaste with her mother, and she’d talked about how Hobby stank up the bathroom in the mornings, and Demeter had shuddered, while at the same time experiencing awe and wonder at how closely the three of them coexisted. It seemed indecent somehow. Demeter had once asked her mother if the Alistairs were poor, and Lynne had laughed and said, “Heavens, no! Beachfront property?
Right.
The other text messages were mostly from other people in Demeter’s class—Claire Buckley and Annabel Wright and Winnie Potts and Tracy Loom, Patrick’s younger sister—and then there were two texts apiece from Demeter’s two brothers, Mark, who was doing an internship with Deutsche Bank in New York City, and Billy, who was in England studying at the London School of Economics. Demeter scrolled through the texts: Claire and Annabel and Winnie had wanted her to come to the vigil that was held the day before, they had wanted her to
speak
at the vigil—and the others wanted to see if Demeter was okay, which was a euphemism for asking,
What the hell happened?
The voicemails, she supposed, were more of the same—people asking how she was,offering thoughts and prayers, people wanting to get close to her
now,
to claim a connection with her
now,
because she was, well, a
celebrity
of sorts. She had been in the car when Penny died and Hobby sank into a coma. It was likely that everyone knew that Demeter had been in possession of a bottle of Jim Beam that was found by the police—and what would they all make of that? Demeter had wondered if she would be blamed for the accident, but people knew that Penny had been driving, and Penny had, of course, been sober. So the fact that Demeter and the boys had been drinking alcohol that Demeter provided was just a sidebar. It was a given. After all, it was
graduation night,
and every single person who was out that night had been drinking, except Penny.
So there remained the mystery:
What happened?
Demeter’s phone buzzed in her hand. She was confused until she realized that a text was coming in at that very moment. She checked: it was from Jake. It said, R u awake?
Demeter was spooked. It was as if he could see her, but of course he couldn’t see her, she was walking down a deserted dirt road toward the ocean.
It occurred to her to ask him to meet her there.
Bad idea. She didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust anyone.
The Alistair house wasn’t a real house. It was a summer cottage that Zoe had done a middling job of winterizing. It sat on the bluff overlooking Miacomet Beach, which made it a great place to live in the summer. It had a wide deck and a huge outdoor shower and a staircase down to the beach. There were sliding glass doors off the great room, and the whole place would be filled with light and the smell of Zoe’s cooking. But in the winter, the doors rattled in the wind. Demeter’s father sent someone over every year to help Zoe shrink-wrap them in plastic. Zoe kept the woodstove burning, but the house was always cold. The cottage consisted of two parts. The great room was the public part, living room, diningroom, and kitchen, with a powder room. The private part was the three bedrooms—Hobby’s, Penny’s, and Zoe’s—and a full bath that the three of them shared. Demeter had slept over at the cottage numerous times as a child and had felt uncomfortable sharing a bathroom with an adult. At her house, her parents had a suite, she had a suite, and her brothers had the whole third floor to themselves. She couldn’t imagine using the same toilet as her mother—and yet that was what Penny did, every single day. In later years Penny had talked about sharing makeup and tampons and toothpaste with her mother, and she’d talked about how Hobby stank up the bathroom in the mornings, and Demeter had shuddered, while at the same time experiencing awe and wonder at how closely the three of them coexisted. It seemed indecent somehow. Demeter had once asked her mother if the Alistairs were poor, and Lynne had laughed and said, “Heavens, no! Beachfront property?
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