What Remains of Me by Alison Gaylin Page A

called it a “friendship,” not an affair. And no matter how tender their meetings were, they never held each other after. They lay on their backs, the two of them, gazing at the bleached ceiling of Rocky’s pristine bedroom, his hand covering hers in a way that felt more protective than affectionate—and all of it so right to Kelly, so familiar in that way she dared not voice. Like years ago . Like going back in time .
    â€œI lied to you, Rocky,” she said.
    He turned. She felt his crystalline eyes on her, his face close to hers, the warmth of his breath. “About what?”
    Kelly kept her eyes on the ceiling. “Earlier, when I said detectives don’t scare me.”
    â€œThey do?”
    â€œThat detective did. I didn’t act like it, but he scared me a lot.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhat he could do to me,” she said.
    â€œWhat could he—”
    â€œI don’t want to go back to Carpentia. I mean it, Rocky. I’d rather die.”
    â€œKelly.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œLook at me.”
    She turned to face him, this painted creature. The sheet had fallen from his chest, and she brushed her hand against him, traced the outline of the diamond-scaled fish that swam over his heart. They glistened silver—the scales. Something she’d never noticed. That was Rocky. His skin. Always something to discover in it.
    â€œLook at me,” he said again. “Look into my eyes.”
    She didn’t want to. It always choked her up to look directly into his eyes. Like going back in time. But he’d asked and so she did—her gaze moving up from the eye on his throat, through those creeping vine tattoos crisscrossing his cheeks, curling around his thin, saintlike lips. So much pain he’d gone through, just to look different from the way he used to look, however that had been. She couldn’t imagine him without the tattoos, though sometimes she wanted to . . .
    â€œMy eyes, Kelly.” He said it just as she made it there, into that bright, sad blue.
    â€œIf I ask you a question, will you tell me the truth?”
    â€œYes,” she whispered.
    â€œWere you at Sterling Marshall’s house last night?”
    She swallowed hard. “Yes.”
    â€œDid you kill him?”
    â€œDoes it matter?” she said. “Would it matter to them ?”
    He brought his hand up to her cheek, brushed away a tear she hadn’t realized was there. “I don’t know,” he said. “Probably not.”

CHAPTER 9
    W hen Kelly Lund was found guilty of second-degree murder, Detective Barry Dupree was seven years old. Trials weren’t televised back then, but there’d been courtroom sketches on the news. Barry had vague memories of those sketches on the TV screen in the kitchen, his parents pointing out all the movie stars testifying. He could recall how flat and dull they’d all looked to him, so much less colorful than the drawings in his comic books, or even real life.
    But what Barry remembered most about the trial—what everybody remembered most—was that photograph of Kelly Lund standing outside the courthouse, just after she’d been sentenced.
    What a photo. If Barry closed his eyes, he could still see it—the dead eyes, the shadows playing across that pretty but vacant face and the smile, that smile . The way it jumped out at you. The way it bit.
    It had first appeared on the cover of the Los Angeles Times, and Barry’s older brother Chris had grabbed it off the kitchen table when their parents weren’t around. He’d made the photo dance in front of Barry’s face, holding it soclose he could smell the newsprint, Chris chanting at Barry in his cracking adolescent voice, One, two, Kelly’s coming for you. Three, four, better lock your door . . .
    At the time, Barry had no idea Chris had ripped that off from A Nightmare on Elm Street, but Kelly Lund’s face haunted him in a way