Chapter 6
Kate
Poor, dumpy Kate Miller, catwalk dreams destroyed by a growth spurt that never quite happened! But you can still have that modeling career: ten days from now, you’ll insist on walking the runway in your own New York show. Furthermore, you’ll push one of the models off the stage in a fit of drunken pique. Don’t believe me? Check 2.txt.
Walk in my own show—right. And in New York! This has to be a joke. A weird one, and kind of a cruel one, given the circumstances, but maybe it was sent before Dev...before the tragedy.
I take a long swallow of coffee and open the second file. The sweetness of hazelnut creamer turns bitter on my tongue. My scalp prickles. It isn’t. It can’t be. In an instant, I’m eighteen again, sweating through my wedding dress. This can’t be happening.
I grab for the FedEx pouch: nothing. No address. No customs seal. Nothing to indicate it was mailed at all. I rush to the intercom, dressing-gown flapping. The doorman picks up on the first buzz.
“Miss Miller?”
“The FedEx package that came this morning—who left that?”
There’s a long pause on the other end. “Ah...the FedEx man?”
“The usual one?”
“Afraid I couldn’t say. Walters signed for it. Is there a problem?”
“There’s....” I frown. This isn’t the sort of problem I should be bruiting about the building. “Nothing. A bit squished, is all. Thanks, Clarke.”
“Good day, Miss Miller.”
Good day. Not so far. I stalk back to my desk, tense and wary. My laptop’s still standing open. The glowing apple looks less friendly than usual. Eerie, in the gray light of dawn. I close my eyes as I sink into my chair, delaying the inevitable.
The horror’s still there when I open them.
KATE MILLER
07/11/2017 – 30/12/2017 – Catfished six men on Tinder, using picture of former assistant. Made and broke at least three dates with each, using accidents, hospitalizations, and dead relatives (all fake) as excuses.
02/03/2017 – Stole £4,800 necklace from Boodles at the Savoy.
01/01/2017 – Left scathing anonymous review of—
I shriek and scroll down. Who could possibly... I never even wore that necklace. I’d have returned it, if I thought I could manage it without getting arrested. And the Tinder thing... That was stupid. Reckless. Private. Everything on here, it’s—it’s all my secrets, in reverse chronological order. Everything no one can know, and someone does.
Just like before.
“No, no, no....” I want to scream. Throw my coffee. Beat my brains out on my keyboard. But I swallow the lump in my throat and keep scrolling—past the time I got drunk and hacked Max’s e-mail, past my humiliating attempt to lose my virginity at the Glastonbury Festival, my 2013 tax fiasco—that was a mistake! And I already paid the fine!
And there, at the bottom of the list—impossible, but I’m looking right at it: 08/08/2007 – Killed Matt Danbury.
“I did not.”
But I did. We all did, sort of.
This isn’t a joke. It’s happening again. Ten years later—it’s not fair. Rebuilding from the ground up was hard enough at eighteen. At twenty-eight—
Someone’s pounding at the door. Has been for a while. Got to be Wes. He’s the only one Clarke lets up unannounced.
“Kate? You there?”
“Coming!” I tie my belt more securely around my waist. I have the worst kind of feeling about this. It’s not too late: I could grab my coat and purse, run down the fire escape, and be in Morocco by nightfall. Get myself a new identity. Watch my old life burn to the ground. Again.
“Kate! Open up!”
Or...I could open up.
Wes staggers in, half-drunk and brandishing a flash drive. “Did you get—” He’s hoarse, gulping like he might be sick. “Did you get one of these?”
Him too, this time? What the fuck? I nod—no point denying it.
Wes shrugs out of his coat. One arm sticks in the sleeve. “Shit. What—what is this? I don’t—I don’t....” He stands with his coat hanging off his arm, collar trailing on the floor.
“Hey. Hey—come on. Sit down.” I guide him to the couch. He’s clammy, palm slick with sweat. He sits down and immediately bounces back up. He’s full of nervous energy, pacing around the coffee table.
One of us needs to stay calm. I drag in a deep breath, and another. “When’d you get yours?”
“This morning.” He stifles a hiccup. “I woke up, and there it was. Sticking out of the mail slot. Between a pizza coupon and the electric bill. Almost threw it out.” He finally liberates himself from his coat. “Did you...have you read yours?”
“Yeah. It was.... A lot like yours, if the look on your face is anything to go by.“ I slam my laptop shut before he can sneak a peek. “What did yours say?”
“It, uh....” He swallows with an audible click. “I’d rather not say. D’you think Dev...do you suppose—?”
Obviously. I gulp my coffee: stone cold. What secrets could Dev have had, besides Matt Danbury? His whole life was public.
“Kate?”
“I don’t know. Probably?” I need time to think. “Who’d know all this stuff? Don’t know about yours, but there’s things on mine I never told anyone. Not even my diary.”
“Mine, too.” Leather creaks as Wes collapses in my chair, too close to my laptop. He’s staring at it, distracted.
“We should—”
Wes groans, a drawn-out, miserable sound. “I’m fucked. So fucked.”
Join the club. “I think we need to call....” Max. “We need to call the others. Compare notes.”
“Yeah. Actually, I—ugh. ‘Scuse me.” Wes makes a gagging sound, so visceral my own throat closes up, and bolts for the bathroom. I yank the flash drive out of my laptop and drop it in my pocket. My phone’s vibrating on the kitchen counter. Nine text alerts already: Carson, Rachel, Kyle...not Max. All vague. All panicked.
Wes comes up behind me, wiping at his mouth. “Sorry about that. You got some water, or...?”
I point him at the fridge. “I think we need to go to New York.”
He goes still, hand on the counter. “Seriously?”
“Rachel and Kyle are flying in from DC. Carson’s already there, and....” And so’s Max. “And everyone’s meeting in two days’ time. We should be there. For Dev, if nothing else.”
“I’ll get us a couple of tickets.” Wes is already tapping away at his phone. I turn mine over to hide the text alerts still pouring in. Not sure I could take seeing Max’s name pop up...or not pop up.
This is going to be hell.