Page 68 of The Writer

“Is that what you think I’ve been doing?”

“You certainly don’t act like you’re in mourning. I mean, look at you now. All dolled up and ready for fun. Sleeping around with other people’s husbands. You’ve got your big smiling face on a billboard on the interstate. Even when your engagement implodes, you land on your feet like nothing happened.”

“That’s because I’m resilient. When life gets hard, I find a way through because that’s the only way. It doesn’t mean I’m not hurting about Layla and Thomas and all of it.” She’s standingnow, a splotch of red climbing her neck as her anger builds. “What’s the other option? Just totally give up, like you’ve done?”

“I’m not giving up?—”

“Then whatareyou doing? You quit college after she died. You’ve not been able to hold down a job. You say you want to be a writer, but that isn’t going anywhere. If you’re not pining for the past, you’re consumed by these fake stories in your head. You’re living in these worlds that don’t exist because that’s easier than moving on.”

As eager as I am to respond, I know part of what she’s saying is true. The argument between myself and Crystal goes much deeper than accusing her of messing with me. Our history has bound us to one another, and yet makes us resentful at the same time. No one will ever understand the guilt we carry from that night and seeing each other is a constant reminder.

“You’re the only person in my life now who knew me back then,” I say. “Who else could it be?”

“I already told you,” she says. “Layla’s parents.”

“I talked to Layla’s parents! Her mom, anyway. She said it wasn’t her.”

“And you believe her over me?” She laughs cruelly. “This is outrageous.”

“We were the only ones there that night?—”

“That’s not true! There was an entire bar full of people.”

“Everything that’s happened in the past two weeks has been directed at me, not you,” I say. “Besides, if someone else was there that night, they’d surely blame you over me.”

Her posture straightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You were the one who was drunk. If you’d been able to take care of yourself, we wouldn’t have had to leave in the first place.”

It’s a weak argument. A cruel one. I know it as soon as the words leave my lips, especially because I still hold so much blame against myself, but I’m wounded at the idea of my friendbeing my tormentor. All this time I’ve been investigating people I barely know, it might be the person who knows me best behind it all.

“I can’t believe you’d say that to me.” The anger in her tone is gone, replaced with sadness. “I’ve always figured you felt that way, but I can’t believe you actually said it. You chose to leave with me. You could have stayed behind.”

“I was trying to take care of you.”

“You needed to take care of Layla!” The anger returns in full force. “Would you like to know what I’ve been holding in for the past ten years? My disgust that you knew what Michael was capable of, but you still left her behind.”

Of course, it had all come out in the investigation, as soon as Michael Massey was named a suspect. They brought us his name, his picture, wanted to know if we had ever seen him before. I’d told the truth. That I thought he’d tried to attack me once, and that I’d warned Layla about him that night, but she didn’t believe me.

“I tried to protect Layla,” I say.

“You fought with her and left. If you really thought he was a threat, nothing should have made you leave. Especially not me.”

“I told her he was dangerous.”

“Did you tell her he attacked you?” We wait in silence, for an answer we both know isn’t coming. “You didn’t. You didn’t tell us about it even when it happened. You should have been more forceful, Becca. Even in the middle of a disagreement, Layla would have believed you if you told her he attacked you.”

“I tried. I just couldn’t!”

“When it comes to me, you’re right about a lot of things. I was reckless and selfish. Just a normal college kid. But at least I had the courage to stand my ground. You didn’t, and Layla died because of it.”

“You don’t mean that,” I say under my breath, turning so she can’t see my face. I wonder whether these are just vicious insults she’s hurling, or if she actually believes what she’s saying. I wonder if she’s right. If that’s what has really been torturing me all these years. My weakness. If I’d been honest about what Michael tried to do to me—the way I was to the police after her death, the way I was last week with Victoria—maybe none of this would have happened. I’d kept the secret, but why? To protect him? To protect some image I had of myself? Whatever the reason, it left Layla defenseless, and she paid the price for all our faults.

Crystal stomps into her room, coming out seconds later with a bag over her shoulder. “I’m crashing at a friend’s place for the night. I’ll be out of here by next week.”

“Crystal, no. I don’t?—”

“You just accused me of stalking you,” she says. “You’d be crazy to still want me here.”

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