Page 5 of High Season
The morning after the dinner party, Nina wakes to a pulse in the back of her head, an ache behind her eyes, the sour-mouthed dryness that accompanies a hangover. The room is dark, a benefit of the hideously expensive blackout blinds that Ryan had imported from Germany, but Nina can tell from the panicked feeling in her chest and the fact that Ryan’s side of the bed is empty that she has overslept.
She rolls over and fumbles on the bedside table for her phone. Instead, her hand knocks against a wineglass. Her memories from the night are blurred. Ryan getting annoyed when she failed to put a coaster down on the bedside table. Claire insisting that they do their go-to karaoke routine from their university days—“Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” by Elton John and Kiki Dee, with Claire usually ending up taking over both parts. Blake asking Nina again if she’d fly out with him tomorrow,One last chance, sis.And did Blake and Claireleavetogether? Nina manages to drag herself up to sit, wincing as she does.
Ryan is already in the kitchen dressed in a shirt and chinos, standing, even though there’s a barstool beside him. He’s religious with tracking everything from his screentime to his steps, and his latest endeavor is to spend at least eight hours per day on his feet. He doesn’t look up from his screen as Nina enters, his fingers tapping against the keypad.
“Morning, sleeping beauty,” he says cheerfully. “Or should I say afternoon?”
“What time is it?”
“Quarter past nine. There’s coffee in the pot if you want it.”
“Let me just brush my teeth first. I’m disgusting.”
“You left your phone out here, by the way,” he calls after her as she crosses into the hallway. “I put it on charge in the living room for you.”
“Thanks.”
Nina swipes her phone off the coffee table as she passes and locks the bathroom door behind her. She sits on the lowered toilet lid as she ignores the pile of notifications at the bottom of her screen to tap into her conversation with Claire.
I feel like shit this morning. Make me feel better and tell me you didn’t go home with my brother last night?
She stands to switch the shower on and leans against the sink, thumbing through messages that she missed last night while the water heats. A notification from Instagram; a newsletter from a psychology magazine she’s long subscribed to but almost never reads; an email sent at half eight this morning from her soon-to-be employer reminding her to read through her contract and let them know if she has any questions. Then, farther down, a subject line that makes her breath catch in her chest.
Tamara Drayton case: twentieth-anniversary documentary (interview request)
The room is hot, filling with steam. Nina has to wipe a film of moisture from her phone screen to make out the text. She has a sick, heavy feeling in her stomach as she scans the message, her eyes skimming too quickly to take much in.
Notorious murder case. Youngest-ever witness. Access to case files.
Before she knows what she’s doing, Nina is crouching on the bathroom floor, the tiles damp beneath her skin.
Renewed attention on case. Unreliable witness. Tragic death. Josie Jackson.
She’s lightheaded, her heart falling into beat with the hard drum of water against the ceramic shower stall. She has to close her eyes for a moment. Slow her breath. She tries to remember her exercises from therapy. A long, deep inhale through her nose. A slow exhale through her mouth. When she opens her eyes, the screen seems too bright. The words of the message stark. She scrolls back to the top of the email and reads the whole thing from start to finish, lingering over each word.
She reads the email through twice. Turns off the shower, and then reads it a third time. She only realizes that she’s clenching her jawwhen it begins to throb, a sharp pain that cuts through the dull ache of her hangover.
Give me some credit,Claire has responded.Solo taxi home for me. I actually feel OK. Maybe I’m still drunk?
Nina ignores the message. Finds her brother’s number.
What time’s your flight?she types.And is it too late for me to get a seat?
She presses send and then waits, her thumbs hovering above the keypad. Then, before her brother has a chance to open the message, she types out a second text.
We need to talk about Josie Jackson.
THREE
2004
SIX WEEKS BEFORE THE BIRTHDAY PARTY
On the day before high season began, Josie Jackson and Hannah Bailey broke into the Draytons’ swimming pool.
They slipped down the steps, away from the house and onto the broad, flat terrace that stretched out toward the sea. They peeled back the cover to reveal the water, newly cleaned and chemical. They snorted with laughter and hushed each other, even as they both squealed, dive-bombing into the deep end, scattering the quiet of the late-spring air.
They swam lengths as the sun set over the endless flat of the sea. They splashed each other, and saw who could hold their breath the longest. They did handstands, their feet sticking out of the water like flowers breaking through earth. Like they used to when they were children.
