Page 77 of High Season
But then, when Josie’s house gets searched, the police actually find some stuff that Josie claims tells a very different story. Gifts that she says were given to her by Tamara Drayton. In fact, Josie says that she and Tamara were actually friends. Had been for years. And the jury is out on what is going on here—is Josie trying to suggest some kind of preexisting relationship as a reason why she couldn’t possibly have killed Tamara? Or is she telling the truth, and the two women were actually a lot closer than people suspected? And if they were, then why the secrecy? Why did nobody else believe that the two of them were friends? Does this protect Josie, or does it give her some kind of motive for murder?
OK, guys, I could talk about these forever—and believe me, there is so much more to this than meets the eye. Because you real true crime addicts will know that this isn’t the only interesting thing about Josie and Tamara’s relationship. But guys, I’m going to have to make a separate video about this, because I’m running out of time. Like and comment if you’d like a part two on these deep dives into the night of Tamara Drayton’s death, because there’ssomuch other stuff I have to tell you guys!
EllieBelly: Can’t believe that I’ve never heard about the stolen car before?! That shit crayyyy.
Murderhouse790: How did Harrison Andreas never get charged!?
Victim_987: You can’t just leave us hanging like that. Like, were these two friends or not!?
ClaraKensleysMom: This is the case that never stops giving.
TWENTY-FIVE
2004
ONE WEEK BEFORE THE BIRTHDAY PARTY
Tamara met Josie Jackson when she was twelve.
It was the second summer that Josie had lived on the Côte d’Azur, and the first summer that Tamara had been without Blake. He had gone to the Amalfi Coast to stay with their dad, a trip that Tamara had been uninvited from after fighting viciously with her stepmother during their obligatory Christmas visit to Italy.
With Blake gone, Tamara found that all the clichés about twins were true. She felt like half a person. Like her left arm or right leg was missing. That her thoughts went unfinished, trailing off where her brother was supposed to pick them up.
Tamara spent that summer at the pink house, roaming its vast rooms, sitting alone on the edge of the pool, wishing that she had controlled herself around Flora. That she had been better, somehow; more like Blake. Instead, she had been the bad twin again.
She started to sneak out. Late at night at first and then earlier and earlier in the day. She was surprised to find that Evelyn didn’t seem to notice—or perhaps simply didn’t care. Tamara would go down to the beach alone, or to one of the cafés that sold fresh fruit juice and ice cream. She watched the local children playing in the sea, unafraid of the waves and the tides.
Tamara never went into the sea herself. She had always been a little bit afraid of water, the legacy of a mother who was baffled by the idea of ferrying her children to swimming classes or spending afternoons supervising them at the pool. Despite spending every summer of her life at the pink house, Tamara was not a strong swimmer.
That was how she first met Josie Jackson.
Tamara was sitting alone on the beach, her legs drawn up to her chest, watching the other kids play in the sea. Watching one girl in particular: sinewy and small, her dark hair bunched back into a ponytail, her swimming costume slightly too large for her. There was a small floating platform, and Tamara watched as the girl clambered onto it before diving into the water over and over again, her body a tight, soaring arc before it disappeared beneath the waves.
After a while, the girl seemed to notice Tamara watching. Her dives became higher, more performative. Tuck jumps and twists. Tamara looked away, embarrassed that she’d been caught staring. She pretended to be watching a swarm of surfers disappointed by the flatness of the waves instead.
“Aren’t you going in the water?”
The girl had crept up without Tamara spotting her, her voice making Tamara jump. She dropped down onto the sand, hair still dripping wet. Tamara’s arms tightened around her knees.
“I…” She hesitated. “No. I don’t really like going in the sea.”
“You must be a tourist.”
The girl said the word with a kind of smugness. A sense of belonging here, even though Tamara would later learn that she’d only been living in France for a little over a year.
“No, actually.” Tamara felt her chin stick up at this. “We own the pink house? Up on the hill?”
There was an authority to it.
“I’m Tamara Drayton.”
She was used to people recognizing the name. She was already accustomed to the raise of eyebrows, the impressed way they would say, “Not one oftheDraytons?”
“Oh yeah,” the girl had said, as if it was nothing. “My mum just interviewed for a job there. I’m Josie, by the way.”
She reached her hand down, idly tracing shapes in the sand.
“So how come you don’t like the sea?” she said.
