Page 71 of Between Two Strangers

In the past decade, I’ve told no one except Lucas about losing my sister, and I wait for a wave of regret to hit me, but it never materializes. In fact, I feel calmed by having shared this with Mikoto. Maybe I should have continued with grief counseling back then, at the very least unloaded to the friends I had, but for me the sorrow wasmoreintense when I gave it words, not less. So I mostly kept my mouth shut and, over many years, learned to chase most thoughts about Chloe away.

Of course, it’s certainly hard to keep them at bay now. This whole nightmare around the trust has dredged up the past, forced me to remember not only the night with C.J. but also what it was like to wake the next morning and realize with a surge of panic that Chloe might not be okay.

I think about what Mikoto said, about life being strange, about the bizarreness of the coincidence. I met the man who would eventually leave me three and half million dollars the same weekend my sister died. It’s as if I can trace everything significant about who I am right now to a single weekend in Boston.

My eyelids shoot open, and a chill races through me. After struggling to rise, I cross the small room to the table and stare at the collage.

What if there’s nothing coincidental about it after all? What if the two most momentous experiences of my life didn’t simply overlap in terms of timing? What if, in some horrible way, C.J. was connected to Chloe’s death? Is it at all possible that he’d been at the party in Dover that night, but I never knew it?

34

Now

FOR THE LONGEST TIME I JUST LIE ON THE COUCH NEXT TO TUNA,overwhelmed by the thought I’ve had. I keep telling myself that it’s improbable that there’s a connection between Chloe and C.J., that he couldn’t have been at the party, let alone have killed her. The only common denominator between the two of them—at least the only apparent one—was me.

And yet it’s just as improbable, I’m finally beginning to see, that the two events that have altered my life indelibly, the death of my sister and a hookup that might end up making me rich, occurred within a single day of each other but are completely unrelated.

From the moment Kane broke the news to me about the trust, I’ve been drumming up all sorts of possible explanations for C.J.’s choosing me as his beneficiary—he’d fancied himself as a patron of the arts; he’d never been able to get me out of his head; he was exacting revenge on his unfaithful wife; he was grateful I’d been a good secret keeper. But at the end of the day, none of those reasons have added up to three and a half million dollars. When you start talking about life and death, however, a big payout suddenly makes sense.

And yet C.J. wasn’t even in Boston the night Chloe died, I don’t think. He arrived in town late Saturday afternoon, the day after the party. Because when I first set eyes on him, he was checking into the Kensington.

My old friend Tess’s face floats ghostlike across my mind again. I can see her wavy, bright red hair and olive-colored eyes, and even the subtle but mischievous grin she flashed as she handed me the key card to my room at the hotel. She’d tried so hard to comfort me about Chloe’s death—calling every day, delivering muffins and milkshakes to my apartment, urging me not to drop out of BU, but I’d rebuffed all her efforts. The last time we spoke was twelve years ago, the day I packed my car to leave Boston, and though she tried to keep in touch, I’d let her calls go to voice mail and never even listened to the messages.

Should I call her now? I wonder. Is there something of value she could tell me? Because of the nightmare that unfolded that weekend, I’d never gotten around to sharing what had transpired at the hotel, the way I would have under other circumstances. But even if I had, it feels so unlikely she’d remember anything about C.J. from that day at reception.

Another question asserts itself, raising the hair on the back of my neck. What if hehadn’tbeen checking in when I first spotted him? What if he’d actually been staying at the hotel for a few days and was only at reception with a question about his bill or to change rooms? But no: though my memory may be faint in places, I can still see him with his roller bag in the lobby, pulling it behind him as he advanced to the desk.

Of course, just because it was C.J.’s first night at the Kensington doesn’t mean it was his first night inBoston. He could have been staying elsewhere and then decided to relocate, which would make sense if he’d done something horrible and wanted to reduce his exposure by switching hotels.

It’s still not making any sense, though. Even if he’d been in Boston earlier in the week, it’s highly unlikely he was at Jamie’s on Friday night. Yes, the house was overflowing with party crashers as well as invited guests, but because of his age and his debonair vibe, C.J. would have stuck out like a sore thumb, and I would have recognized him the very next night.

And beyond that, it’s impossible for me to believe he pushed Chloe over the edge of the ravine twenty-four hours before going to bed with me. He’d seemed fairly relaxed Saturday night, at ease in his own skin. Though I’ve read that psychopaths can be emotionless and unremorseful, nothing I’ve learned about C.J.—so far at least—suggests he was one.

I finally summon the psychic energy to make myself a cup of tea before returning with my mug to Tuna and the couch. I try to abandon the idea of a connection between C.J. and Chloe—but my racing pulse and roiling stomach won’t let me. So what do I do?

Another long-ago name flutters into my mind: Dan Lui, the boyfriend of Jamie’s brother, Rob. Dan had helped in the search of the property and had comforted me when we found Chloe at the base of the ravine. I’d been a little wary of him that day, and even more so of Jamie and Rob, wondering if one or all of them was harboring a secret. But the police soon determined that all three had been at the party the whole time, and I realized that their awkwardness on Sunday reflected their fears over how Jamie and Rob’s parents would react.

Jamie and I had quickly drifted apart, but oddly Dan and I became close for a bit. He regularly called and texted me, checking in to see how I was. He shared that when he was only eleven, he’d lost an older sibling in a car crash, and he knew a little about what I was going through, which gave me hope that one day, like him, I’d be okay. I cried my eyes out to him over the phone, able to let go with him in a way I hadn’t been able to do with Tess, perhaps due to ourcommon bond. Within a few months, however, I stopped returning his calls, too.

Though we haven’t spoken in more than a decade, I know he’s still in Boston, an anesthesiologist working and teaching at Mass General, with a husband who is also an MD. Because once in a while when I let down my guard and become consumed with thoughts about Chloe, I head down various rabbit holes online, traveling over old ground, checking on some of the players from back then.

Without giving myself a chance to think too hard, I find his office number on the Mass General website and call it. A receptionist answers briskly and when I say I’m looking for Dr. Lui, she asks if I’m a patient.

“No, but I’m an old friend. I was hoping I could speak to him if he has a free moment.”

“I’m afraid he isn’t available right now, but I can give him a message.”

I recite my number with little hope. Because I can’t imagine Dan calling me back after so many years. But twenty-five minutes later, a Boston number appears on my phone.

“Skyler, wow, hello,” he says when I answer.

“Hey, Dan. Or should I say, Dr. Lui? Congratulations.”

He chuckles. “Thank you, though you probably shouldn’t congratulate me until I’ve paid off all my med school loans.... 917. That’s a New York City prefix, right?”

“Yeah, I moved here not long after I left Boston. But you’re still there, I see. Andmarried.”

“Yes, took the plunge a couple of years ago. He’s a dermatologist I met when I was a resident. What about you?”

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