The words lodge in my brain as thick saliva blocks my throat.
“Normally, we would request to question you via Zoom. It is not ideal, of course, but it does prove quite convenient for international investigations. However, we heard from Ms. Johnson that she and several others from your study abroad program will be back in Sydney next week. If you will also be here, we would strongly prefer to interview you in person.”
Amidst the panic, worries swarm like the ubiquitous flies back in Jagged Rock: all the ways I could trip up on a Zoom interview, how suspicious it would seem to the police if I was the only one of our friend group not to return.
“Ms. Whitlock?” Sawkins prompts down the line. “I’m sure you can understand how important this is. The file indicates you were Ms. Barton’s closest friend and roommate during the program. We would really like a chance to speak with you in person about anything you may have remembered over the years.”
I run through my potential options for declining before considering the holes Sawkins could poke in each one. Work conflict … but what could possibly be so important in my role as a receptionist to take priority over this? The cost … but Kyan’s already offered to pay. Any excuse I use would only prompt more questions, more suspicion.
And then the memory pricks at me.
The wooden handle of the knife heavy in my hand, the sharp curve of the blade.
I left loose ends, evidence that could implicate me. I know I did. And if someone is smart enough, if they know just where to look, what questions to ask, they’ll figure out what I did.
But not if I work this exactly right. If I point them in another direction, away from my guilt. If I prevent them from discovering the truth.
And I can only do that in person.
“Fine,” I say to Sawkins, the word escaping my mouth before my brain processes the implications. “I’ll come back.”
4
Phoebe
Then
The sound of knuckles brushing hesitantly against wood comes a moment before the door to my new shared dorm room eases open.
“You don’t have to knock,” I say, as Claire walks over the threshold, water droplets left from the shower dampening the shoulders of her T-shirt, her wet hair slicked back into a ponytail. “This is your room too.”
Her cheeks flush as she busies herself rearranging her suitcase. I’ve noticed she hasn’t unpacked a single object other than the ones she used in the shower, as if cautious not to leave her mark on the room. My eyes flick back to my bed, the week’s worth of outfits I’ve strewn over the scratchy comforter as I tried to settle on the best option for tonight.
“I wasn’t sure if you were doing something. I just figured I’d let you know,” Claire mumbles down towards the floor. When she looksup at me, her eyes widen, taking in my silhouette in the cheap mirror affixed to our cinder-block wall and the outfit I’ve carefully curated: a skirt that falls just below my waistline, showing off my protruding hip bones, the white tank top hovering a few inches above it, the Tory Burch sandals strapped to my feet. “Wow,” she breathes. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks,” I say, seeming to shrug off the compliment, but it buries in my heart. I glance over at her, taking in her wet hair, her baggy T-shirt, the flannel pajama pants.
“Uh-uh,” I say, “what is this? Why are you dressed for bed?”
“I’m so tired,” she says. “I didn’t get much sleep on the flight and—”
I wave away her explanation. “Nope, I won’t hear it. We’re only here for a month. We need to make the most of it. The campus bar is open until ten. I figured we could stop there first.”
Claire looks like she’s considering protesting, but then changes her mind. “Okay, just give me a minute to get ready,” she says, pulling on a pair of baggy jean shorts.
“Wait,” I order, tossing her a discarded sundress from my bed. “This will look great on you.”
***
Twenty minutes later, we’re ready to go. As soon as we throw open the door to our building and emerge into the shared courtyard, the early evening heat descends like a stage curtain. Sweat pricks my underarms, but I relish it, thinking of how early it’s been gettingdark back in Atlanta.
We stroll through campus; narrow walkways weave around man-made ponds, small purple flowers littering them, dropped from the perfectly landscaped jacaranda trees that seem to be everywhere. It’s gorgeous, that’s for sure, but it’s also…empty. We don’t pass another person the entire fifteen-minute walk to the campus center. Exams must be over by now, I realize, the students all returned home for the summer break. Concern bubbles in my stomach. If campus is this empty, I can’t imagine the bar will be much better.
The student center is only marginally livelier. Stores line the hallways—a travel agency, a pharmacy, even a salon—until the building opens up into a food court–style cafeteria. Most of the stores are closed, but I spot an “open” sign outside one at the far end of the hallway. It looks like a convenience store from here. I grab Claire’s hand and guide her that way.
“Come on, there’s something we should do.”
Ten minutes later, we exit the store, each equipped with the type of black Motorola flip phone that was in fashion five years ago. In the dozens of pre-trip emails sent from Adventure Abroad, the coordinators advised us to buy new cell phones for our time in Australia, as the ones we used back home wouldn’t have service. I had planned to splurge for an iPhone, but upon seeing Claire blanch at the price tag, I decided not to embarrass her.
