I jerk upwards. We never intended to fall asleep. If Randy figures out we’re here, he’ll kill us. And then there’s the fact that the police will be coming soon to arrest me for murder. I glance out the window. No light has begun to creep in, so it must not yet be dawn.
Despite everything, I slept soundly, shuffling only once when I heard Declan get up, I suppose to use the restroom. I know we should leave, but when I turn over and see Declan, hands tucked under his head, his breath gently moving in and out, I realize it’s the calmest I’ve seen him this entire trip. Affection surges in my chest for this man I’ve been completely and totally in love with for the last decade. The one I pretended to be with whenever I was with Josh. I’ll let him sleep, just a few more minutes, while I get ready, Itell myself.
I gently stand from the side of the bed, planning to creep as silently as possible to the bathroom, in case Randy came back sometime in the night, but as I start tiptoeing in that direction, the pad of my foot steps on something, and it digs into my flesh. I stumble, sending the object skidding across the floor.
I swear under my breath, a pain throbbing in my foot. Looking down, I realize I stepped on Declan’s jeans. There must have been something hard in his pocket. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I grab the pants in my hand as I enter the bathroom, closing the door softly behind me. Before turning on the faucet, I dip my hand in the denim pocket, feeling something cold. It’s only when I turn on the overhead light that I know what I’m holding.
I stare in shock at the black phone in my hand. One of those old flip-phone models that we all purchased when we first moved to Australia because they were cheaper than buying a new SIM card.
But it’s not the phone itself that makes my blood run cold. It’s the small red jewel on its upper backside. I’ve only seen two phones like this in my life, and the one that belonged to me is somewhere at the bottom of discarded boxes in my apartment’s storage unit. I think back to that first day in Sydney ten years ago. Phoebe and I walking through the empty Hamilton student center, purchasing the phones. Phoebe affixing a blue jewel to mine, a red one to hers.
This’ll spice them up a little.
Declan has Phoebe’s phone. The one that’s been hidden for ten years, the one that no one has been able to find since she went missing.
No more secrets.
His voice from last night runs through my brain unbidden, and I want to scream, to run back into the room, to tear at his skin.
But I make myself stand there, my eyes flicking everywhere besides the dusty mirror in front of me. I’m not able to look at my reflection right now. To see how gullible I’ve been this whole time.
I knew better than to trust him, after the shit he did back then. Pulling away just as he knew I was falling for him, then sleeping with my best friend out in the open, like he was begging me to catch them. God, how stupid could I be? And he’s been feeding me these lines, trying to get me to trust him again, casting suspicion on the others.
Could Declan really have killed Phoebe?
My brain feels slow, like a television show where the actors’ mouths can’t quite match up with the dialogue. I have so many questions. Why would Declan keep the phone after all these years? And what did he have had to gain by killing Phoebe?
But that last question isn’t very difficult to answer. The image comes back as it always does, with the force of a fist against my cheekbone. Phoebe’s legs wrapped around his waist.
He promised me last night that it happened only once, that it was a mistake. But clearly I can’t believe anything he’s said.
I think of Villanueva’s call the other day, about Phoebe’s pregnancy. Maybe Declan was the father. Maybe they’d been fooling around behind my back for weeks. Maybe Phoebe told him she was pregnant…
I hold my breath as I push my finger against the power button, willing the pixelated intro image to awaken the screen. But it doesn’t.The phone is dead.
Bile courses up my throat, and for a fleeting second, I’m certain I’m about to be sick. Eventually, I manage to swallow it, one thought overcoming the nausea.
I’m not safe.
I need to get out of here.
I inch open the bathroom door. When I hear Declan’s soft breathing, I pad to the side of the bed, Phoebe’s phone clutched tightly in my hand, and gather up my discarded clothes as quietly as I can. As I’m pulling on my jeans, the sound of movement behind me sends my spine ramrod straight.
“Claire?”
His sleepy voice hits my back, and my heart feels like it’s trapped within a fist. Phoebe’s phone is still in my hand; there’s no hiding it. I turn slowly, bracing myself.
Declan’s eyes are closed again, his breath once more coming in slow waves.
I don’t allow myself to feel any relief. Instead, I rapidly gather up the rest of my stuff, not bothering to throw a shirt on over my bra or to pull on my shoes, stuffing them all under my arm instead, and I silently bolt towards the door. As soon as I’m through, pulling it shut as quietly as possible behind me, my body sinks against the hallway wall.
My heartbeat is erratic, my breath coming in panicked bursts. I need to take a moment to figure out what to do. I close my eyes tightly and try to make sense of what I just found, but everything seems jumbled, none of the pieces connecting, all my suspicionsswarming.
Am I overreacting?
Maybe, but if Declandiddo this and he knows I’ve found Phoebe’s phone, what’s stopping him from killing me?
I need to get as far away from Declan as I can.
