Page 44 of High Season
THIRTY-THREE
They agree to meet at the beach bar, the same place that Josie and Nic went on their impromptu first date.
Without the glaze of several beers, the hot anticipation that had hung between her and Nic, Josie can’t help but think that it looks slightly run-down.
The wooden picnic benches and piles of polystyrene trays left out by careless tourists look less charming by day.
Josie orders a bottle of water at the bar and finds a table as close to the sea as possible, where the clamor of lunchtime punters is more spread out and the groan of the waves will stop anyone from overhearing their conversation.
She sees Hannah arrive, weighed down by beach bags.
She dumps them on the sand and gestures to Josie that she’s going to get a drink.
From the table that she’s chosen, Josie can see Hannah’s family setting up camp around the abandoned bags.
The husband glancing warily toward Josie.
The oldest boy, looking like there’s nowhere he’d less rather be.
Isla, the little girl, perched on a beach towel plied with snacks—packets of crisps and bottles of brightly colored fruit juice. Noah, already knee-deep in the sea.
“Lemonade or Coke?” Hannah places two cans on the table between them. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted food, so I ordered some chips, too? Only, don’t let the kids see. Noah won’t stop moaning if he knows I got chips for myself.”
Josie holds up her bottle of water, apologetic.
“Oh!” Hannah says. “I didn’t realize you’d gotten yourself something already. And I bet Nina Drayton isn’t the kind of person who drinks all this sugary crap.”
She lowers herself into the chair opposite, running her fingers through her hair, fluffing her fringe, looking as though she can’t find a comfortable position. Josie notices that her nails are bitten down, crescent moons.
“That’s OK,” Josie says. “I’ve actually invited someone else along, too.”
Hannah’s eyes dart up.
“Oh?”
Josie nods. Exhales.
“Yeah,” she says. “I thought we might want another person who’s on my side.”
The idea to contact truecrimefangirl_2002—the person who, in some ways, had sparked all of this—came to Josie after she had left the Baileys’ house.
She had walked back down to the town with Nic.
“You seem distracted,” he said, weaving one hand through hers.
“Can you blame me?” she replied.
Talking to Hannah had ignited something inside her.
She found herself thinking about that night all over again, as if seeing it for the first time.
About the case file that had briefly been in her possession.
About what Nina Drayton had said. Each account, each witness statement, each piece of evidence sliding up against each other, a puzzle tantalizingly close to resolve.
It was one thing to have a theory about what happened. It was another thing entirely to have a platform to tell people about it. Someone that people listened to; someone who had seemed to believe Josie all along.
Now, she sees Imogen Faye crossing the sand toward them. Josie raises one arm to wave her over.
Hannah’s eyes bulge.
“Are you serious?” She presses her palms down into the bench as if making to stand. “Josie,” she hisses. “You said that this would be confidential.”
“Hannah, just—”
Josie’s hand reaches out and finds Hannah’s arm. The contact seems to shock Hannah to stillness.
“Just trust me, OK?” she says. “I’m trying to help.”
Hannah’s hands lift away from the wooden seat. She folds them in front of her on the table, glancing back toward her family.
“If she films us…” she hisses with warning.
But Imogen is already within earshot, and Hannah doesn’t finish her threat.
“Josie,” she is saying brightly. “Hi.”
She sticks out one hand toward Josie for her to shake.
“And you must be Hannah,” she says, aside. “So nice to meet you both.”
Josie doesn’t move her hand. She takes in the woman standing in front of her.
A face that she recognizes from the dozens of videos she pretends not to watch, not to care about.
She expected the plum-purple lipstick that she knows so well, the slick of eyeliner, the vocal fry, and the social-media-specific drawl.
Instead, Imogen Faye has dark hair neatly pulled back into a ponytail, the red stripe barely visible.
Pared back, clean makeup. A black cotton dress with thin straps. A clean, well-spoken American accent.
“You…”
“Yeah,” says Imogen, looking slightly bashful. “I’m not like in my videos? I know.”
She shrugs, spreads her arms wide.
“Truecrimefangirl is kind of an internet persona. I mean, who actually talks about murders like that in real life?” She laughs an embarrassed what-can-you-do laugh. “It started as a bit of a joke. But what can I say? People love truecrimefangirl_2002! I should probably introduce myself properly.”
She thrusts her hand toward Josie again.
“I’m Imogen. I’m a master’s student in criminology.
I’m writing my dissertation on women who are scapegoated in extremely public murder trials, mostly due to factors like class and sexism, and all the other ways that society likes to decide that women are bad, or wrong, or don’t fit in with what they expect.
And, I’m also truecrimefangirl_2002. An internet personality who talks about those public trials online, in a way that makes people sit up and listen. ”
For a second, both women just look at her, stupefied. Hannah speaks first.
“So you’re a fraud?”
Her voice is sharp, surprising Josie.
Imogen smiles apologetically. Shrugs.
“Are any of us really who we say we are online?” she says. “I’m here to help. As Imogen Faye and as truecrimefangirl.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit… morally questionable ?” says Hannah. “Building a career and income around talking about dead girls on the internet isn’t exactly Feminism 101.”
Imogen doesn’t look at her this time. Instead, her eyes lock with Josie’s, as if Hannah hasn’t said anything at all.
Josie reaches out slowly, grips Imogen’s hand.
“Thank you for coming,” she says. “And thank you for believing me.”
Imogen smiles then, properly this time, a broad, open beam that takes Josie aback with its warmth.
“You don’t have to thank me,” she says. “Now. Let’s talk about what the eff happened to Tamara Drayton.”