Page 62 of High Season

FORTY-NINE

THE DAY OF THE BIRTHDAY PARTY

Hannah felt as if she had been asleep for a very long time.

A wave of nausea washed over her as she tried to sit up.

There was a sear of pain in her skull, worse than any hangover she’d ever experienced.

The room was dark, and yet she could make out the strains of music.

Talking. Laughter. She fought to recall where she was.

The memories came back in hazy, half formations, like glints of light falling through the branches of trees sifting in the breeze.

There and then gone. There and then gone.

Evelyn’s party. Champagne. Blake. Evelyn’s bed.

Her stomach turned over. She fumbled for a light switch, her hand hitting a lamp.

The room flushed bright. She was in Tamara’s bed, tucked beneath the sheets.

A wash of panic seized her. Hours must have passed.

She had never been so drunk before that she couldn’t remember how she got somewhere.

She had heard people talk about being blackout drunk like it was a badge of honor.

Nothing like the fear and shame that hummed through her now.

She clambered to her feet. Closed her eyes as the world spun.

She must have still been drunk, and yet this was like no kind of drunkenness she had ever experienced.

Like being drunk and hungover at the same time.

She grimaced as she imagined what must have happened: drinking too much, trying to calm herself after her confrontation with Tamara.

She must have passed out, forcing Blake to put her to bed.

The thought made embarrassment unfurl inside her.

It felt vitally important to find Blake. She had to apologize. She had to pull herself together, to show him that she could be the girlfriend he wanted. The room swayed as she crossed it. First, she would get some water. She would be fine after some water.

She remembered that they’d been drinking in Evelyn’s bedroom. There would still be glasses in there. There was an en suite bathroom where she could fill them up. She could gather herself there, away from any of the other party guests.

She navigated deeper into the labyrinthine house that Hannah knew as well as her family’s own small flat. In a way, it felt as much a part of her legacy as it did the Draytons’.

She pushed against the door to Evelyn’s room.

Into the dressing room, and then to the main bedroom.

The room was thick with heat, the patio doors that led out to the terrace left wide open.

Evelyn would be annoyed, blaming everyone else for her own oversight, for forgetting, as she got ready for the party, to shut out the stifling air.

Instinctively, just like someone who had been raised serving people like the Draytons, Hannah moved to close the doors, and there he was.

Blake. Her Blake. Silhouetted against the white light of the moon and standing alone, on the very edge of the terrace.

A wave of emotion passed through Hannah.

Something like relief. Something like love.

She began to walk toward him.

“Blake—”

Then, she stopped. Blake was not looking up toward the stars, or out to the sea. His gaze was fixed downward. His head lifted and Hannah knew immediately that something was wrong. She could see the twist of his face, the sheen of shock. The way that his eyes were wide and full of fear.

“Hannah,” he said.

Her eyes followed his. Toward the water. The pool. A bloom of red against the unnatural blue of the tiles. A body, floating, arms outstretched. Like someone ready to leap. To fly.

A wave of nausea contorted inside her, and for a moment she thought she would vomit. Her hands flew up to her mouth. Blake was gripping her wrist, pulling her back from the edge.

“Don’t scream,” he said. “Please don’t scream.”

“It’s Tamara,” she said, uselessly. As if he wouldn’t know. As if he wouldn’t recognize his own twin.

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

“Have you called an ambulance?” she said. “We have to call an ambulance.”

The world swayed again, and she found that she was leaning into him. That he was holding up her weight, his arms wrapped around her body. Making quiet, shushing sounds.

“It’s too late,” he said. “I saw her fall. The way she hit her head—Hannah, it’s too late.”

The shush turned into a sob. A choke.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s… Hannah, she’s…”

He could not say it. Hannah could not hear it.

“We have to try.” Hannah’s voice was strangled. Slurred. Everything still felt hazy, not quite real. Perhaps it was not. Perhaps she could fix this still. “We have to get her out of the water.”

His arms loosened. His eyes were wet.

“You have to leave,” he said.

“I… what?”

“I saw her fall,” he said. “It was her ankle. She was disoriented. She must have hit her head when you pushed her. She was limping. Confused. Her foot gave way. I tried to grab her, but I couldn’t.”

He pulled back, his face level with hers. Urgency radiated from him.

“Hannah,” he said. “You need to get out of here, before anyone realizes what you’ve done.”

They moved through the twisted stairwells and hidden passages that weaved from the upper landing down to the house’s basement level. Hannah felt as if she was in a dream, the world sloped and blurred around her. As if she was drifting in some unstoppable way toward a decision that was already made.

They paused at the door that led out to the pool. Blake squeezed Hannah’s hand.

“I could come with you,” she said, desperately. “I could help. Maybe we could still help her.”

He shook his head.

“You can’t be here,” he said. “Do you know what would happen if anyone realizes what you did? You’d get arrested. It’s manslaughter, at least, if she… if she’s…”

There it was again, the thing that he could not say.

Hannah did not think to ask how anyone would even know about the fight.

She did not think to ask, even, why Blake was so certain that his sister was dead.

How he could be thinking so clearly, so sharply, when Hannah could barely see beyond this minute, this second.

When all she wanted to do was run to Tamara, to help her, no matter the personal cost.

These were the thoughts that would come later. Deep in the night, when Hannah could not sleep. She would still wake up with the image of Tamara’s body floating in the water right behind her eyes.

“You have to go,” Blake said. “We can still make people think it was an accident. I can protect you, Hannah. But no one can know you were here.”

He moved his face so that he was close to her. So close that she could smell his sweat.

“We stay quiet, OK?” he said. “I love you. I’m going to protect you.”

He was trembling. Hannah could see that, in spite of his stoicism, his solidity, he was scared. She truly believed that he was scared for her.

Just then, a child’s scream cut through all the other distant sounds—the muffled clink of glasses, the hum of conversation. A cry that was unmistakably Nina Drayton. That unmistakably came from the pool.

“Go,” said Blake.

One last squeeze of her hand. A gentle push. Then he was gone, running to both his sisters.