Page 107 of The Trip

My pulse quickens. I can’t date him. He’s Courtney’s brother.

He smiles. My heart flutters. What would be the harm in just one?

“Friday would be great.”

On my drive back to my mom’s house, I find myself turning down the street Beth grew up on. I’d driven slowly through Sequim’s quaint downtown, taking in the familiar buildings. It’s the first time in twentyyears that I’ve felt at peace with this place. That I can drive through town with my head held high.

I park in front of Beth’s childhood home where her parents still live. The shades are drawn, and I can’t tell if anyone’s home.

My phone chimes with a text. I lift my phone from my purse, seeing it’s from my sister, Kate.How did it go?I type a quick reply.It went good. I’ll call you on my way home.

I drop my phone back into my bag and survey Beth’s old house. Beth had a point—after Courtney died, I did hold people at arm’s length, even my own family. Since returning home from our nightmare trip, I’ve made an effort to keep in better touch with my sister. Now, we hardly let a day go by without at least texting.

My gaze settles on the red front door. Beth’s house has hardly changed in twenty years. I want to knock on the door and embrace Beth’s grieving parents in a hug. But I’m not sure they want to see me.

Beth’s confession of killing Courtney made the national news after I told detectives everything that had happened on our trip, including my clubbing Beth with the binoculars in the ocean to get away from her after shooting her with the flare gun.

I pull onto the street, looking back at the familiar home in my rearview mirror. My heart goes out to them, what they must be going through, along with Gigi’s parents. Although, finding out that Beth was a murderer must’ve felt like losing their daughter twice.

I brake at the stop sign at the end of the street and wonder if they’re clinging to the hope Beth is still alive, despite learning she was a killer. A dark-haired woman walks beside my car on the sidewalk.

I draw in a sharp breath at the sight of her dark wavy hair. Sitting frozen behind the wheel, I study the woman from behind as she rounds the corner, pulling a bulldog on a leash. Goose bumps prickle my arms.Beth?

Behind me, a car honks. The dark-haired woman startles at the sound, whipping around. I heave a sigh, collapsing against the back of my seat. It’s not Beth. I see now that, aside from her hair, the womandoesn’t look anything like her. She appears to be close to fifty and is heavier and a few inches shorter than Beth.

The car behind me honks again, and I turn left, away from the woman I thought was my late best friend. I fix my gaze on the Olympic Mountains in the distance, with my hometown at their feet, as I speed away from the street Beth grew up on. It wasn’t the first time since our deadly sailing trip that I’d thought I’d seen Beth. And I’m sure it won’t be the last.

While there’s a part of me that will always miss her, there’s a part of Beth that will always haunt me.