Page 1 of This Stays Between Us

Claire

Now

The message slinks into my phone.

You up?

My eyes swing to the numbers at the top of my screen. 12:04. Just past a socially acceptable time on a Tuesday night to be awake.

I sigh, rolling onto my side, the mattress springs of my double bed shrieking under my weight. I clench my eyes tight, praying for the sleep that I know will evade me. Even so, I can’t help but feel the pull back to the phone, those two words drawing me in.

I know exactly what he wants, and I know I’m weak enough to give it to him.

You’re better than this, I think. But even I don’t believe myself.

The thought unleashes it. The guilt I’ve become so familiar with over the years. It creeps up my limbs, securing me in place, crawling into my throat and suffocating me. The regret all I can taste.

The reason I can never be good. The one night that turned me bad forever.

And I feel it begin. My chest tightening, my breath becoming thinner, a pounding in my head growing to match my rapidly increasing heartbeat.

And just as my breath catches in my throat, dusty, I’m back there.

The endless sky before me pockmarked with stars, the air cold and dry, the darkness of that night washing over me.

But a sound comes, quick and fast, stopping the memory from progressing further.

It takes me a moment to realize it’s my phone again. My earlier resolve has shredded to pieces. I’ll invite him over, I decide.

But when I check my screen, it’s not the booty call I was expecting. The title of the group text shines at me through the darkness.

The Mob.

I suck in a breath, knowing what this is.

Another plea from Ellery to get me to join the ten-year reunion she’s organized back in Sydney.

I’ve explained to her multiple times that I won’t be coming, that I can’t put myself through the painful memories that wait for me there.

She seemed to have come around, but now that the reunion is only a week away, this must be a last-ditch effort.

My phone chimes again, the same group message. But this time the sender is different. Not Ellery, but Kyan.

I can’t deal with this type of peer pressure tonight, not with the memory of that night thick and cloying. I silence the phone and roll back over, knowing even as I do that sleep is futile.

I toss and turn for another few minutes before giving up and pulling out my phone again.

There are now forty-seven more texts from the Mob.

That’s a lot. Even for them.

I’m about to open the thread when another message comes in. But this one isn’t part of the text chain. It’s on Facebook Messenger. A direct message from Ellery Johnson.

Why would she be messaging me separately when she’s on the group text?

But as unlikely as it seems, a part of me already knows. The same part that has been waiting years for the truth to come out.

With shaking fingers, I open the message. As soon as I do, a sharp, startled sound escapes from my lips.

Not sure if you’ve seen the group text, but they’ve found Phoebe’s body.

I read the one-line message over and over, willing it to change.

My mind freezes on her name. Phoebe. And it all rushes back. Those turquoise eyes. Her body, so thin. Too thin. Her dark brown curls shaped into a short cut that framed her face and emphasized her sharp features.

The same hair that was wrapped tight in my palm that night ten years ago.

The same eyes that stared up at me, irises swimming with a mix of regret and sadness as I cradled a knife in my hand.

Even when I tried to convince myself this day would never come, I knew the truth was bound to catch up with me sometime.

Because it was me.

I was the one who killed Phoebe.