Page 10 of This Stays Between Us

Claire

Now

I’m guilty. I know that.

Phoebe would still be here if I hadn’t lost control that night, grabbed the knife from the Inn’s kitchen, and taken off after her.

But someone else is responsible too. That person struck her over the head repeatedly and left her to die in a dark, abandoned mine.

From the shifting glances and awkward silences, it was clear within minutes of returning to the AFP building lobby that Villanueva told everyone the same thing: that we are the prime suspects.

And it’s equally clear why she did so: to turn us against each other, to inspire someone to start talking to save themselves.

For the first time since arriving in Sydney, I’m grateful I came back. I need to be here to be the first to figure out what happened that night, to identify who really murdered Phoebe, before anyone discovers my role in her death.

And then there’s the other thing.

Maybe finding out who that person is will lighten the burden I’ve carried with me for the past decade. Maybe it’s my way of making it up to Phoebe, my penitence for those horrible mistakes I made ten years ago.

The five of us are back at Kyan’s, huddled around his kitchen island, despite the massive empty dining room.

Even though it’s nearly dinnertime, we returned to the house to find an elaborate, catered lunch—perfectly rolled sandwich wraps, large serving trays of various salads, smaller bowls of veggies and dips—which, so far, only Adrien has had the stomach to touch.

I scan the others’ faces, everyone’s expression carrying similar emotions: anguish, shock, grief, disbelief, and something else. Suspicion.

The car ride back passed mostly in silence, and since we’ve returned, Phoebe’s murder has been hovering over all of us as we make inane comments about the weather and how delicious the hummus is.

“The police said someone smashed her skull in.” I’m surprised to hear my own voice make this proclamation, at the strangely emotionless words coming from my mouth. But I can’t stand not talking about it anymore. “Villanueva thinks it’s one of us.”

Four sets of eyes skirt away from me.

I know these people—or knew them. They couldn’t really be capable of murder, could they?

And then I realize, they probably thought the same about me.

“Did the police question Hari?” Adrien asks Kyan.

He shrugs. “I haven’t heard from her.”

“I still think it’s weird that she just never showed,” Ellery says. “Wouldn’t she have at least sent a text?”

Kyan nods and pulls out his phone. He types something in and then holds it up to his ear. After nearly a minute he puts it down.

“She’s not answering her phone.”

“Should we be concerned?” Declan asks.

Kyan sighs. “I didn’t want to tell you all this, because, honestly, it’s not my story to share. But Hari…well, she’s had some rough patches since our program ended.”

I lean closer. Hari deleted all her social media channels shortly after the program ended, and she never joined our group message chain. I figured it was because she had better things to do, that we didn’t make the same impact on her that she did on us.

“I connected with her when I moved back to Sydney. She told me she took what happened on the trip hard. First with Tomas and then with Phoebe. She started partying more, taking things she shouldn’t. She got hooked. First on opioids and then it escalated. Heroin.”

Hari never cared what anyone thought of her. She was always carefree and just…happy in a way I always envied. I can’t correlate my memories of her with this news.

“She got better, back on her feet. She told me she’d relapsed a few times, but she’s been clean ever since I’ve reconnected with her, for the last year or so.”

“Wow,” Ellery says, clearly as shocked as I am.

“Kyan, you said she was flaky,” I say. “Is this normal behavior for her?”

Kyan shakes his head. “She’s not great at returning texts. And there was one time she stood me up for dinner—but she was really excited about seeing you all again. We’d talked about it a few times. I figured something came up last night, but now…”

“We should check on her,” Declan says.

“I think you’re right,” Kyan agrees.

***

Twenty minutes later, we’re back in Kyan’s car, but this time we aren’t heading into the city center.

“I’ve been to her place a few times,” Kyan said back at his house. “When I would pick her up for dinner or coffee. It’s not in a great part of town.”

He wasn’t lying, I realize, as his Tesla travels silently up dense, narrow streets lined with trash-filled sidewalks and run-down buildings.

I spot a few people sleeping rough in the doorways of closed storefronts.

We turn onto a quieter road and pull up in front of a black fence, behind which sits a brick apartment complex.

“This is it,” Kyan announces. And then a second later, in response to our unasked questions: “Hari had a difficult time finding a job after everything. Despite how liberal and open-minded Australians claim to be, no one was jumping at the chance to hire a recovering addict. She’s finally got a position as a grocery store cashier. ”

The information sits there, all of us remembering the potential Hari had. How she’d planned to get her PhD in sociology after she finished her degree at Hamilton. How she dreamed of becoming an academic, eventually a university professor.

I guess my life wasn’t the only one that deteriorated once the program ended. I suppose it should be a comforting thought, but as I gaze up at the worn building, it feels anything but.

We all get out of the car, and I take a shaky breath as we stand there for a second, preparing ourselves. Declan is next to me, and despite everything, his presence gives me a slight sense of relief.

“Let’s go,” I say, forcing myself to take a step towards the building, and the others follow suit.

The gate opens, unlocked, and Adrien reaches the intercom first, a rusted-looking contraption affixed to front of the building.

She finds Hari’s last name—Masterson—and presses it.

It rings loudly for several seconds, but there’s no answer.

She tries again. No luck. She begins the process of ringing the buttons for the other units until an older female voice that sounds like it’s the product of decades of chain-smoking answers.

“What do ya want?”

“We’re looking for our friend, Hari. Harriet. We’re here to check on her, but she’s not—”

The intercom buzzes as the front door lock unlatches. The woman clearly wasn’t interested in Adrien’s story, but no matter, at least we’re in.

The building’s foyer is musty, decorated with the odd piece of trash and one wall lined with a set of dejected mailboxes.

A small hallway leads to the first-floor units, but according to the list of names on the intercom, Hari lives in unit 204, so we take the rickety stairway up until we reach level two.

A doormat sits in front of unit 204 that reads Welcome in looping cursive font with a picture of a palm tree, and I can’t help but smile. This place may be completely and utterly depressing, but of course Hari would find a way to brighten it.

Ellery steps forward, knocks lightly on the door. “Hari, it’s us.” And then realizing how that sounds, she laughs. “I mean, it’s Ellery and Claire and Kyan and…” She trails off when it’s evident no one is coming towards the door. Then she tries again, rapping her knuckles against the door.

“Hold on,” Declan says, grabbing the doorknob. “Let me try.”

It opens without protest.

I’ve had a sinking feeling in my gut the entire drive over, but now my stomach flips. Something isn’t right here. I can tell.

The others must too. I feel Ellery bristle next to me. Declan looks back at us as if for permission. Kyan nods, and Declan pushes the door further open, taking a step in.

The living room is sparse, but tastefully decorated. A surfboard rests against one corner, light green pillows line a beige couch, and a small potted cactus sits on the white coffee table.

But it’s also empty.

I follow Declan and the others in, and we look around. A small kitchen sits off to one side of the living room—also empty, and neat, aside from two half-filled water glasses on a small wooden dinette table—and to the other side is a hallway that evidently leads to the bedroom.

“Hari?” Declan says, voice just slightly raised.

Kyan gestures in the direction of the bedroom. “Maybe one of you ladies should check. If she’s in her bedroom, she might not be too happy with a bloke barging in on her.”

I nod and step forward, clenching my fingers into my palms so that the others won’t notice my slight tremble. Other than the unlocked front door, nothing seems off about the apartment, but that horrible feeling in my stomach just won’t leave.

I finally reach her closed bedroom door.

“Hari, you in there?” I call gently.

I twist the doorknob, edging the door open to take in a cramped carpeted room occupied almost entirely with a dresser and a double bed, on which lies a figure on her side, facing away from me.

I take in the faded blond hair, the long tanned legs pulled up to her chest. And I sigh, relief flooding through me.

Hari always could sleep through just about anything.

I get to the bed in two steps, feeling the others behind me in the doorway, and reach out my hand. “Hari, wake up,” I say, my voice unnaturally childlike.

She’s wearing a cropped T-shirt and a pair of baggy boyfriend jeans. An odd choice of clothing to nap in, but who am I to judge?

I reach for her shoulder, feeling the cotton of her shirt, and give her small shake.

Nothing.

“Hari, come on,” I urge, trying again.

I steal a glance back at Ellery, whose wide eyes stare at me curiously.

I shift my hand to touch her bare arm at the same time I say, “Hari, you have to—”

As soon as my fingers make contact with her skin, I jolt back, as if burned.

“Cold,” I say to nobody in particular. It’s the only word that rings through my mind. “Why is she cold?”

But my touch was enough to send Hari rolling from her side onto her back. And then I see it, that face I knew so well. Her high cheekbones, now even more pronounced, her cheeks cavernous and blue-tinged. Her rosebud lips coated with dried vomit.

But I don’t focus on those. All I can see are her green eyes. Open wide and staring into nothingness.