Page 3

Claire

Now

I hadn’t planned to go to Australia ten years ago.

The life I’d built for myself in Humbolt, Illinois, was quiet and simple, but it fit me.

I lived with my mom in the house I’d grown up in, commuting four days a week to the campus of my exceedingly average-ranked liberal arts college to complete my bachelor’s degree in nursing within three and a half years.

To rush through the “college life” I was supposed to enjoy as quickly as possible.

That is, until one day when my mother noticed me throwing away the mail I had crammed into my backpack between classes.

“What’s this?” she’d asked, grabbing a colorful brochure that had slipped from the pile of otherwise drab white envelopes I was attempting to discard in the kitchen wastebasket.

“Just the junk that the school always shoves in our mailboxes. I should have thrown it out on campus, but I was in a rush to get to class—”

“This isn’t from the school,” my mom said, flipping through the pages.

“It’s from a different university. Hamilton College.

It’s all about different study abroad options.

” As I stole a glance at the glossy photos lining the thick expensive-looking pages of the brochure, I realized she was right.

Everything from my school’s study abroad office looked like it was created using a version of Photoshop from the early 2000s. This was far more professional.

“Claire, you need to see this.” When she looked up at me, I was surprised to see a glow in her eyes I hadn’t noticed in a while. If I was being honest, she’d been quieter than usual lately, pulling herself away from our nightly television sessions to head to bed even before American Idol was over.

“You know I can’t study abroad,” I chided, feeling as though we’d swapped our roles as mother and daughter. “I can barely squeeze in all the credits I need to graduate early as it is.”

“Mm,” my mom muttered as she continued to thrum through the pages. “Well, what about this?”

I reluctantly accepted the brochure she handed me.

“Adventure Abroad” was emblazoned in bright white at the top under the Hamilton College logo.

Beneath that, a kangaroo stared out at me from the glossy cover, which was bathed in brilliant reds and oranges, all stemming from a globe-like sun hovering at the top of the page and illuminating a dusty rust-colored ground.

The university certainly wasn’t shying away from stereotypes.

I flipped it open to photos of beaches and surfers interrupted by dense strands of text and started to read:

Are you looking for a study abroad experience unlike any other?

Well, it’s a “g’day” for you! Hamilton College is ready to deliver adventure, education, and excitement with our Adventure Abroad program.

For those students unable to dedicate a full semester or year to studying abroad, we’ve squeezed everything you need into one short month.

Travel through Australia and experience all the culture and fun the continent has to offer.

What are you waiting for? Join us this December!

I shot my mother a curious look. Even ignoring the program’s cringeworthy depiction, I was not what you would call an “adventurous” person.

At that point, the scariest thing I’d ever done was ride the upside-down roller coaster at the local amusement park, and even that prompted a minor panic attack when I was standing in line.

The idea of spending a month living across the world with complete strangers—let alone adventuring with them—left a dull cramp in my abdomen. But my mother didn’t seem to notice.

“You have to do this, pumpkin,” she said, wrapping her hands around my shoulder. “It sounds magical. Plus, look, it says you’ll earn four credits for the experience. That should help you with early gradua—”

Her statement devolved into a small cough, which she covered with her hand.

“It’s nothing,” she said, in response to my raised eyebrows, “just the change in weather. So what do you think?”

“It’ll cost thousands of dollars. And that’s not even considering the airfare.

” I could feel my mom flinch. Money—or the general lack of it—was a silent presence in our household, one we never really talked about but that lingered in every room like a bad stench.

Mom had worked two jobs—an office receptionist by day, a copy editor for academic publications by night—ever since I could remember.

My education to date had been financed by a mixture of academic scholarships and student loans I wasn’t looking forward to repaying.

My mother took the brochure back from me, flipping through the pages as if hoping the answer would appear in front of her. Until it did.

“Here,” she said excitedly, reading from a sentence in small print on the last page.

“‘Given the nature of the program, the group participating in Adventure Abroad will always be composed of ten students or less. The Australian Government will fully fund one student’s participation in the program based on need and qualifications.’”

I rolled my eyes, unsurprised to find my mother had found a workaround to the problem.

It’s what she did, whether it was creating a magical Christmas morning filled with gifts despite her measly salary or showering me with extra love every year on the anniversary of my father’s death from sudden cardiac arrest when I was only four.

But despite her best efforts, she wasn’t perfect; the cracks showed through on occasion.

The day I’d been left waiting for hours later than the other kids for after-school pickup.

The time I was left behind while the rest of my fifth-grade class went on a field trip because my mother forgot to sign my permission slip.

But those instances were few and far between.

“Okay, you win. I’ll check it out, but I’m sure getting that funding is going to be near impossible.”

My mother simply patted me on the leg at that, a smile growing on her face.

Even then, I noticed it. A flash of wariness in her eyes, a flicker of emotion across her face that I couldn’t identify.

I think constantly of how things could have been different if I’d asked her about it, forced her to tell me the truth.

I wonder what life would have been like if I hadn’t been accepted into the program, if my personal essay hadn’t earned me the government funding, if I’d never met the rest of the Mob. If I hadn’t done…everything I’d done.

***

I don’t know how long I stare at that message from Ellery. The words blur before my eyes, the past hounding me from all sides. They’ve found Phoebe’s body. Before I can recover enough to even rest my thumbs on my phone’s keyboard, a second message arrives.

Any chance you’ll reconsider the reunion?

No , I tell myself, after staring at Ellery’s message for what feels like hours. I will not be returning for the ten-year reunion of our study abroad group. I promised myself years ago that what happened in Australia would stay there. That it wouldn’t consume my life. That I would never return.

I’ve already broken the first two promises, but I’ve been adamant that I will never, under any circumstances, return. What good could come of it? If anything, I’ll get tripped up, share something that I shouldn’t. And the others would discover the truth.

Even so, I can’t help but think about it.

And I spend hours doing just that. At one point in our group conversation, Kyan offers to pay for all our flights and put us up in his house in the Sydney suburbs.

It’ll be just like being back in the hostels we used to stay in , he texts.

Only with slightly better accommodations.

The call comes the next morning. The sun is just beginning to peek above the small sliver of Chicago skyline I can see from my apartment, but my ringtone doesn’t wake me. I haven’t slept.

The number is marked as Unknown . When I answer, a man’s voice comes down the line.

“Is this Ms. Whitlock?” he asks stiffly in a once-familiar accent. As though he can hear me nod through the phone, he continues. “This is Leading Senior Constable Arnold Sawkins with the Australian Federal Police. I’m calling with some news that may be difficult for you to hear.”

“I know,” I say, wincing as my voice cracks. “I heard from a friend. You found Phoebe.”

He clears his throat. “Her remains, yes,” he clarifies. “Apologies that you didn’t hear it from us first. It took a bit of legwork to track you down. Your friend, Ms. Johnson, ultimately gave us your contact information.”

I silently curse Ellery as he carries on. “Of course, given the…erm…circumstances in which we found Ms. Barton’s remains, we are now conducting an investigation.”

The words lodge in my brain as thick saliva blocks my throat.

“Normally, we would request to question you via Zoom. It is not ideal, of course, but it does prove quite convenient for international investigations. However, we heard from Ms. Johnson that she and several others from your study abroad program will be back in Sydney next week. If you will also be here, we would strongly prefer to interview you in person.”

Amidst the panic, worries swarm like the ubiquitous flies back in Jagged Rock: all the ways I could trip up on a Zoom interview, how suspicious it would seem to the police if I was the only one of our friend group not to return.

“Ms. Whitlock?” Sawkins prompts down the line.

“I’m sure you can understand how important this is.

The file indicates you were Ms. Barton’s closest friend and roommate during the program.

We would really like a chance to speak with you in person about anything you may have remembered over the years. ”

I run through my potential options for declining before considering the holes Sawkins could poke in each one.

Work conflict … but what could possibly be so important in my role as a receptionist to take priority over this?

The cost … but Kyan’s already offered to pay.

Any excuse I use would only prompt more questions, more suspicion.

And then the memory pricks at me.

The wooden handle of the knife heavy in my hand, the sharp curve of the blade.

I left loose ends, evidence that could implicate me. I know I did. And if someone is smart enough, if they know just where to look, what questions to ask, they’ll figure out what I did.

But not if I work this exactly right. If I point them in another direction, away from my guilt. If I prevent them from discovering the truth.

And I can only do that in person.

“Fine,” I say to Sawkins, the word escaping my mouth before my brain processes the implications. “I’ll come back.”