And she felt nothing.
No dark, buzzing cloud of unreasoning fear. No feeling that she would die any minute. None of that.
She did experience a thrill. Pure, like salvation.
12
Nick thought:
He loved the idea, his agent loved it, and the publisher loved it. Why not? Something like that happens to you, why not use it? He’d be a fool not to.
Someone murders a bunch of people in an upscale house in Aspen, kills a big star like Brienne Cross, and you’re the sole survivor? It’s like the gods came down from Mount Olympus and said, “What the hell are you waiting for?”
His agent and his publisher wanted the book soon. Even before the ink was dry on the contract, they suggested he get out there and hype it. And so he did. He gave interviews to news organizations, tabloids, magazines, radio, and the bloggers. He always held something back, though, giving every one of them the same canned story. He needed to keep his powder dry for the book.
When he and his publisher were tossing around ideas, they fell into calling it “The Aspen Project.” They all agreed he had a special perspective, having written the series of essays on Brienne’s reality show for
He would follow the lives of those who were killed—the four finalists, the producer, and Brienne Cross herself—and propel them to their moment with destiny. At the same time, he would tell his own story.
He had eight-thousand-plus followers on Twitter, and over five thousand on his Facebook author page.
He announced: “By the end of this week, I’ll be living in Aspen for the summer. I’ll be in and out, because I plan to meet with the families of the dead. I’m going to tell their story because until now, they’ve had no voice.”
A follower asked if he had contacted the family members. “Yes I have, and I will be interviewing all of them for the book.”
More questions: “Who was the guy you talked to out on the deck? Was he the one who saved you?”
Nick said, “He said his name was Mars. Weird name—maybe I dreamed it.”
“Are you going to thank him?”
“If I can find him.”
“Is that going to be hard?”
“I think he said his dad is a congressman from Colorado. I’ll start there. Nick Holloway, intrepid reporter! Seriously, I have no idea how Mars knew what was going to happen, or why he saved me, but you can bet it’ll be in my book. I’ll keep you posted. Ciao for now!”
13
They didn’t find the guns or the cell phone, and probably never would. No money in the budget to drag ponds, even if Maddy could remember where she’d been.
It was late afternoon by the time Jolie drove into Meridian Beach.
The town still had the ability to charm. The sand was white as sugar. The Gulf changed color according to its mood—olive-green, jade, dark blue, gray, and gold at sunset. Gift shops were strung along the two-lane highway. The locally owned supermarket sold groceries, sunscreen, beach towels, and beer. But every day, more pine forests went under the bulldozer and another multiple-family rental went up on the beach. It was starting to get giddy here, and Jolie wasn’t surprised that her estranged family had gotten on board in a big way.
The first thing she did was run a bath. Interrogating Maddy had taken its toll. It took her back in time to the day she got the call from her supervisor, breaking the news. Earlier in the day she’d heard about a man shooting himself in a cabin in the Apalachicola National Forest, but she would never have made the connection. Life was good. She and Danny were happy. He was a cop, she was a cop. They understood each other.
When someone you loved committed suicide, there was no refuge from it. You couldn’t help but take it personally. It was as if someone threw acid on you, and the acid stayed, eating its way through your soul.
It shamed you.
If you only did this, if you only did that. You played that game over and over until you thought you’d go mad.
The phone rang. Kay McPeek’s name showed up on the readout—her cousin.
Kay came with a very large string attached. She was a Haddox. True, Kay led a relatively normal lifestyle— she didn’t live on Indigo, for one thing—but she’d managed to drag Jolie to the Haddox compound not once, but twice. Jolie had mixed feelings about that.
It was hard not to be impressed by all that power and ostentatious wealth. The family lived on a private island. Jolie found herself wondering what her life would have been like if she’d been part of the family. But when her mother married her father, a working man and artist with little money and fewer prospects, the family turned their backs on her. These were difficult thoughts to entertain, because Jolie couldn’t help feeling she was being untrue to her father’s memory.
Jolie answered, and Kay said, “Forty-eight days and counting.”
The goal was for her daughter Zoe to reach the first day of classes at Brown University. “Just hope she doesn’t get knocked up before then.”
“You don’t honestly think that would happen.”
“No. Zoe’s a cool kid—waaaaay too smart for that. But I’ll feel a hell of a lot better when she’s in the dorm. I’ll finally be able to breathe.”
Kay wasn’t happy that her daughter was spending the summer at Indigo. She was sure Zoe’s cousin Riley was a bad influence. But Zoe had lobbied so hard, wanted it so badly, that Kay had given in. It was only for the summer. After that, Zoe would be safely in Rhode Island.
“So did you go see the house?” Kay asked.
“I did.” Jolie went to turn off the tap. She felt dirty and tired, and hoped the bathwater wouldn’t cool off too quickly.
“I was right, wasn’t I? Depressing.”
“A little,” Jolie said. “But maybe it wasn’t back then. I remember my first apartment—what a dump that was. But I was too young to know any better. I can see a young couple just starting out being happy there.”
“Young people in love,” Kay said. “They’ll live anywhere. You remember anything?”
“How could I? I wasn’t even two years old. I took some pics, though.”
“Well, good, you have a record of it, then. I’m glad it’s not listed with us—that place is going to be a hard sell, even if it is the ancestral home of the Petal Soft Soap Baby.”
Jolie smiled. Her big claim to fame.
Kay had made no bones about it; she wasn’t thrilled about the idea of Jolie going back to her parents’ house. She’d warned Jolie it would be disappointing. And it was. Jolie had hoped for some resonance, something that connected her to her parents during a happy time in their lives. But there was nothing.
They talked for a while longer, mostly about Zoe and her cousin Riley, Franklin Haddox’s daughter. Riley was spoiled, and Kay suspected she was sexually active. “I wish I hadn’t let Zoe stay with her.”
“She’s got common sense,” Jolie said. “She’ll be all right.”
“Easy for you to say.”
The water in the tub was cold. Jolie drained it and started filling it up again. In the meantime, she clicked through her photos of the house. A saltbox cottage, faded yellow. Sunny kitchen, linoleum floors, tiny nursery. The pocket yard, the canal out back. The canal looked a lot like the canal behind the house she lived in now.
Home of the Petal Soft Soap Baby.
Jolie clicked through the photos and tried to picture her parents living as newlyweds there.
