Franny smiled that smile again. The room turned cold. Kaitlyn leaned back in her chair. All she wanted to do was get up and run, but she had one last thing to do.
“I want you to leave town,” Kaitlyn said.
“You want to go somewhere together?”
“No.”
“What? I thought . . .” The color fled from Franny’s face. “You tricked me, didn’t you? You still don’t care.”
“Yes, I tricked you.”
“Well, I’m not leaving.”
“Yes you will.”
“Why should I?”
Kaitlyn turned over the phone. The record function was on, blinking red. “Because if you don’t, this recording’s going to the police.”
“What? You wouldn’t do that . . . You’d be caught, too.”
“I’ll take my chances. You’ll leave tonight. Now.”
“No, I have to go say goodbye.”
“You’re leaving in thirty minutes. I even bought you a ticket. You can e-mail them once you get there. Joshua will be relieved. Trust me.”
“He chose me, you know. I didn’t even have to work that hard.”
Kaitlyn hit the button to end the recording. Franny tried to grab it from her, but Kaitlyn was too quick. She pocketed the phone.
“Don’t bother. See that guy at the door? I paid him five hundred dollars to watch out for me. If you try anything, he will be on you so fast.” She pushed a bus ticket across the table. “Take the ticket, Franny. Eileen. Go home.”
Franny looked at the location. Madison.
“I don’t want to go back there.”
“I don’t care. You can leave and go somewhere else if you want. You just have to promise not to come back to Chicago.”
“How will you know if I do?”
“I have something set up.”
It didn’t take Franny long to get there. “Cecily.”
Kaitlyn didn’t say anything.
“I made sure Joshua knew what you did with Tom. I knew he’d tell Cecily,” Franny said.
“Thanks for that.”
They glared at each other. Kaitlyn had a sickening thought that she and Franny weren’t so different after all. And wasn’t the explosion at least partly her fault? If she’d handled Franny properly, maybe none of this would have happened. They’d both spend the rest of their lives in purgatory. It wasn’t enough to pay for her own sins, but it was something.
“You’d better get going, Franny. You wouldn’t want to miss your bus.”
Franny’s eyes darted around the room, looking for an exit.
“There’s no way out. Take the ticket. Go to Madison. Then go where you want. Start over for good this time. And get some help. Forget about me. Forget about my family.”
“I can’t ever forget about you.”
Kaitlyn suspected the feeling was mutual, but she didn’t want to think about that right now.
“Let’s go. Stand up.”
Franny followed her instructions. Kaitlyn left some money on the table for her drink, then tapped Franny between her shoulder blades, leading her out of the bar. They crossed the street, Kaitlyn with a firm grip on Franny’s arm. She took her to her bus stop. She waited with her until it was time to get on. They didn’t say goodbye.
There was nothing left to say.
SOON AFTER GIVING HER LAST INTERVIEW TO THE PRODUCTION CREW, FRANNY MAYCOMBE DISAPPEARED.
SHE NEVER PROVIDED THEM WITH A COPY OF HER BIRTH CERTIFICATE.
A MONTH AFTER FILMING FINISHED, THE PRODUCTION OFFICE RECEIVED AN ANONYMOUS ENVELOPE.
IT CONTAINED PARTS OF A RECORDING WHERE SOMEONE IDENTIFIED AS FRANNY MAYCOMBE IS HEARD CONFESSING TO DELIBERATELY SETTING OFF THE EXPLOSION ON OCTOBER TENTH THAT KILLED 513 PEOPLE.
THE PRODUCTION COMPANY TURNED OVER THE RECORDING TO THE POLICE.
THEY’RE CURRENTLY INVESTIGATING THE PROVENANCE OF THE TAPE.
THEY NOW BELIEVE THAT THE TRIPLE TEN TRAGEDY WASN’T AN ACCIDENT BUT A DELIBERATE ACT.
FRANNY MAYCOMBE IS THE PRIME SUSPECT.
HER CURRENT WHEREABOUTS ARE UNKNOWN.
EPILOGUE
ANONYMOUS POST FROM IKNOWWHATYOUDIDLASTSUMMER.COM
I have a secret.
Twenty-four years ago, I gave a baby up for adoption.
When I was eighteen years old, I won a contest to intern at a famous magazine in Europe. I was so surprised I won that it took me weeks to tell my parents. I’d lie in bed and stare and stare at the envelope, the letter. I read everything I could about the city. I bought tapes and learned the language. Actually learned it, not just the way you do in school. I loved the way it rolled off my tongue. The way it tasted.
My parents were strict, and I was a bit wild. I thought I was carefree, that they were too cautious. But I can see their point of view now. I was reckless. The kid who’d walk along the edge of the seawall. The one who didn’t listen when her parents told her to step away from the ledge. I scraped knees, broke a wrist, got a mild concussion. They’d frown while I laughed. The pain was worth the experience.
So this, I knew this, even though I was eighteen, would be a problem. I needed to show my parents I could be trusted. That nothing would happen to me. That I’d be safe.
Somehow I did. They hemmed and hawed. I begged and pleaded and promised.
And then they let me go.
I met him the third day I was there. I see the cliché now. An older man, my boss, married. The heedless, naive girl from North America. After, when it was over, I realized he’d manipulated it all from before I arrived. That he’d chosen me because he saw something in my essay. My photograph. Something pliable. Something broken that he could exploit rather than fix. That even the flowers he’d given me—marigolds—were part of the information he’d gleaned from my application. Was he a sociopath? Given everything, I’ve wondered. But then? I thought he was charming. Smart. The man for me forever.
Until the stick turned blue two months into the New Year.
Then he was cold, distant. More clichés upon clichés. I would have an abortion. He would pay, grudgingly it seemed. Of course he wouldn’t leave his wife. Had I done this on purpose?
It was nasty. I was afraid. I didn’t know how to tell
