Cam Girl

Up on the hill Max’s house glowed like a golden coal. He’d invited us to the Labor Day clambake. We’d gone but skulked in the shadows, watching. He made friendly noises at his neighbors, drank, went home alone. Under cover of darkness, we followed.

Ellis stopped just shy of the road, fussing with the Bluetooth mic pi

“It’s fine,” I said, brushing her hands away. “He won’t see it.”

“I don’t want to give him any cause to shoot you.”

“He’s not going to shoot me. Relax.”

“We can still renege.”

“Nope. Once I commit, I’m like a cat. I sink my claws in and don’t let go till I shred everything.”

Ellis sighed. “Come back to me in one piece.”

On impulse I leaned in¸ kissed her cheek. Trailed my fingers along her jaw.

“You look beautiful,” she said. “For a dork.”

“So do you. For a nerd.”

As I walked to the house I wondered if Max was watching me on cam. I wore a midthigh skirt and a blouse with a deep neckline, subtle makeup. On the ferry ride I’d felt Elle staring, so I’d leaned up against the railing and let the wind have a field day with me. She’d blushed, but hadn’t looked away.

It was strange. Part of what made camming bearable was that I loved being looked at by men. I loved the quiet, tigerish way their eyes followed me, as if just waiting for the bars to be lifted, the cage opened, so they could pounce. The intricacies of beauty were wasted on them. They never noticed uneven eyebrows or uncoordinated shoes. A tiger doesn’t care what shoes you’re wearing when it eats you. Dolling myself up had never been about impressing men—I did it for myself, and for other women. To make Frankie look at me and say, “Damn. I’d go gay for that.” To make Ellis stare at me in a way that made a flame start low in my belly.

With Elle it was somewhere in between. She noticed the intricacies, but she was a tiger, too.

Like Blue.

My pulse quickened as I walked up the front steps. Max had a gun and I was wearing a wire, sort of. But he’d invited me. He wanted to talk.

I punched the bell.

When the door opened he was still in beach clothes: dress shirt, cuffed twill trousers, boating shoes. His oxford was halfway unbuttoned, revealing light chest hair. It took a second for my eyes to travel to his face.

“Good evening,” he said, smiling.

“Hi.”

“Come in. Please.”

I hesitated on the threshold. “Are you filming this?”

“The cameras are off, Vada.”

We’d have that on record, if he lied.

Inside I walked slowly, observing. The first time I’d been in here I was flustered, hyped on emotion. This time I was ready.

The house was cozy, if cliché New England—lots of bare timber and whitewashed planks and striped fabrics—with industrial touches: drafting table and stool, steel swing-arm lamps. On the mantel and in the halls were family photos: Max and Ryan and a blond woman, then later, just the boys.

“What did you want to talk about?” I said.

“Anything. I’ve missed your company.”

Right. “You want something.”

He drew up beside me, the smile still in his eyes. “I know you don’t believe it, but I worry about you. It’s the paternal instinct in me. You said it wouldn’t go away, and you were right.”

I fought the urge to touch the mic, ensure it was hidden.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Max said.

“Okay.”

He poured cognac into snifters at the bar in the dining room. I reclined against the table, watching.

“How’s Ellis?” he said.

“Fine.”

“Did you ask her about what I told you?”

I sipped, savored the licorice burn in my throat. “Yes.”

“No, you didn’t. Do you know how I know?”

I stared into my glass, considered bailing. Elle could hear every word we said right now.

“It’s in your eyes, Vada. That flicker of doubt.”

“Leave her out of this.”

“Can she hear us?”

I made my face blank. “What?”

“Is she listening in? I want you both to know I have no intention of pursuing legal action against you. Put your minds at rest, please.”

Despite myself, tension uncoiled in my shoulders. “Not like you could do shit to her, but okay.”

“We can stop here.” Max looked at me over his glass. “You let go, and I’ll let go.”

“Let go of what?”

He glanced at the neck of my blouse. Then he touched his chest, the same place my mic was hidden.

It took a second for me to parse what he meant:

He didn’t want Elle to hear.

I shivered. Wanted to blurt, Why? But instinct guided me.

“You’re creeping me out, Max,” I said aloud, pulling out my phone.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

I sent him a text:

write it down, but keep talking out loud

“You two missed a great clambake,” he said, tapping his phone as he rambled about the steamers.

MAX: She hurt you before and she’s doing it again.

MAX: It pains me to watch this happen to you.

VADA: how is she hurting me?

MAX: You see it, but you won’t accept it until it’s too late.

MAX: Don’t make the same mistake I did.

VADA: what the hell does that mean?

But instead of replying, he put his phone away.

“Did you crack the laptop password?” he said.

Thin ice. Careful. “We found some stuff, if that’s what you’re asking. Photos.”

Against Elle’s advice, I’d filed for a copy of the autopsy, too. Autopsies were public records in Maine. Ellis thought it gruesome—“We saw how bad it was, why do you want more?”—but the more details we uncovered about Ryan, the more I wanted to know. The more something seemed so obviously wrong, right in my face.

And Max kept trying to make this about Elle. Deflecting.

So I said, “I saw the pics. The ones where Ryan was beaten till he was nearly unrecognizable.”

He drained the snifter in one gulp.

“Who did that to him, Max?”

He filled his glass again, guzzled. I set mine down and moved closer.

“Was he gay? Is that what this is about?”

He laughed, brief and humorless. “You’re loyal to the people you love. Even when they lie to you.”

“Stop changing the subject.”

“Walk away, Vada. We’ll all be happier.”

“Did you hurt him?”

His glass tumbled to the floor, cracking. His hand shot out and clamped onto my shoulder. I grabbed his wrist but he was stronger and held on, grinding my bones.

“I never hurt him,” Max rasped. “Never.”

His hand sprang away. I massaged my right arm, glaring.

“Stop this. Please. Let me keep my memories, at least.”

This was exactly where I wanted him: vulnerable, unstable. Prone to spitting out truth.

Prone to hurting me.

“You went after my friend, Max. You started this.”

“I was worried. I care about you. But I can’t save you from it. It’s going to tear you up, like it did to me. I’m sorry.”

I bared my teeth and mouthed, Leave. Her. Alone.

He stared at my mic.

This cryptic shit was getting me nowhere. I moved closer again, undaunted, peering up into his face.

“I don’t want to hurt you, or your memories, or anything. But I need answers. I can’t move on otherwise. Give me something. Why did the cops take the gun?”

“They found it in the Jeep.”

My eyes widened. “Was Ryan going after someone? Whoever beat him?”

“He’d never hurt a soul. That was Skylar, not him.”

His lips curled at the name.

Bingo.

“Tell me what she did.” I leaned nearer, pressed a hand to his arm. His heart boomed so hard it rang in my bones. “Tell me what was going through Ryan’s mind that night. We both want the same thing, Max. Closure. And we can give it to each other, if you just help me understand.”

His eyes gleamed, the color intensified like wet paint. So blue.

“There’s no closure,” he said hoarsely. “It’s a lie. You keep yourself distracted, pretend you’re making progress, but the wound never closes, Vada. It will never close.”