Gemma had never wanted to sleep more badly in her life. But as soon as she pulled out her phone, she saw more missed calls and texts from her mom. The last text had come in from her mom only fifteen minutes ago. CALL ME. She wanted to do nothing less, but she pulled up her home number and dialed.
Her mother picked up on the first ring. She’d obviously been waiting by the phone.
“How are you feeling?” Kristina asked.
“I’m fine,” Gemma said cautiously. She’d been expecting her mom to sound angrier.
“April said you were sick. I tried calling the house several times, and I’ve been calling your cell. . . .” Her mom’s voice was edged with suspicion.
She’d completely forgotten April’s cover story. “I’m still really tired,” she said quickly. That, at least, was the truth. “I’ve been basically sleeping since I got here.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better,” she said. “Listen, I’ve spoken to your father. He’s very upset . . .”
Gemma’s heart started beating harder.
“. . . but I’ve convinced him there’s no reason to rush home,” Kristina finished.
Gemma exhaled. “So he’s staying in Shanghai?”
“He was already in London when I managed to reach him,” she said. “He’s going to stay there for a few days and take some meetings. But he wants you home by the time he gets back on Saturday. I’ll email you some flight options later.”
It was better than Gemma could have hoped. It was Wednesday. That gave her almost a full three days. “I was thinking I’d just drive home with April—” she said, but her mom cut her off before she could finish.
“Don’t push your luck,” Kristina said, her tone changing and becoming harder. “You’ll fly on Saturday morning and we’ll figure out how to manage your father.” Again Gemma felt that hard squeeze of anger, of hatred, bringing a burn to the back of her throat. “And Gemma? I wouldn’t try to call your dad just now. He’s still quite upset.”
I wasn’t planning on it, Gemma nearly said. But she thought she’d take her mom’s advice and wouldn’t push her luck. “Okay,” she said. “Love you, Mom.”
“You better,” Kristina said. She was smiling, though. Gemma could hear it in her voice. Maybe, Gemma thought, she and her mom would run away somewhere. To California. To Paris. Somewhere her father wouldn’t be able to find them. “Love you too.”
There was a tangle of discarded clothes and bathing suits on April’s bed, but Gemma didn’t bother clearing it off. Instead she crawled in under the covers, still wearing her jeans and T-shirt. She could hear the water gushing in the other room, but the thought of Jake showering—naked, so close by—no longer made her blush or feel much of anything. When her phone started ringing again, she picked it up without checking the screen.
“Mom,” she said, “I’m going back to sleep for a bit, okay? I’m not feeling great.”
“Now that’s a first.” It wasn’t her mom on the phone, but Pete. She recognized his voice. “I’ve heard stud before. Babykins, hotcakes. No one’s ever called me Mom before.”
Gemma smiled, and her face nearly cracked. She brought a hand to her cheeks. Already it felt as if she hadn’t smiled in days. “I’m not buying it,” she said. “No one’s ever called you hotcakes, either.”
“Fair enough.” His voice changed. “What’s the matter? Are you sick? Or just missing me?”
She rolled her eyes before remembering he couldn’t see her. “You wish. Anyway, you called me. What’s up?”
“Just checking in,” Pete said. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t lying in a gutter somewhere.”
“Barrel Key doesn’t have any gutters,” Gemma pointed out.
“You know what I mean,” Pete said. “Did you find whatever you were looking for?”
“More,” Gemma said. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to relax for the first time in twenty-four hours. April’s bed was cloud-soft and smelled deliciously of lavender. “Look, can I talk to you later? I really do need to sleep.”
“Big night, huh?” Although Pete’s voice was still light, Gemma thought he sounded hurt. But she was too tired to explain. She closed her eyes and saw the dead girl again, and the beetle tracking across her ankle. She knew that the body bloated after death and imagined the girl balloon-like, distended, and quickly opened her eyes again.
“You could say that,” she said.
“Feel better.” He’d recovered quickly and was his usual, cheerful self. “Stay away from the gutter, okay?”
“I’ll try,” Gemma said. Before he could hang up, she added, “Hey, Pete?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Thanks. Just . . . thanks.” Then she hung up before she could begin to cry. She rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. When she closed her eyes, she forced herself to focus on Pete’s eyes, and the pale blond of his lashes; the crooked look of his smile and the way he sang along to the radio station, getting all the words wrong. But soon Pete’s face was merging with Jake’s, and Pete was frowning and dressed in all black, at a funeral for Gemma’s father—except when she looked inside the casket, she saw her own face reflected, her own body stitched and sutured and gray beneath its garish makeup, her mouth open as though to scream.