“It stings!” This seeming objection, voiced by a girl, was clearly a mock complaint, flirtatious and pleased, but it reminded Alice to check the underbrush around her ankles one more time. No, there was nothing to fear here, no leaves of three, no reddish tinge.
Alice had been surprised the first time she realized how close the swim club was to her evening route through Ten Hills. It had seemed so far away when she was young, yet here it was all along, separated by a narrow strip of undergrowth and weedy trees. The sounds had drawn her here, once she figured out how to cut through people’s yards and driveways to reach the unclaimed land that buffered the club. That had been nerve-racking at first, but Alice had learned to vary the routes she took each night. She also had a lie at the ready if anyone challenged her. She was looking for a cat or a dog. Nothing more serious than that. After all, if you said you were looking for a little brother or sister, people might actually care. Her fictional cat was black, except for a spot of white on its chest, and wore a blue collar with a round silver tag that identified it as Stella. Her made-up dog was a collie named Max.
So far, however, no one had asked. Sometimes Alice drew a puzzled look from a homeowner watering her garden, or a man stealing a smoke at the edge of his own property. Alice, plain and fat, was as good as invisible. She had resented this once, even after finally finding someone who didn’t agree, who praised her eyes, who loved her body. But this quality had come in handy when she was on her quest.
She heard a rustling sound in the wooded no-man’s-land behind her and turned, ready to tell her story. A collie named Max, a cat named Stella. The cat has a blue collar. We call her Stella because my mom says she always wanted to have a cat named Stella, so she could go in the backyard at night and yell “Stella.” That makes her laugh. I don’t know why. Helen had, in fact, told Alice she would name a cat Stella, if she had a cat. But she had allergies.
The person coming toward her was thin and not very tall. Alice didn’t need to see the face to figure out it was Ronnie Fuller. No need to make excuses to Ronnie about why she was here. She wouldn’t waste a good lie on Ronnie.
“What are you doing here?” Alice asked, her voice soft yet belligerent. It was, in fact, Ronnie’s old tone, the one she had used to bluff and bully when they were children, back when Alice was a little scared of her. She wasn’t scared of Ronnie anymore, not really, just angry.
“Looking for you.”
“We’re not supposed to talk to each other.”
“It’s not a rule.” Ronnie’s voice scaled up, however, as if she wasn’t sure. “It’s not”-she groped for a word-“a condition, or anything. It was just, like, advice.”
“It’s good advice. For me. If I don’t have anything to do with you, I won’t get into trouble.”
“I’m not-I haven’t-I didn’t do anything.”
Something in Ronnie’s voice suggested she knew Alice had.
“Really? The police think you did. The police asked me lots of questions about you and the missing girl.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Ronnie repeated.
“It happened near where you worked.”
“It was near where about a thousand people work, I guess.”
The pool area was illuminated at night, but there were no lights here at the edges, so Alice could not make out Ronnie’s expression. The old Ronnie had been more likely to hit or pinch when contradicted, blubbering wordlessly. It was disorienting to see her stand her ground. Alice had been prepared to fight the old Ronnie in the old way, using words, piling them on until Ronnie was confused. But Ronnie seemed comfortable with words now.
“There’s only one person like you who works near Westview.”
“What do you mean?”
“A baby-stealer. A baby-killer.”
Ronnie’s voice trembled. “You know I never wanted to-”
“But you did. You held a pillow over her face until she stopped breathing. That makes you a baby-killer. Not me. I wasn’t there. Remember? I wasn’t even there.”
“It was your idea.” But she was growing tentative, betraying her uncertainty. “You told me to do it.”
Alice put on a grown-up’s prissy, reproving voice. “If Alice told you to jump off a building, would you do that? If Alice told you to play with matches, would you do that? If Alice told you-”
“Shut up.”
Ronnie’s voice was almost a shriek, loud and sharp enough to carry to the pool. For a second or two, it felt as if everyone was holding their breath, Alice and Ronnie included, waiting to see if something was about to happen. But no footsteps came toward them, and the noise around the pool soon started again.
“I don’t want to talk about what happened in the past,” Ronnie said, dragging the words out as if they hurt. “It’s over, and we can’t change it. But what’s happening now-if you did it, you have to tell them. You have to take them to the missing girl, and let her mother know where she is. You can’t blame me for this.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Well, I didn’t do anything last time, and I got blamed.” Alice put on her bland, obstinate voice, the one she used whenever pressed to give answers she didn’t want to provide. You have to tell us what happened, Alice. Why? So we can take steps, punish the man who did this. But I wanted him to do it. I love him, and I don’t want you to punish him. You can’t love him. Why? Because he doesn’t love you. But he does, he said so. Alice, we have to know what happened. Why?
“It was your idea,” Ronnie said.
“Prove it.”
“You told me what to do, how to do it. You said it had to be done.”
Alice shrugged, her gaze fixed on the pool.
“Look, I don’t care about then.” Ronnie’s voice was increasingly desperate. “I care about now. If you don’t tell the truth, the police are going to keep coming to where I work, and I’m going to lose my job. Or the newspaper will write about us-”
“Really?” Alice had thought there would be newspapers and television shows eventually, but not so soon.
“Really. I went to see Helen and she said-”
“Why did you go see my mom?”
“Because I was looking for you. And Helen said-”
She hated to hear her mother’s name in Ronnie’s mouth. She wanted to yank it from her, scream “Snatch pops, no snatch backs” the way the tough kids did when they stole Popsicles and candy bars. “You shouldn’t call her that. Even now. She’s my mother. She’s a grown-up.”