Blame Read online

  Her smile was warm, compassionate, and caring. Jane nearly screamed.

  * * *

  Four days after Jane woke up from the coma, this lovely girl had come into her hospital room carrying flowers, smiling at her, saying, “Hi, the doctors say you may not remember me. My name is Kamala Grayson, we’re like sisters.” And Mom, gushing, happy to see a smiling face from Jane’s social circle, who had been fewer than Mom would have liked, saying, “Hi, Kamala, it’s so nice to see you, Jane’s memory isn’t quite back, forgive her.” As if Jane had committed a social blunder.

  “So I heard,” Kamala had said. “Do you remember me?”

  Jane shook her head. “Sorry,” she had said. “I don’t.” Her voice was very small. Every interaction felt like a test she was failing.

  “Well, we’ve known each other since second grade. We went to middle school together, and now high school. We suffered through Mrs. Montoya’s Spanish class together.”

  “OK.” Jane said this a lot. It seemed an all-purpose answer that never upset anyone.

  “Kamala, would you like a Coke? I was just going to get one,” Mom had offered.

  “I don’t want to trouble you.” Kamala didn’t look at Mom. Only at Jane.

  “Maybe you talking to Jane will help,” Mom had said. “She just doesn’t remember anyone so far, but I know she’ll be better soon, the more friendly faces she sees.” Jane could hear a strain in her voice. “I’ll let you two talk while I go get us some Cokes. I find this hospital air to be very drying. Is it me?”

  “No, ma’am,” Kamala said. “I agree with you. My parents say it’s always so in medical offices. Mom says you really have to moisturize.”

  “Yes, absolutely,” Mom said, as if moisturizing was the biggest medical imperative.

  “How do you feel?” Kamala asked after Mom left. She set the flowers down alongside the others that had been delivered.

  “Sore. Everything hurts.”

  “But you can feel, can’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good. To still be able to feel.” Kamala stood close to her bed. “Your poor arm is broken.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll get everyone to sign your cast when you’re back at school. And you remember nothing?” Now she touched Jane’s shoulder carefully. “I want to hug you but I know you’re hurting. And…you truly don’t know me, right? It’s not an excuse.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t remember you.”

  Kamala just watched her for a moment, as if Jane’s face were a map.

  “You seem a little emotionless. I guess that’s a side effect.”

  “OK,” Jane said again.

  “Have you had a lot of friends visit yet? That must be awkward. I mean, since you don’t remember.” Kamala watched her.

  “No. Not really.”

  “You don’t really have a ton of friends.”

  Her words had jolted Jane, but Kamala had said quickly, “Oh, I don’t mean that badly. You tend to go your own way. I always admired that about you. What can I do to help you?”

  “I don’t know. Tell me who everyone is. I have no idea if I’ll even go back to school.”

  “You will. We’ll get through this together.” Then she asked, “Why were you and David together in your car?” Kamala sat on the edge of the bed.

  Jane twisted the sheet in her hands. “Who is David? They keep mentioning his name and no one tells me who he is.”

  “Are you sure you’re not lying, just a little? You can tell me. C’mon, amnesia? It’s so, I don’t know, nighttime soap opera.” She said this very gently, almost kindly.

  “I really don’t remember.”

  “David’s not the kind of guy you can forget.” Kamala had settled her stare back into a smile. “But your face isn’t hurt. That’s nice. You’re pretty enough.” Kamala ran a hand through her glorious black hair. “I heard David’s face was badly damaged. The service was closed-casket.”

  Jane had scrunched down farther in the bed, watching her. Service?

  “I don’t know how amnesia works. Do you remember basic knowledge from the culture you live in? You know what a funeral is? What ‘closed-casket’ is? When someone dies, we put them in the ground. The casket is what holds the body. ‘Closed’ is when the body is so ruined, so destroyed, that no one can bear to look at it.”

  Jane couldn’t speak. Ever since awakening she had felt like she was in a haze, but she knew that if she pushed the button on the bedside control, the nice nurse would come, and the nice nurse was a big-shouldered guy, about six-three, who could pick Kamala Grayson up and carry her far, far away. Her hand inched toward the control. Kamala’s hand closed on hers, almost gently.

  Kamala leaned close and brushed her lips against Jane’s forehead. “I’m just a little raw right now. But we’ve been friends forever and I love you. When you remember what happened with you and David…talk to me. And no one else. I promise it will be all right.”

  Mom reentered, holding two Cokes. “I thought you might want one, Kamala.”

  “Did I…kill this David?” Jane asked her mother in a hoarse whisper.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Norton,” Kamala said. Her voice was soft and consoling. “Jane got agitated…I tried to calm her down. I should have just rung for the nurse. I mentioned David without thinking, I’m so sorry.”

  “Who’s David?” Jane’s voice rose. “Did I kill someone?” Laurel rushed to her side.

  “Jane, I’m sorry, it’ll all be OK…” Kamala backed away from the bed. “I should go. Please, call me, if there’s anything that I can do for you, Mrs. Norton. I’ll be happy to help Jane fit back in if she returns to school.” And with that Kamala was gone, scooping up the Coke Laurel had set down as she tried to hug Jane, and took a long sip from it as she left the room.

  Jane had to be sedated.

  * * *

  And Kamala had been good as her word. Oh, what a help she had been.

  Now she stood before Jane, close to the edge of the cliff, and Jane’s first thought: We’re alone here. No one else is around. Just her and me, and a long drop down.

  Kamala smiled. Then Jane saw, up the rise, on the side of High Oaks Road, a car parked, a girl watching from the window.

  “How are you?” Kamala asked. “I’ve been so worried about you. I heard you flunked out of Saint Mike’s.”

  “You heard wrong,” Jane lied. “Thanks for your concern. How’s life at UT?”

  “Let’s not compare our lives right now, Jane. I’ve heard you’re not doing well. How can I help you?”

  She took a step toward Jane. Slowly Jane moved away from Kamala, up the hill, away from the ledge.

  Kamala shook her head sadly. “I wish you would let me be your friend again.”

  “Just stay away from me.”

  “Jane. How will you ever get better if you don’t take responsibility for your life?”

  “I know what you are behind the smile, and behind the gentle words, and behind the fake caring,” Jane said.

  Kamala just kept smiling and shaking her head. “I forgave you. I guess you can’t forgive yourself.”

  “You sound like a therapist talk show.”

  Jane turned to head up the steep hill.

  “Jane, I so want to help you,” Kamala said to her back. “Why won’t you let me?”

  “I finally figured you out,” Jane said, turning back to face her. “All this hating me behind your sugary smile and your fake concern is just a drama, with you as the star. Messing with me, ruining me, it’s just about you. Did you bring your friend along to watch, so she could tell the really good sorority how kind and noble you are?” Her words sounded so harsh in the quiet of the breeze. While Kamala just kept those gentle, pitying eyes on her.

  “I didn’t just lose David,” Kamala said. “I lost you, too. I just don’t understand why you hate me so.”

  Kamala. She had to be this Liv Danger, who’d left the creepy Faceplace message. It was entirely the kind of bullying stu
nt she would pull. All Will Pay. Especially for killing Kamala’s boyfriend. Jane turned and started to walk back up the hill.

  “We’re not done,” Kamala said. “You’re not well, Jane. Don’t you realize that I care, your mother cares, we just want you to get better.”

  Jane stopped and turned back to the young woman who had been her best friend for years. “You don’t get to call me crazy. Not you!”

  Jane stumbled up the steep incline of the hill, back to High Oaks Road. A BMW was parked along the side of the road, and by it stood a young woman, who stared at Jane.

  “What are you looking at?” Jane snapped at the girl, who said nothing, but got back into the car.

  Oh, great. Jane realized she was going to have to stand here and wait for a rideshare car to respond to her request on the app. She could not bear it if she was still loitering by the side of the road when Kamala left.

  Kamala, who had been popular, and was so beautiful, and salutatorian at one of the most competitive high schools in Texas, and perfect. If she tried to hug Jane, Jane thought she would punch her.

  Nowhere to go. Then, farther down the road and to her left, she saw a gate to a driveway. That house, she knew, belonged to the man who had heard the crash and had called the police. She knew from the newspaper accounts of the crash that his name was James Marcolin.

  She started walking before she could think. The driver could pick her up at the Marcolin residence. It would be an address on the GPS, and even a hundred yards between her and Kamala was better than nothing.

  She was halfway there when she heard the BMW’s engine start.

  She studied her phone, a camouflage she knew to be lame but she couldn’t help herself.

  The BMW pulled even with her. Kamala was in the passenger seat.

  “You don’t drive, of course, do you? Let us give you a ride. Is there a homeless shelter you’re staying at?” Kamala asked.

  Every word a jab of the knife. Jane kept walking.

  “Jane, are you homeless? I want to know the truth.”

  Jane stopped and leaned down toward the window. “Let’s talk truth. Do you know what kind of monster you have for a friend?” she said to the other girl, who was driving. “I was in a hospital, with brain damage and no memory, and she started a campaign to turn the whole school against me. She pretended to love me and she made my life hell.”

  “Oh, Jane.” Kamala lowered her voice. “You’re confused. Are you high? Are you on street drugs? My mom can get you into a clinic by this afternoon. Let me…”

  Jane closed her hand into a fist. “If you don’t get away from me…” Then she turned and picked up a rock and raised it as if to smash it on the pristine black hood of the car.

  Suddenly the other girl sped the BMW past Jane, while through the rear windshield Jane could see Kamala turning in the passenger seat to watch her.

  With a momentary smile.

  Jane wanted to throw the rock at the departing car. Tears sprang to her eyes. She could imagine Kamala saying right now, You see, I tried to help her. I tried to be there for her, even after she killed David. I tried. But she can’t be helped. She kept walking, trying to shove the words out of her brain. She wanted to tell Kamala’s friend, She’ll make you think you’re the center of the world, sisters, bonded in blood, your friend you can tell anything to, and then she’ll watch you die from a thousand little cuts. And she made them all.

  Jane stopped. Forget Kamala. Think about the crash. Remember. She looked down the road again and back to the crash site, where the car had veered off so wildly. Not a bend. Not a curve.

  What were David and I doing here?

  She reached the gated entrance for James Marcolin’s property. The gates were large, ornate steel, taller than she was, automated and elaborate. The street number was artistically part of the gate. Nothing to stop her now from opening the rideshare app and giving them this address.

  She stared up at the huge house. It was elaborate—three stories, Tuscan architecture, truly stunning. She stood before the gate’s panel, which had a security touchpad and a speaker box, hesitating to ring the bell. Just to ask him what he heard, what he saw that night. Thank him for calling and saving her life. He was likely at work now.

  Her finger inched toward the buzzer for the gate and she glanced toward the house. A camera watched her and moved, slightly, into a better position. Her hand stopped above the buzzer and stepped back.

  She gave a little wave. The camera watched, unmoving.

  “Hello?” a voice called to her. A man dressed in jeans and a nice T-shirt approached the gate. He was fortyish, with dark hair and eyes and a narrow smile. He held a giant sponge dripping with soap, and she could see he had been washing a sports car in the driveway.

  “Hi. Are you Mr. Marcolin?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m Jane Norton. Um, this sounds weird, but I was in a car crash here two years ago. You were the one who called the police.” Realization dawned on his face and he nodded. “I wanted to thank you. You saved my life.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.” He didn’t seem to know what else to say. His voice was soft, with a slight accent she found hard to place: Spanish, perhaps Italian. “Are you recovered now?”

  Recovered. What a lovely word. “I lost my memory. Well, part of it. The three years before the crash…” She hated explaining. To so many people, amnesia seemed like something from a movie. So rare that they would never forget meeting her, like meeting quintuplets or an astronaut. She fell back on her lie. “I go to Saint Michael’s. I’m a sophomore there.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Perhaps visiting the road will help you remember.”

  “I’m sure,” she said, because it was too hard to explain that wasn’t how it worked. Hollywood had trained audiences to expect amnesia to be temporary, like a cold. “I just wanted to ask you if David, the boy who died, did he suffer? You saw us, right? You came down to the car.” Her voice had gone very soft.

  He pressed a button and the ornate gate slid open, nearly silent. He stepped out to stand closer to her. “He did not suffer. Please put your mind at ease about that.”

  His kindness—compared to how the rest of the morning had gone, with anonymous threats, with Perri pulling her from a car, with Kamala’s poisonous smile—nearly made her cry.

  “Thank you for calling. I just wondered…” And despite her certainty that Kamala was Liv Danger, the words I know what you claim you don’t remember. I know what happened rang in her mind. “…This is a dumb question. Did you see anyone else that night, here? Another person, another car?”

  “You mean another witness? No, I was alone. I was just back from a business trip overseas, only for an hour or so, when I heard the crash.”

  “I meant did you see anyone else near the crash, or on the road…” The question sounded stupid, as if someone was waiting for them to come to that road. Were they? Were they supposed to meet someone here on that dark stretch above the cliff?

  He shook his head. “No, I didn’t see anyone.”

  “You said you travel?” She glanced up at the gorgeous home. “What do you do?”

  “Ah. I work in international finance. I took today off as I’ve been traveling so much. Which I am glad of, since I got to see you, and see that you are doing better, and hopefully answer your question.”

  “All right. Thank you again.” She turned to walk away.

  “Ms. Norton?”

  She stopped and looked back at him. “I wish you well. I hope you get your memories back. Even the painful ones.” Marcolin offered a tentative smile.

  “Thank you.”

  He glanced down the road. “No car? You didn’t drive yourself?”

  “I don’t like to drive much anymore since the crash. I use rideshares.”

  “Would you like me to take you where you need to be? I can finish washing my car in a few minutes. You could have a cup of tea while I finish.”

  “No, sir, thank you. I appreciate it, though.”
/>   “All right. Good luck to you.” He stepped back onto his driveway and the beautiful steel gate began to close. Jane used her rideshare app to summon a car to his address. He watched her for a few moments and then waved and stepped out of view.

  Of course there was no one else. Liv Danger was a lie, designed to upset and scare her on a day that was already difficult. She was going to prove it was Kamala, and if it wasn’t, then she’d find the guilty party and make them look her in the eye and confess.

  The rideshare soon arrived, and as she headed back to St. Michael’s, she realized that tracking down Liv Danger was the first real sense of purpose she’d felt in months.

  6

  JANE? JANE NORTON?”

  Jane was walking toward Adam’s dorm. She had thought of going to her house—of running home to Mom, and whatever comfort she might be offered—but she couldn’t bear to see the Hall house, next door, and the chance of meeting Mrs. Hall again. She had to figure out her next move, to prove that Kamala was behind the Liv Danger posts. But she needed to eat her lunch off Adam’s meal plan; she didn’t have much cash. Near the dorm entrance—which she planned to walk past and use the window into Adam’s room, as she usually did—stood a young man, late twenties, smiling uncertainly at her, walking to intercept her, calling her name.

  “Aren’t you Jane Norton?” His accent was soft, not quite British, something else. He stepped a bit closer to her, still smiling. Dark skin and hair, bright smile. Handsome.

  “Yes,” she said. Bracing herself.

  “Hi. I’m Kevin Ngota.” He offered his hand but she didn’t shake it. After a moment he lowered his hand but he didn’t look offended.

  “Am I supposed to know you?” She studied his face. It was disconcerting when people she might have gone to school with but not known well came up to her. Sometimes it felt like they were testing her, trying to catch her in a lie.

  “We’ve never met, but I know who you are. I’m doing a graduate thesis in counseling here at Saint Michael’s. My particular interest is in memory recovery after accidents.”