Catch up on the previous chapters here
Nell made a noise before she realized she’d meant to, causing Kent to look up from the laptop. He had it in the kitchen, which was within sight of the living room if he turned around, trying to save his back from hunching over it and give her space at the same time. “Which part?”
“Kelsey.” She was Kayleigh in the book.
Kent nodded.
Nell wrinkled her nose and slouched further. “It’s … too much fiction.”
“What, the part where he comforts Rosie after her high school friend gets killed because she wandered drunk into the bad part of town?”
“Yes.” The comforting part. The rest had actually happened, which was suspicious as hell, because Kelsey had no reason to be anywhere near where she’d been murdered. That was a Wednesday night, she had an 8am class on Thursday, and yet she’d gone out—no one had been able to say exactly when—and been found murdered, without her wallet, and with a BAC higher than any of her friends could credit.
The only way any of it made sense was if the Fairy Godfather was playing his long game, latched onto Kelsey because she’d spent so much time at the apartment hanging out and studying with Nell, and somehow convinced her to come out with him, forced her to drink something strong, and killed her. But her murder had never been solved, and now Nell wasn’t sure that this book would work as a confession.
The only guy other than Kent who’d comforted her after Kelsey’s death was her advisor. College seniors were not equipped to deal with that kind of a thing, and most of them tried to just … ignore it. Make jokes about it, even. Announce their superiority because the girls would only go out in pairs and the guys would make sure to accompany any unescorted female, said unironically, like it didn’t make any of the females present want to vomit.
“It’s too fake,” Nell repeated.
Kent, though, shrugged. “He’s got a lot of details about the murder.”
“Newspapers …”
“I don’t know. That’s something for Adam to check.”
But even then … unless there was a specific detail that only the murderer could have known … maybe it was all fiction.
It couldn’t all be fiction. There were too many coincidences for that, but …
But.
Kent looked at her, then checked the time. “You need a snack.”
“Honey …”
“Nope, you need to get your blood sugar back up.”
Like low blood sugar was the only reason she was feeling so damn hopeless.
There was a reason they didn’t talk about this stuff. A reason she tried not to think about this stuff. They were coming up on the fifth anniversary of Heidi’s murder, and the case was just as stalled as it had been five years ago. The cases were cold, heading toward frozen, and Adam’s semi-regular check-ins were basically jokes. About the only thing Nell could be certain of was that she hadn’t taken the killer into hiding with her, and that Kent still didn’t know she’d actually read Monkeewrench during those weird between months where he grew out his hair and they made a plan for a completely different kind of life. Come to think of it, Monkeewrench was the last thriller she’d ever read.
Kent brought her a plate with half a sandwich and a handful of chips, and a glass of Sprite with exactly three ice cubes. Love was knowing how many ice cubes to put in which size glass.
Thank God no one had ever thought to accuse Kent of being the Fairy Godfather. That was maybe the one thing that could’ve made any of this worse: having to wonder if the one person she’d been stuck with—the one who’d insisted on sticking with her—had committed all the murders purely to drive her into the situation where he was all she had. Looking at it that way, they were damn lucky the Fairy Godfather hadn’t killed Kent.
“Eat,” Kent urged her, sitting down next to her and stealing one of her chips. “I’d offer to read it out loud to you while you do, but I’m not sure that would help.”
That story, in Kent’s voice? “No, thanks.” She picked up the sandwich, then paused before she took a bite. “Hey, so what time did you call Adam and how did you convince him to come so quickly?”
“Uh.” He settled back on the couch. “Probably around two. And he said he’d already heard about the book. Actually …” Kent winced and shook his head, then corrected: “He said he’d heard about it because of the whole speculation that the author was using it to try to flush someone out. Like an abused ex.”
“Oh, come on. Do they think the same thing about every novel?”
Kent shook his head. “No. That’s why he was so quick to clear Saturday for us. I think he’s getting a copy before then, too.”
So either the meeting would be quick as he laughed it off and did just enough to placate them and make them think he was taking it seriously, or it would quickly develop into one of the worst days of Nell’s life. There was a lot of competition down there.
“Nell … we’re not jumping at shadows.”
Maybe not, but there was a question they were avoiding, and Nell put the sandwich down before she could take another bite. “Is he trying to find me so he can kill me, too?” Was that the true point of the hashtag? #FindRosie: crowdsourcing the entire country to track down the one that got away … from a serial murderer.
Kent shook his head, though, which meant he’d already thought of it. “He doesn’t want to kill you. He wants to protect you. So … if anyone’s dying here …”
Nell’s own shake was almost a violent jerk. “He didn’t come after you before.”
“I wasn’t actually with you before. Not physically. It just didn’t work out.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Now we’re married. We’re living together. I’m, what, the reason you disappeared before graduation and didn’t end up taking that job and now you’re just a barista?”
“You’re …” She didn’t even know where to start her protests.
Kent reached around her to tap the book. “You see how he keeps twisting all of it. He’s got his own idea of who Rosie is and what makes her happy. The Fairy Godmother went after the people he thought were holding you back, based on what he decided you wanted. I’m the one who dragged you to the middle of nowhere in Iowa, made sure you couldn’t use your degree, and stopped you from doing something with your life.”
Also the one who turned his back on everything he’d done, his degree and job and all the rest, to be there for her.
“Babe.” Kent gently touched her cheek. “You’re not thinking about it the way he is.”
Of course not. Who’d want to?
“He was helping you. He was the only one who was helping you. I took you away from him, so everything I did was wrong.”
Except even that wasn’t entirely true. “You didn’t take me—”
“That’s not how he’d see it.”
Nell picked up the book and shook it. “You don’t even exist in here!”
“Exactly. It’s his fantasy.” Kent shrugged again. “Rosie’s perfect and pure. She’s too good-hearted and won’t stand up for herself, but that’s a minor flaw. So he steps in, except he doesn’t want her to know he’s the one who did it, and then he comforts her in the face of tragedy, until …”
She snorted. “Until?” He was acting like he didn’t want to spoil the ending, but she already knew about Heidi, thanks.
“He doesn’t know what happened to her. That’s why it’s a literary piece, not a romance.” Kent shrugged again, both uncomfortable and defensive in the face of her raised eyebrow. “A romance needs the happily-ever-after or the happily-for-now. It’s a generic requirement, or else it’s not a romance. It’s a romantic other genre.” He tapped the book she still held up. “This is romantic, because of all the stuff Brandon was shouting, but after the roommate dies, he doesn’t see Rosie again. He assumes she’s been hustled off to family or friends or something, but everywhere he asks, he gets stonewalled. Nobody will tell him where she is or even if she’s alive somewhere.”
Nell frowned, but somehow she couldn’t get that to make sense.
“I did some more Googling,” he continued, still defensive. “Most of the advance readers don’t post with spoilers, but some of them do. There’s this one theory that Hailey actually killed Rosie and mutilated her so Hailey could go off and start a new life, and yeah, someone says maybe Rosie got put into witness protection while they looked for the killer, but it’s just so open-ended. It’s this mysterious encounter Cal has with Rosie for a handful of months, but he’s not even sure she’s real. Which,” he added almost reluctantly, “seems to be the most common conclusion. Cal dreamed her.”
She opened the book again without really meaning to, going past the advance praise to the epigraph O’Connell had chosen: “Mad Girl’s Love Song” by Sylvia Plath. It was a villanelle, one of those strictly-formatted poems where two lines kept repeating throughout, so that the narrator kept saying “(I think I made you up inside my head.)”
It was one of Nell’s favorite poems.
“Yeah, see?” Kent shifted so he could put his elbow on the back of the couch and prop his head on his hand. “It looks like he’s setting it up to be a dream, so even if someone actually finds ‘Rosie,’ it wasn’t his intent. It’s just a marketing gimmick so people want to buy it and do a close reading and get the bragging rights if they figure it out, but oh, no, he never actually asked anyone to do it.”
“Hey, wait, so—if the FBI’s already got half an eye on him, then do they know his real name?”
“His real …?”
“Because I’ve never known anyone named O’Connell,” she pressed on. “Our FacMan at the apartments was actually a woman. Genevieve. Remember?”
Kent’s eyes drifted. “… yes.”
“So, like, that part’s wrong. And I don’t think I’ve ever met a Calvin, either, but with the way he’s been twisting the other names … finding something sort of close, but not …”
“I’m sure Adam will have someone go over everyone who had access to your apartment building, no matter what letter their name starts with.”
Like that hadn’t been done before. And like there was any chance of Adam finding something new after all this time.
Kent leaned over to pick up her Sprite and encourage her to drink some, kissing her temple again before he headed back to their laptop and whatever search he thought might be worth his time next.
from Since You Went Away by C. J. O’Connell (Penguin, 2024)
The first thing I hear on the radio this morning is about a murdered woman found somewhere in Kalamazoo. I wake up to the radio, because it’s better than the blare of an alarm clock, but it’s usually music, not some disc jockey trying to play out this tiny tidbit of news for as much time as he can. It’s not even suspense, because there’s not enough information for that. Woman found murdered. More whenever he gets more.
It’s not Rosie. It can’t be Rosie. Rosie came home yesterday afternoon once her classes were over and decided to just stay in, because it’s a weeknight, and that’s her usual choice, anyway. But part of me worries that it is Rosie somehow, and I’m grabbing for my phone and texting her before I can think that she won’t be awake yet.
It’s not technically my first stop today, but I head over to her building, anyway, and it gets worse. There’s a police car in the parking lot, empty, lights dark, but it’s there and that’s a problem. There shouldn’t be a police car here, not in a spot that makes it seem like they could be headed to Rosie’s apartment, and I haven’t heard from her.
God help me, I think Let it be Hailey before I’m out and headed that way, ready to check on her and just … make sure she’s okay.
It’s not Hailey, because Hailey’s the one who answers the door when I knock, paler than usual but otherwise fine. And it’s not Rosie, either, but she’s on the couch with Kleenex clutched in both hands, her nose and eyes red because it’s Kayleigh, and why does she have to have friends with such similar names? It’s Kayleigh who’s dead, Kayleigh who’s the reason these policemen came knocking so early, Kayleigh who’s making Rosie cry because she decided to get drunk and go out in a bad part of town.
She didn’t have her purse with her or anything. It turns out Kayleigh’s been arrested before, so they had a record of her tattoos. On the one hand, it’s not really a surprise that someone like Kayleigh would have a record, but on the other … this is the friend Rosie couldn’t let go? I don’t know what she was arrested for, but come on. Her ink was in the system, so when they found her body …
The police officers don’t like me being here. They want Rosie alone, all to themselves, to grill and needle and who knows what else. “He doesn’t have to be here for this, ma’am,” one of them tells her, clearly meaning Tell him to leave. Tell your roommate to leave. We want you alone and vulnerable.
Rosie sniffles but focuses directly on me, even though I’ve tried not to tense up. Tried not to show these boys in blue that I see right through them. “Don’t you have to work?” she asks, but that’s not really what she’s asking.
I shake my head. “I can stay.”
She reaches for my hand. I sit down next to her on the couch and let her hold on to me while they finish asking their questions.
Rebecca Frost 
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