One afternoon Sean phoned me from home.
He said, "Oh, thank God you're there, Stephanie. I'm driving over. Now."
Something about the way he said now made my heart pound. Okay, this was it. He wants me as much as I want him. I haven't been imagining it. He's coming to tell me that he wants us to be together.
"I have news," he said.
I could tell from the sound of his voice that it wasn't good news, and I was ashamed of the hasty conclusion I'd jumped to.
"What kind of news?"
"Terrible news," he said.
I watched from the window as he got out of the car, walking slowly, like someone weighed down by a burden. He seemed to have aged years in the hours since I saw him last. When I opened the door, I saw that his eyes were red rimmed and his face was ashen. I threw my arms around him and hugged him, but it wasn't one of the freighted, lingering, lust-infused embraces with which we had been saying goodbye lately after our evenings together. It was a hug of consolation, of friendship, and—already—sorrow. Somehow I knew what I was about to hear.
"Don't talk," I said. "Come in. Sit down. Let me make you some tea."
He sat on the sofa, and I went into the kitchen. I was shaking, and I splashed boiling water on my wrist, but I was so preoccupied that it didn't hurt—until later.
Sean took a sip of tea, then shook his head and put down the cup.
He said, "The police called today. Some fishermen in northern Michigan found a badly decomposed body. It had washed up on the shore not far from Emily's family's cabin. Apparently the body is in such bad shape they're not even asking me to come out there and identify it. They say there would be no point. They've asked me to FedEx Emily's toothbrush and hairbrush because they're going to have to rely on the DNA tests to—"
He broke down sobbing. His voice was thick with tears when he said, "It wasn't supposed to happen this way. I was sure she was still alive. I was positive that she was going to come home."
What did he mean? How was it supposed to have happened? What did he know that he wasn't saying? Or did he just mean that Emily wasn't supposed to die so tragically, so young?
The police estimated that she'd drowned not long after she went missing, though it was hard to determine the precise date. Oh, and some hikers found the rental car a mile away in the woods. There were no signs of a struggle. She'd been alive when she drowned. There were only two sets of fingerprints in the cabin. One of them, they assumed, was Emily's. The other was Sean's, which made sense; he'd been there for his birthday. (The cops had taken his fingerprints soon after Emily disappeared, the first time they brought him in for questioning.)
Neither Sean nor I could find words for what we were feeling. I could still hear Emily asking me to take care of Nicky so she and Sean could get away. Asking me to do her a simple favor. I had no idea what Sean was thinking. Perhaps he was remembering their hot stolen weekend.
I said, "Maybe it's not her . . . Maybe there's been some horrible mistake."
"The ring," he said. "They found the ring. My mother's diamond and sapphire ring. It was still on her finger. It had somehow gotten wedged . . ."
And then we both began to cry. We held each other and sobbed. Separately and together.
