Sara Shepard - Crushed

Hanna stared at the flashing numbers on the phone, a strange taste in her mouth.

As if on cue, a movement outside the room caught her eye. A familiar figure walked out the double doors and headed toward the exit. His head was tilted toward his phone, and he was talking too quietly for Hanna to hear. He wore fitted, dark-wash jeans; Adidas sneakers; and a black T-shirt printed messily with words in another language.

Hanna’s heart started to pound. She knew exactly where that T-shirt had been purchased: the only cool boutique in Reykjavik. Mike had bought one in white.

It was Noel.

“ Turn left at the next intersection ,” said the automated voice of the GPS Emily had suction-cupped to the windshield of the Volvo. She dutifully stopped at the light and angled the car into a development full of columned mansions. “Whoa,” she murmured, looking right and left. “Swanky.”

Iris, who had taken her usual spot in the passenger seat, shrugged apathetically. “I’m not surprised Tripp lives here,” she said. “You have to have a lot of cash to afford The Preserve.”

“Are you sure Tripp lives here?” Emily asked as they passed a white stone house with a miniature version of it for a mailbox. When she’d picked Iris up at the King James that afternoon, Iris had announced that she’d discovered where Tripp, her old crush, lived, and that they were going to track him down that very night. Luckily, his house was only on the other side of Philly, in a pretty New Jersey suburb that looked a lot like Rosewood. Still, there was something about this neighborhood that made Emily feel uneasy. The houses reminded her of the Crestview Manor ones, except even more soulless and spooky. In fact, this neighborhood reminded her of the big, impersonal, oddly generic neighborhood Gayle Riggs lived in when Emily had met her.

“I researched it,” Iris said snootily, gazing at a notepad on her lap. “His family is listed on four-one-one.” Then she pointed to a country club parking lot. “Let’s park here and walk the rest of the way. I don’t want Tripp to see a car at the curb and run.”

Emily shrugged, then did as she was told. Things between her and Iris were back to being tense again. Iris had created an itinerary of stuff for them to do this weekend that wasn’t even on her bucket list, the activities stretching long into the night. It was like she was purposefully keeping Emily away from prom—if Iris couldn’t be happy, then Emily couldn’t, either.

They headed down the quiet neighborhood sidewalk, which was swept clean of leaves and eerily unblemished by sidewalk drawings. The whole place almost felt like a movie set. “It’s the next house on this block,” Iris said, giving a tight smile to a passing woman walking her dog, as if she was the one who wasn’t supposed to be here.

Finally, they stopped in front of a large brick-and-stone structure with a long strip of windows across the top level. MAXWELL, it said on the mailbox. Rolling back her shoulders, Iris marched up the front walk and rang the bell. Emily remained at the curb. A woman Emily could only assume was Tripp’s mom opened the door, and Iris’s voice rose. The woman frowned and shook her head. A second later, the door shut. Iris knocked once more, but it didn’t reopen.

Iris stomped back down the walk angrily. “Tripp doesn’t live here anymore. That stupid bitch kicked him out.”

“Did she say why?” Emily asked.

Iris angrily yanked a daffodil from the flowerbed by the mailbox and twirled it between her palms. “Tripp always used to say his mom was a hard-ass.”

“Where could he have gone?”

Iris tossed the flower onto the lawn. “She said with his father. I asked where that was, and she said she didn’t know.” She set her jaw. “Then I said I was his old girlfriend, and that made her even angrier! She slammed the door on me!” She stared fixedly into the street. “Do you think he said bad stuff about me? Why would she have done that?”

The garage door rose, and they turned toward the house again. A silver Mercedes backed out of the driveway. Iris pulled Emily behind a huge shrub so Tripp’s mom wouldn’t see them. The car backed into the street and zoomed away, the garage closing quietly in its wake.

“Well, I guess that’s that,” Emily said.

Iris clutched her arm. “Are you kidding? Tripp might not be there, but I bet some of his stuff still is. If I’m not going to find him, at least I want something to remember him by.”

Emily placed her hands on her hips, a sinking feeling in her stomach. “And let me guess. We sneak in and steal it?”

“Aw, you know me so well!” Iris pinched Emily’s cheek. Then she pirouetted toward the house. Emily followed a few steps behind, considering just leaving Iris here to do this by herself. But then she thought of Iris getting stuck inside, Tripp’s mom finding her, Iris telling everyone that she’d been kidnapped . . .

Iris circled to the back of the property and climbed onto a multitiered patio. She tried one sliding glass door, then another. Then she spied a dog flap set into the French doors off the kitchen. “ Yes .”

“Iris . . . ,” Emily called weakly. Helplessly, she watched as Iris got down on her hands and knees and tumbled through the dog door. Then she unlatched the patio door, letting Emily in. “Welcome,” she trilled, picking up an oven mitt that was sitting on the island and sliding it over her hand. “Would you like some fresh-baked muffins? A cup of tea? I make a good suburban housewife, don’t I?”

Emily looked around the kitchen. It was massive, with a six-burner stainless-steel stove and the longest granite-topped island Emily had ever seen. An enormous fridge sat off to the left, a shiny cappuccino maker was on the counter, and a wine refrigerator filled with bottles stood near the pantry. Not even Spencer’s kitchen was this luxurious. Yet it had an unlived-in quality to it, too, the appliances a little too clean, not a speck of dirt in the grout of the tiles, every single towel monogrammed with a swirly letter M. It was strange to think that a mental patient had grown up inside these walls—when Emily was younger, she’d assumed that nothing bad happened to people who had this much money.

“What was wrong with Tripp, anyway?” Emily whispered to Iris, who was searching through a drawer across the room, the mitt still on her hand.

Iris inspected the items hanging on the refrigerator, flipped through a desk calendar, and opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of 5-Hour Energy. “The doctors said he was schizophrenic, but I think that’s bullshit. He was the sanest person there. Super smart, too. He was always coming up with fun dates for us to go on within the hospital walls.” She pulled out a picture in the drawer, squinted at it, then let it flutter to the floor. Emily scrambled after her to pick it up. An older couple were clinking wine glasses. The man wore a Santa hat on his head.

“There’s got to be something of his,” Iris grumbled. She crossed the room. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs.”

She headed down the hall and up the stairs as if she’d been here before. Colorful oil paintings lined the walls, including a swirly one that reminded Emily of Aria’s Van Gogh. Her stomach gurgled. It was easy to forget about the painting, hidden inside Aria’s closet. But what if that was what Agent Fuji wanted to talk to all of them about?

Iris tried each of the closed bedroom doors. When she looked through the third one, she gasped and plunged inside. Emily followed. A twin bed stood in the corner. There were lines in the carpet from where the vacuum had swept, and the bureau was free of clutter. It reminded Emily of Iris’s depersonalized room at The Preserve.