Hayley interrupted her sister. “To be close to Katelyn.”

Sandra Berkley looked over at the laptop, which was still open and emitting the telltale glow that it was in use.

“Were you trying to read her private journal?” Sandra’s eyes were rheumy, and it was obvious that it was more than the effects of a mixed drink that had brought her to tears that day.

Taylor snapped the lid shut. “No. No. Not at all. We didn’t even, um, know she had a journal.”

Hayley nodded briskly. “We had no idea Katelyn wrote anything down,” she said.

Sandra walked over to the window and looked out across the yard to the Larsens’ place. Her eyes lingered for a moment before she turned around to face the girls.

“Oh,” she said, as if searching for the words. “It was stupid, really. The ramblings of a silly girl, I guess. I never read it.”

It was an odd way to refer to a dead daughter. A silly girl.

Hayley couldn’t take it.

“Katelyn wasn’t that silly, Mrs. Berkley,” she said. “On the contrary, she was a sad girl. I think we all know that.”

Wow. Taylor couldn’t believe her sister said that. Quiet and sometimes a little reserved Hayley usually kept things much closer to the vest.

“We’re leaving now,” Hayley said, and the pair brushed right past the surprised woman. They hurried down the steps, no longer trying to tread lightly. Everyone in the living room looked up, but the girls didn’t say a word to any of them.

“You sure told her off,” Taylor said proudly, as they went outside. Hayley allowed the flicker of a smile. “Yes, well, we just had to get out of there, didn’t we?”

Taylor nodded.

“I really don’t believe that Katelyn’s death was just an accident. There’s more to it,” Hayley said, though she didn’t have to say it out loud.

Taylor didn’t need to reply either, but she did. “I know. Felt it the night she died.”

“Tay,” Hayley said as she glanced at her sister’s bare neck, “I think you might have forgotten your scarf.”

Taylor smiled. “Like hell I did. That’s our excuse to go back. It may be the ugliest rag in Port Gamble, but it’s getting us back into that house.”

As they walked through the alleyway toward home, neither Taylor nor Hayley was aware that a pair of eyes was riveted to their every move. Studying them. Wondering from a dark place just what the twins’ rekindled relationship with the dead girl’s family was all about.

chapter 11

KINGSTON HIGH WAS ONE OF THOSE SCHOOLS built with a tip of the architectural hat to its location. That was usually the intention of school district review boards, but it rarely worked as well as it did in Kingston. Just eight miles from Port Gamble, Kingston was a rolling rural landscape dotted with subdivisions and family farms that dipped at its very eastern edge to Puget Sound. The front entryway of the school was reached by crossing a footbridge over a shallow ravine of sword ferns, cedars, and winter-bronze cattail stalks.

By the time Hayley and Taylor graduated from the middle school just down the road, Kingston High was only four years old. Classrooms were segregated into pods, each known by the dominating color of its paint scheme. Rough-hewn cedar planks artfully lined portions of the interior corridors, and wide expanses of pebbly finished polished concrete swirled in browns and greens like a northwest stream. In the mornings, the espresso stand adjacent to the student store, the Treasure Trove, did Starbucks-style business, sending a geyser of steaming milk into the air as it caffeinated one teenager after the next. Even those who didn’t need coffee got in line—like Beth Lee, who never arrived at school without a Rockstar drink in her purse and a triple tall latte from Gamble Bay Coffee. She’d pay a visit to the student-run coffee stand after lunch for her always-needed midday pick-me-up.

Each pod featured its own teacher’s resource room, with their cubicles all crammed with the things they didn’t want to take home. Some teachers put up baby pictures of their children. Students who saw them often remarked how surprising it was that one teacher or another had found someone to have a child with.

“Did you see that photo? The kid looks completely normal. Almost cute,” one girl, a willowy redhead in overalls, said as she made her rounds, dropping off the latest Buccaneer Broadcast, the school newsletter.

“Yeah,” said her friend, a pudgy junior wearing tights, short-shorts, black patent-leather ankle boots, and an inch of mascara on each clumped-up eyelid. “I was hoping she couldn’t have kids. You know, for the kid’s sake.”

“Totally,” Redhead said.

Most of the congregating among students was done in the common area between the classrooms in any given pod. Along one wall were lockers of varying sizes—larger for those who were lacrosse team members and had unwieldy pads, sticks, and gear; smaller for those who didn’t have anything they needed to store but wanted a place to linger.

It was far from status quo the first day back from winter break. Katelyn’s death gave the school guidance counselors the opportunity to go into grief-counseling mode. And while they were genuinely sorry to lose a student, it sure changed up the onslaught of “I could be pregnant” or “school is too hard and I want to drop out” sessions that tended to bunch up after the holidays.

The day back from a break marked by a teen’s death meant a seemingly endless train of sobbing girls into the counselors’ offices.

Most started the preamble to their crying jags with the same words: “I’m so upset about this. It isn’t fair. She’s the same age as me.”

Hayley, Taylor, and Beth didn’t give voice to the same concerns as others. They were sick about what happened and felt they had a genuine connection with the dead girl. Their friendship with Katelyn might have evaporated since middle school, but they still felt a keen loss.

“I hated a lot about her,” Beth said in the commons. “She had no style. She wasn’t exactly fun anymore. Still, who knows, maybe she’d have turned into someone cool if she hadn’t died.”

“There was something always a little sad about her,” Hayley said. “I feel like we all kind of dropped her when maybe we shouldn’t have.”

Taylor agreed with her sister. “I know I did.”

Beth scowled and rummaged around in her purse for some lip gloss. It had been five minutes since her last application. “You two are such goody-goodies. She didn’t want to be friends with us. She was too wrapped up in being Katelyn of the Starla & Katelyn Show. Didn’t that get canceled after one season?”

“More like fifteen,” said Taylor, not even trying to be ironic.

A junior the trio barely knew came up just then. “Sorry about your friend,” she said.

All glossed, Beth answered, “We’re devastated. We can’t talk about it.”

“Take care,” the girl said. “Sorry.”

Beth looked at Hayley and Taylor. “Did I seem devastated?” she asked. “Just a little?”

“Just a little,” Taylor said as the three went off to class.

Later that morning, the Treasure Trove espresso stand put up a small sign asking for donations for Katelyn’s family. The school principal, a petite woman with dangerous nail-gun heels, kindly told them it wasn’t an altogether good idea.

“But we wanted to help,” said the kid foaming the milk.

“Yeah,” said the girl pulling the espresso shots. “She was a soy drinker, totally organic. You have to respect that.”

“Yes,” the principal argued, “but the manner of her death …” She attempted to choose her words carefully. “Katelyn died of, because of …,” she said, looking at the big Italian espresso machine.

“Oh,” said the foamer. “I get what you’re putting down.”

The shot girl apparently didn’t. “Huh?”

“An espresso machine killed Katelyn,” the foamer said. “She was electrocuted in the tub.”