what either of them has done.
She sees herself on the boat with Jason.
Although the sisters have grown up with a summer cottage on a river, and often go out in boats, neither is a boat person. In truth, the water is boring. There’s only so much excitement a person can have driving up and down a river. Fishing is for ten-year-olds. Swimming and water-skiing are fine two or three times a summer.
But Jason comes for her by water, dates her by water, kisses her by water. This Friday morning, in the little woods and the deep marsh, they finished target shooting and he told her what a fine huntress she will make, how proud he is—and then, where did he go?
And the police. Where did they come from? Do they routinely patrol the little swamp? Was it an accident that they stumbled on her? No. They walked right up, as if they had been told she was there. Yet only Jason knew Lander’s location at that minute.
Did Jason call the police?
She cannot accept this. He loves her! He doesn’t want her in trouble.
Again the policewoman asks for Jason’s phone number.
She doesn’t have it. Each time they part, he tells her when and where they will meet next.
You kayak over to Two Willows Marina at noon, and I’ll be there.
It’s so romantic.
She doesn’t know guys who bother with sweet, gentle flirting and funny private jokes. The guys she knows get to the point: let’s hook up.
Jason is constantly texting when they are together.
It does not bother her. Certainly she never stops using her phone. But he does not text her and he does not give her his cell phone number.
She is hurt. She wants to be in touch with him every waking minute. When she is not at his side, she is thinking of things she’d like to text. She does text a few friends; she does post a few pictures; but next to Jason, the world and all her acquaintances pale.
Jason’s phone lives in his hand, and sometimes driving the boat is tricky because he needs two hands, and then he holds the phone in his teeth.
Perhaps this was what Miranda misunderstood when Derry Romaine was in trouble in the river—Jason was simply on the phone and distracted. For sure, Miranda did not see Jason intentionally drop Derry in the water. Jason and Derry are dear friends. Jason visits Derry daily at the hospital. Derry is doing better, he tells her. No, Derry’s parents haven’t come. Jason doesn’t know anything about Derry’s parents. Doesn’t know how to reach them. The hospital is probably doing that.
“What kind of car does Jason drive?” ask the police.
They have driven a few times. One car belongs to Jason’s father and the other is his mother’s. They are featureless four-door sedans, could be last year’s or five years old, could be Honda, Toyota—really, who can tell, and who cares? She is not interested in cars. She plans to live in a major city and use public transportation.
But where
did
Jason go, while she stayed patiently on his little boat and the police closed in? Was he hiding in the woods, crouching behind a tree? Did he walk up to the road? Did he have another car in which he drove away? Whose car?
And all those text messages. Did he text somebody to pick him up? Does he realize what’s happening to her right now? Does he care?
The policewoman asks again about the gun and the target practice.
She pictures the odd stranded little peninsula. How hot and sticky. How wet and swampy. By now, she thinks, the police must have removed the body.
She flings herself backward from the table. Her free hand flails, shoving away a new and terrible thought. The policewoman is on her feet, prepared for anything.
She does not look at the policewoman. She has a sick view into her own selfish soul.
How can a good, kind person like herself, who intends to help the world, and be a surgeon, and join Doctors Without Borders and save innocent bystanders in civil wars in third-world countries—
how can she be so self-centered that she did not even ask who died in
She sees herself on the boat with Jason.
Although the sisters have grown up with a summer cottage on a river, and often go out in boats, neither is a boat person. In truth, the water is boring. There’s only so much excitement a person can have driving up and down a river. Fishing is for ten-year-olds. Swimming and water-skiing are fine two or three times a summer.
But Jason comes for her by water, dates her by water, kisses her by water. This Friday morning, in the little woods and the deep marsh, they finished target shooting and he told her what a fine huntress she will make, how proud he is—and then, where did he go?
And the police. Where did they come from? Do they routinely patrol the little swamp? Was it an accident that they stumbled on her? No. They walked right up, as if they had been told she was there. Yet only Jason knew Lander’s location at that minute.
Did Jason call the police?
She cannot accept this. He loves her! He doesn’t want her in trouble.
Again the policewoman asks for Jason’s phone number.
She doesn’t have it. Each time they part, he tells her when and where they will meet next.
You kayak over to Two Willows Marina at noon, and I’ll be there.
It’s so romantic.
She doesn’t know guys who bother with sweet, gentle flirting and funny private jokes. The guys she knows get to the point: let’s hook up.
Jason is constantly texting when they are together.
It does not bother her. Certainly she never stops using her phone. But he does not text her and he does not give her his cell phone number.
She is hurt. She wants to be in touch with him every waking minute. When she is not at his side, she is thinking of things she’d like to text. She does text a few friends; she does post a few pictures; but next to Jason, the world and all her acquaintances pale.
Jason’s phone lives in his hand, and sometimes driving the boat is tricky because he needs two hands, and then he holds the phone in his teeth.
Perhaps this was what Miranda misunderstood when Derry Romaine was in trouble in the river—Jason was simply on the phone and distracted. For sure, Miranda did not see Jason intentionally drop Derry in the water. Jason and Derry are dear friends. Jason visits Derry daily at the hospital. Derry is doing better, he tells her. No, Derry’s parents haven’t come. Jason doesn’t know anything about Derry’s parents. Doesn’t know how to reach them. The hospital is probably doing that.
“What kind of car does Jason drive?” ask the police.
They have driven a few times. One car belongs to Jason’s father and the other is his mother’s. They are featureless four-door sedans, could be last year’s or five years old, could be Honda, Toyota—really, who can tell, and who cares? She is not interested in cars. She plans to live in a major city and use public transportation.
But where
did
Jason go, while she stayed patiently on his little boat and the police closed in? Was he hiding in the woods, crouching behind a tree? Did he walk up to the road? Did he have another car in which he drove away? Whose car?
And all those text messages. Did he text somebody to pick him up? Does he realize what’s happening to her right now? Does he care?
The policewoman asks again about the gun and the target practice.
She pictures the odd stranded little peninsula. How hot and sticky. How wet and swampy. By now, she thinks, the police must have removed the body.
She flings herself backward from the table. Her free hand flails, shoving away a new and terrible thought. The policewoman is on her feet, prepared for anything.
She does not look at the policewoman. She has a sick view into her own selfish soul.
How can a good, kind person like herself, who intends to help the world, and be a surgeon, and join Doctors Without Borders and save innocent bystanders in civil wars in third-world countries—
how can she be so self-centered that she did not even ask who died in
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