Ricky had hooded the blanket over her head as if she wanted to disappear.
“The tea?” Andrea repeated.
“Cabinet—” Ricky’s voice was scratchy. “Cabinet by the sink.”
There was nothing but spices and a large box of chamomile tea in the cabinet. Andrea sloshed boiling water into the mug, dropped in the tea bag. She found a coaster on the counter. By the time she made it down the stairs, Ricky was no longer sitting on the couch. She was standing at the console table, blanket still clutched around her shoulders. Her face was bloated from crying. The paramedics had tried to clean her up, but Nardo’s blood stained her shirt and clumped in her dyed hair.
Andrea placed the coaster and mug on the console table. She saw that both drawers were open. Ricky had laid out some of the snapshots—the birthday party, the wedding photos, Nardo and Clay sitting at the counter in the same diner where one of them had just died.
Ricky picked up the framed photo of the group. “Only two of us left now.”
Andrea could hear the desolation in her voice. They had been her world, especially Nardo.
Ricky said, “I guess that’s it, right? You’ll tell the judge that Nardo did it.”
Andrea nodded, but said, “I wish it was that simple, but Nardo didn’t confess to everything.”
Ricky took a shallow breath, but she didn’t look up at Andrea.
“Nardo admitted that he had intercourse with her, and the DNA will prove that one way or another, but he didn’t say anything about Emily’s murder.” Andrea waited, but Ricky only stared at the photo in her hands. “Ricky, did Nardo ever talk to you about her? Or about what happened the night of the prom? Did Emily say something or—”
“Clay was the one who brought her into the clique.” Ricky’s voice sounded flat. Her eyes had gone glassy. “Nardo never liked her. She was so boring. She didn’t belong. Emily never belonged.”
Andrea watched as Ricky gently placed the frame back on the table.
“Nardo was eighteen when it happened. I mean, you’ll fuck anything at eighteen, right? Even a mousy little bitch.”
Andrea could hear anger creeping into Ricky’s tone. The woman still didn’t want to believe Nardo had raped Emily.
“What Cheese said—he didn’t know anything. Emily only told her parents that she was raped because they were furious when she got pregnant. She was such a liar.” Ricky looked down at the snapshot of Nardo and Clay in the diner. She traced her finger along Nardo’s boyishly round face. “The night of the party, she was flirting with everybody. She started on Clay, then she tried it with my brother. He ended up locking himself in the bathroom to get away from her.”
Andrea watched Ricky press her palm flat, covering Nardo as if she could somehow protect him.
“Emily was supposed to be my best friend. I hated her for fucking him. Nardo was mine. He belonged to me. And now—” her voice caught. “He’s gone. I can’t believe he’s gone.”
Andrea watched Ricky break down again. She covered her face with the blanket. Her cries were almost like a keening. Her shoulders bowed as if the burden of what she had carried all these years had finally broken her.
“Ricky,” Andrea tried. “Did Nardo ever talk about it? About what happened?”
“Fuck.” Ricky looked around the room. “I need a tissue.”
Andrea gently placed her hand on Ricky’s shoulder. “If you could—”
“Give me a minute.” Ricky shrugged off the blanket before walking up the stairs. Her hand gripped the railing as she pulled herself up. She was still shaking her head when she disappeared into the kitchen
Andrea reached down to retrieve the blanket. Her head nearly banged into the corner of one of the console table drawers.
She looked inside.
Ricky had left the drawers open. She had shown Andrea some of the contents. She had no reasonable expectation that Andrea would not see the rest.
Andrea stood up, then she backed up a few steps, standing on the tips of her toes so that she could see into the kitchen. Ricky’s back was to the stairs. She had braced her hands on either side of the kitchen sink. Her shoulders were shaking as she cried.
The blanket dropped from Andrea’s hands as she walked back to the table. She picked up Eric Blakely’s New Mexico death certificate. The document was old, but she could still feel the imprint where the typewriter had punched out the letters. She set it aside and rummaged around the left-hand drawer, finding receipts for a coffin, cremation, a black tux from Maggie’s Formal Wear. Andrea remembered the metal case. Ricky had kept it in her shrine for a reason. She reached her hand to the back.
The pocket index looked exactly the same. The silver pointer was still lined up to A-B.
Andrea used her thumbnail to press the button on the bottom. The top of the case sprang open. She saw one name—Brickel, Melody. The street address was the one that Andrea had visited the day before with Bible. She imagined the seven-digit phone number had not changed.