Page 72 of The Getaway

“I don’t get it. What changed Lincoln’s mind?” she said quietly.

Lily shrugged. “I guess we’ll never know.”

37

Gemma

Grant was in the shower early Sunday morning. Gemma, who had barely slept, was awoken by the sound of the glass shower door closing and the water starting. She pushed herself up and looked around, orienting her brain. Lined up by the door were her and Grant’s bags, looking like they’d been packed. Grant, it seemed, was ready to go, Hazel’s wishes be damned.

Immediately, she recalled the conversation with Lily in the middle of the night. She’d wanted to wake up Grant the second she got back to the room and ask him what the heck was going on, but he’d looked so peaceful, and she was beyond exhausted. She would have to talk to him about it today—find out what had transpired between him and Lincoln to get them all on this trip. She was still a little offended about the way Lincoln had talked about Grant. They had all spent so much time together over the years. Had Lincoln really found Grant irritating the entire time? If so, he was a great actor.

She checked her watch. It was just after 7:00 a.m. She looked at the window. It was raining, but the trees outside were no longer half bent over. The police had to come out here today. There were three fatalities now. They had to take that seriously, right?

Her chest flooded with dread when she thought about speaking to the authorities. They would have to learn about the notes. She’d have to tell them about the role she’d played in what had happened here this weekend. Would they arrest her? If they did, what would happen to the girls?

The girls. They had slept through the whole thing last night. Gemma dreaded breaking the news that Juliet was dead. What a nightmare. She shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. She couldn’t think about that now. There were more immediate issues to deal with. Someone was going to have to figure out food. With a deep breath, she threw the blanket off her legs. But before she could get up, there was a knock at her door. It creaked open, and Vienna stuck her head inside.

“Mom?”

“Hey, hon. What’re you doing up?” Gemma asked. Her heart immediately started pounding with sour anticipation, knowing what she was going to have to do.

Her daughter pushed the door all the way open, and she and Florence stepped inside, both freshly showered and fully clothed, their hair in matching French braids. They closed the door behind them.

“Dad made us get packed, but we were up anyway,” Vienna responded. She held her phone in both hands, sideways, as if she’d been watching a video.

“We never went to bed,” Florence added, screwing her lips up to one side.

“Oh, girls. Really. You have to try to get some sleep. I know it’s hard with—”

“Mom.” Florence cut her off. “It’s not about that right now.”

“We need to show you something,” Vienna said, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to Gemma.

“It’s important.” Florence sat on her other side.

Gemma felt an odd mixture of trepidation and gratification. She couldn’t remember the last time her daughters had sat on either side of her, cuddled close like this. But she also had the most awful sense that they weren’t about to show her some contouring tutorial they’d made. Slowly the realization of what they’d just told her began to sink in. They’d never gone to sleep. So why hadn’t they come downstairs when Marley and Marshall had started banging on doors?

“So Vienna and I . . . we couldn’t sleep last night, for real,” Florence began as Vienna cued up the video. “So we went outside to film the storm.”

Gemma bit the inside of her cheek to keep from telling them how stupid and dangerous that was. The image on the screen was paused on a view of the dark trees that surrounded the house. Her daughters stared at each other, communicating silently.

“You know what? Just watch,” Vienna said finally. And she hit play.

At first, the video was a simple, steady shot of the trees bending and groaning in the wind. The sky was a dark, inky blue, gray clouds undulating and racing at an unnatural pace. There was a semiconstant whooshing sound that would have almost been lulling if not for the ominous nature of the video. And then, in the background, Florence said, “What was that? Did you hear that?”

She sounded terrified.

Trained as they’d been from birth to be on-air personalities, the girls went into selfie mode, and Gemma saw both her daughters in the frame. Vienna’s hair was loose around her shoulders and being tossed every which way by the wind, and her face was clean of any makeup. Florence had a white hoodie on, the hood pulled up over her skull, two braids falling out the front. For half a second, Gemma missed her daughters when they were little. When they didn’t even know what a phone could do yet. They were both looking left at first, eyes wide like something out of a horror movie, and then Vienna looked at the screen.

“You guys, someone is shouting. We’re going to go get a better look.”

Vienna kept the camera trained on her own face as the two of them moved. Even though they were clearly running, the feed was fairly steady, thanks to her daughter’s practiced hand. She’d likely be able to make it even steadier with some of her film-editing software later, but it was clear even to Gemma that this was raw footage. Now and again she’d shift so the viewer could see Florence, whose attention was focused dead ahead.

“There’s someone out there,” Florence said and paused. “Oh my God, Vee—”

“Shhh! Get down.”

Gemma held her breath. The looks on her girls’ faces . . . they were clearly scared out of their minds.