Page 97 of What They'll Say About Us

"Why didn't you call out to her? Ask her where she was going?"

"Because I wanted to see where she'd end up." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "It was about two miles before we got to the lakefront. I started to realize that she wasn't going anywhere specific; she was just running away, and then she started to walk, to stumble. Finally, she stopped and looked out at the water. It felt like her shoulders collapsed under some massive weight. She looked sad and dejected. I started to feel bad and guilty about following her, about intruding on her private pain. But then she turned her head and saw me in the shadows."

"What did she do?"

"Her sadness turned to anger. She screamed at me, asking me why I was following her. In the face of her rage, I wanted to back down, to say something calming. My plan to confront her about Nate went out the window. I couldn't talk to her in the state she was in. It was clear to me that she was on something. But then Paige started saying horrible things to me. She said I was a loser, that I had nothing better to do than follow her around. That I wanted her boyfriend, and how pathetic was that? I told her that Nate and I were just friends. But she couldn't hear me. She started ranting about how everyone thought I was a joke. They didn't know why she was friends with me. I told her to stop, that she was hurting me. She was hurting Nate. She was hurting everyone who cared about her."

Her words were so vivid, I could see them in my head. I felt like I was on the dark path with them. "What happened?" I whispered.

"Paige told me to get the hell away from her. To go home and stop butting into her business. We were through. She would move out. She didn't want me as a friend. I needed to leave her alone."

"I told her she was drunk and high, and I was sure she didn't mean what she was saying, and she said I was wrong; she meant every word," Sloane said. "I told her I cared about her, that she was my friend, and I wasn't going to let her drive me away. I walked toward her. I wanted to take her hand. I wanted to be there for her, even if she didn't want me there. But when I got close to her, she shoved me so hard I fell to the ground, landing on my knees. I was shocked that she'd done something so physical. And when I looked at her, she seemed shocked, too. She was waving her hands around in a circle so hard that her phone went flying out of her hand. She was tilting back and forth, trying not to fall. It felt like she was in slow motion. She couldn't get her balance. Her feet were slipping. And then she went backward. She went into the lake with barely a splash."

My heart stopped. "Oh, my God!"

"I got to my feet," Sloane said, her gaze still distant, as if she was reliving the moment. "She was in the water, but she wasn't swimming back to shore. She wasn't moving. And there was something dark spreading around her. I felt paralyzed. I knew I should jump into the water. I should try to save her. But her words just kept going around in my head: I want you to leave me alone."

"And that's what you did," I breathed.

"I don't know how long it took before she disappeared under the water," Sloane said. "It seemed like seconds. Maybe it was longer. It felt surreal, like it was a nightmare, and I'd wake up safe in my bed at any moment. And she would be safe in her bed, too."

"But it was real."

Tears suddenly slid down Sloane's face. "When I couldn't see her anymore, I ran. And I've been running ever since. I know I should have saved her, Tessa. I should have made a different choice."

Moisture gathered in my own eyes as the truth sank in. I felt no triumph at all, only an enormous sadness at the whole waste of it, two twenty-one-year-old girls and a tragedy that shouldn't have happened.

"You should have told the truth, Sloane."

She met my gaze, guilt and pain in her eyes. "I couldn't. I couldn't tell anyone. I couldn't admit it to myself. I pretended it had never happened. And then they found her body. After that, I thought it would come out, that someone had seen us on the path, but it never did. I was too scared to say anything. I didn't want to go to jail. I didn't want to be a murderer. When it was determined to be an accident, I convinced myself that's exactly what it was. I didn't push her. She shoved me so hard, she fell backward. She was drunk. She was high. It was her fault." Sloane wiped the tears from her face. "But it was my fault, too."

Silence fell between us as I grappled to come to terms with what had happened.

"Now that you know, Tessa, what are you going to do about it? Are you going to tell everyone I'm a murderer? Because you can't do that. I have a daughter. She needs me. I need her. And it was an accident."

I saw the desperation in her eyes. "Did Cabot know? Is that why you killed him to stop the truth from coming out?"

"What?" she asked in shock. "Of course not. I don't know who did that. When I heard about it, I thought it was probably Professor Hale. He didn't kill her, but she was sleeping with him, and if that came out, it could ruin his career. I figured that when you showed up, and the police reopened the case, the professor might worry that there was something in those files that would incriminate him. Maybe Detective Cabot could still ruin his life."

It felt like her shock was real this time, but her rationalization didn't make sense. Hale wouldn't kill his friend over the affair, because Cabot was still keeping his secret. Maybe Hale had gone to his house to confirm that. It had to be someone else. Someone who knew what Sloane had done, someone with means and motive. The answer was staring me right in the face.

"The person who killed Cabot was someone who wanted to protect you," I said. "They wanted to protect your daughter, your life—their life, too." I jumped to my feet. "It was your husband Garrett, wasn't it?"

"No! No!" Sloane shouted, stunned by my words. "Garrett wouldn't do that."

I had to get out of here. I had to go to Colton. I had to tell him he had the wrong guys. It wasn't Hale; it wasn't Ray. I ran down the steps of the gazebo, stopping in my tracks as Garrett came out of the house, walking toward me with resolve and purpose, a gun in his hand. It seemed so at odds with his casual weekend slacks and polo shirt. He didn't look like a killer, but he was.

"You're not going anywhere, Tessa," he said flatly.

"It was you," I said. "You killed Detective Cabot."

"No, I didn't."

"Well, you hired someone who did."

"Tell her she's wrong, Garrett," Sloane said as she took the steps down from the gazebo. "You wouldn't do that. You wouldn't have someone killed."

"Be quiet, Sloane. I'll handle this. Go in the house."