Chapter Twenty-Four Maya

Chapter Twenty-Four

Maya

June 2023, Greenwich, Connecticut

The day of Naomi’s funeral, dark clouds hover overhead, and the air feels thick as paste. It’s as if my inner state is so strong it’s seeped out of my pores and into the air around us.

It’s been two weeks since her death. Hard to believe, when it feels like just yesterday we’d talked on the phone—argued, really—and the thought sends guilt rushing through me again.

I wish I could redo that conversation. Go back to that moment and take a breath.

When I told Margaret about it, she’d said, I suppose I was too hard on her too.

It wasn’t until she’d said that, the added too, that I realized how difficult it must have been for Naomi, having both of us worrying about her all the time.

I’d get nervous when Naomi would take the subway at night, kiss too many boys, spend money like the world was ending. I wished I could make decisions for her, so that I wouldn’t have to watch her suffer the consequences of her mistakes.

But now I realize that making mistakes is a necessary part of growing up. Instead of complaining, I should have told her how I admired her spontaneity, how little she cared what others thought. How she lit up a room, and how much Dani looked up to her, how much I did.

“Do we get to see Aunt Margaret?” Dani asks sweetly. She calls all my friends Aunt.

“We get to see her, but she might be sad today, okay?” I explain. She seems to know we’re going to a funeral, but I don’t think she fully understands that her aunt Naomi is gone and never coming back, and I don’t have the heart to explain it to her.

The driveway rises through a row of cypress trees before bending around a stone fountain. The sight of Margaret’s house, a French chateau–style home that might have been plucked out of the pages of Architectural Digest, makes the grief swell again, and it takes every bit of strength to hold it together.

Don’t cry, I think, as the pressure builds. Naomi couldn’t stand to see me cry. But I’m older than her, ten years older. My funeral should have happened first. Not Naomi’s. Never Naomi’s.

I don’t want to be trapped in a box like Mom. I want someone to scatter my ashes over the ocean… she’d said one afternoon as we walked along the smooth sand shore in East Hampton. It was the summer she turned sixteen, and we’d both spent the week there with Margaret and John. So I can be free.

Nate parks in a space at the end of the driveway and turns to me. “You ready?”

I nod. “Come on, Dani.” After helping her out of the car, I grab ahold of her tiny hand and follow the sea of guests through the house.

—

The funeral is set up on the back lawn under the scorching sun. We take a seat in the front row next to Daisy and her family, fanning ourselves with the programs. Next to the urn sits a photo of Naomi, too glossy and perfect. It looks nothing like her. The urn, a blue-and-white hand-painted thing, is something I might have seen on my nga-bu’s shelves, where my grandmother might have stored rice or tea.

I guess it’s better than the open coffin around my mother. The strange, powdery makeup they’d painted on her cheeks, the too-pink lipstick she’d never have chosen, the smell they’d tried to hide with tuberose perfume. My stomach turns with the memory.

“You okay?” Nate asks, reaching over to give my hand a squeeze.

I reach up to touch my cheek, and it feels clammy. Willing myself to relax, I concentrate on a slow, deliberate breath— Am I okay? I haven’t been okay for weeks —and give him a nod.

Sometime after the pastor says a prayer, Daisy takes the microphone, and then Zalikah, and soon my cheeks are again wet with tears.

During Margaret’s speech, my mind casts back to the note I found in Naomi’s room. Naomi, I’m sorry about last night. Let me make it up to you. —M.

Was it from Matthew? And, if so, what had he needed to apologize for?

And Detective Simmons had said Naomi was in Manhattan the night before she died. Who was she with? Was she meeting someone? Running from someone? And when she came back to campus, how did she end up in the lake? Why had the police asked Matthew for an alibi? Why did they even interview him? It’s not like they were interviewing any of Naomi’s other professors, were they? What made them suspicious of him?

I scan over the familiar faces: her roommate Amy, her professors, fellow Sterling Club classmates. And then I see Liam, lingering in the background. His angry outburst still makes me think he could have done it. He could have killed my sister. And to think he’d have the nerve to show up here afterward. It makes me sick.

The mic crackles as a woman in her fifties clears her throat and starts to speak. She wears winged purple glasses, shoulder-length braids, and mismatched rings on every finger, and she introduces herself as Naomi’s thesis advisor, Fiona Williams, a professor in the English department. The name sounds familiar…Fiona Williams…

“Those of us who were fortunate enough to know Naomi mourn the loss of a brilliant young woman,” Fiona says, her voice strong. “Over the course of the year, we would meet weekly, so I got to know her well. Naomi’s thesis was about how women have been silenced throughout history for upsetting the status quo.” She pauses, hawk eyes scanning the crowd. With a sharp inhale, I realize the weight of her words. “As Naomi’s mentor and friend, I vow not to let her memory be forgotten. May all of us who loved her continue to support her mission and not permit another young woman to be silenced in her grave.”

A shiver passes through me. Was Naomi silenced ? It sounds so cruel, so evil, when said like that. I glance at Nate, who looks equally disturbed. Murmurs trickle through the crowd as Fiona finishes, gives a pursed smile, and ventures back to her seat.

Next, the pastor calls me to the stand. A knot forms in my throat as sweat beads my brow, collects on my neck, my lower back. There are so many people here. So many faces.

When I arrive at the podium, I look down at the speech in my hands and swallow the sudden desire to run. The ink-stained paper is a crumpled, smeared mess. I clear my throat. “Naomi—” Oh god. I don’t think I can do this.

My eyes land on Nate in the crowd, and he gives a small supportive nod. I try again. “Naomi was my sister. We were ten years apart, but it only made us closer. Her laugh—it’s—I can’t stop hearing it everywhere—”

My eyes drift over the crowd, glancing over the onlookers before catching on a face: Matthew DuPont. His fiancée is next to him—long strawberry-blond hair, sun-kissed complexion, a little too much cleavage for a funeral—I’d met her before, but hadn’t given her a second thought.

Did this woman know what kind of man she was marrying? The things he did that ended his previous marriages?

I think again of how some people are so eager to have the perfect relationship, the perfect life, that they’re willing to overlook the obvious flaws, the red flags right in front of them.

I glance back at Matthew, and he gives me a polite smile.

When I return to my speech, the words blend together. My hands shake as their eyes watch me, slicing into me like the edge of a knife.

I set down the paper. Maybe someone here knows something. Maybe they can help me figure out what happened. I have to find a way to let them know I’m looking for answers.

“My sister’s death,” I say, forcing my voice to be strong and clear, “was not an accident.”

Shocked whispers. I find Matthew among the guests and keep my eyes on his. He sits very still, his smile now gone. “Someone did this to her. And I’m not going to stop until I find out who it was. If you think you might have any information about Naomi’s last weeks, please reach out.”

I duck my chin and rush away from the podium, tears stinging my eyes. Heads swivel as I pass, mouths agape.

“Maya.” I hear my name, but I can’t tell who’s said it. It’s a chorus of “Maya, Maya, Maya.” Stop! I want to scream. If you’re not going to help me, leave me alone! The world is a blur of colors and shapes through my tears, but I can feel their eyes. Dozens of eyes. All staring at me. Wondering what’s wrong with me. Poor Maya. So awful what happened. She needs help. I don’t care what anybody thinks right now.

My ears ring as I rush in the direction of the house. Please just leave me alone.

—

My hands tremble as I reach for my anxiety medication in my purse. Pouring a pill onto my palm, I knock it into my throat and swallow it dry. What was I thinking? The adrenaline has begun to fade, embarrassment settling in its place.

In the kitchen, I fill a glass of water in the sink and gulp it down before making my way upstairs. I round the landing to the familiar hallway, remembering when Naomi first moved into this house. First walked down this hall.

—

I’m surprised to find Naomi’s bedroom looks exactly as it was when she was a teenager. Canopy bed. Blue toile wallpaper with cranes and flowers. Poems and sketches of New York City taped to the walls. A sketch of the two of us holding hands at a beach in Santa Cruz. Another of both Margaret and me over Thanksgiving. On a sailing trip. My heart squeezes.

As my fingers wander over her things I can almost hear her raspy voice, chattering, laughing, see the freckles dotting her nose, the tiny crooked tooth, and her mass of brown curls cascading over her shoulders, beautiful and free.

Sinking onto the edge of Naomi’s bed, I put my head in my hands and squeeze my eyes shut. Before I know it, the sky has turned to ink outside the windows.

I’m about ready to either face everyone downstairs or go home, but as I turn to leave, something catches my eye. The bottom drawer of her desk is slightly askew as if the drawer had come off its track. I try the handle, but the drawer doesn’t budge. It seems to be caught on something. I fixate on it, thinking that at least I can repair this one thing.

Prying the desk from the wall, I run my fingers over the back, feeling over a thick layer of dust. Something moves and I yank my hand back as a long-legged spider scuttles away. I shudder.

When I work up the nerve to stick my hand back in there, my fingers brush the corner of something hard. Pulling the desk farther from the wall, I dislodge a leather-bound notebook, and flipping through the pages, I recognize Naomi’s messy handwriting. Notes have been scrawled quickly. Pages torn out. Bullet points with news articles to read and strange notes like Gift money sent? Down payment? Who else knows? Securities Investigation. And a list of names I don’t recognize under Hunt Investment Group Sources.

Was she looking into the Hunt scandal? When had she hidden this notebook? Why had she hidden it?

I’m scanning the pages when I come across a question written in all caps and underlined twice: WHO KILLED LILA JONES? I gasp and nearly drop the notebook.

Suddenly, I sense there is someone else in here and look up: a woman stands in the doorway. Matthew’s fiancée, Sara, I realize.

We’d met briefly at a Legacy Foundation event but I’d never seen her up close. Even in the dim light, she’s striking. She has on very little makeup, just a bit of mascara over her thick lashes, and has thrown a V-neck sweater over her low-cut black shift dress. Her hair is pulled back off her face and the tops of her cheeks and collarbones are slightly sunburned.

“I came to make sure you were okay,” she says. Her voice sounds sincere, but then I notice the way her lips curl down at the edges with something like disdain. The way she’s watching me is off-putting.

I hide the notebook behind me as she takes a step into the room. I’m not sure what her intentions are…and I doubt she knows my history with her husband, but either way I sense something isn’t right.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I tell her.

She takes another step toward me, and I press myself back against the desk. “Your speech was…unexpected. I’m sure it wasn’t easy, getting up there like that.” Her voice is slow and measured.

My mouth goes dry as I remember my speech—I shouldn’t have stared Matthew down like that—but then I grow defensive. She has no idea what it’s like to lose a sister like this. She has no right to judgeme.

“No,” I say, after a pause. “No, it wasn’t.”

Sara shuts the door behind her. “I was hoping we could talk. I wanted to ask you something.” As she approaches, I notice that her hands are clenched into fists. When I notice, she relaxes them. Stops a few feet away. “I have a sister, and I couldn’t imagine how it would feel to lose her.” Her voice trails away.

My guard rises and my heart beats faster. “But,” she says, her tone changing, “I noticed you were looking at us when you asked for help, and I want to make sure you know that Matthew and I would like to do what we can to help your family. If there’s a fund we can contribute to…please let us know.”

I’m taken aback. Had she not been listening when I said Someone did this ? I wasn’t asking for money. Both Nate and I work, and it’s not like losing Naomi will force us to stop. And what’s more strange is her tone, the false sincerity.

I’m about to respond when someone knocks on the door. “Maya? Everything okay?” Nate’s voice. Relief washes over me.

Nate takes a step into the room, and when he sees Sara, he frowns. “Uh, hi, I didn’t realize anyone else was up here. Can I help you with something?” He doesn’t seem to recognize her.

“I was just leaving,” she says quickly, turning and giving him a warm smile. The sudden way her features rearrange is unsettling.

She touches my shoulder gently before leaving, and on her way out, she pauses at the door. “Again, Maya, my deepest condolences.”