The base of Lindsay’s stomach began to burn. She felt like she was back on that pullout sofa again, nearly shaking at the possibility that Hope might reappear from the bedroom. When she finally did, Lindsay pretended to be asleep, faking deep, loud breaths even as her heart raced. And in the morning, she did exactly what Hope had predicted—brushed it off with a joke. “Wow, I guess there really is such a thing as too much tequila. Sorry about that.”

The truth was that Lindsay had wanted it to go further. How many times had Scott—and other men before him—complained that she seemed most attentive, most happy, when she was with her best friend? If someone were to poll the handful of Lindsay’s past boyfriends, the results would be unanimous: they were always second to Hope for Lindsay’s affections. While Hope was always welcome to crash a couple’s night, or even entire vacations, Lindsay and Hope protected their girls’ nights like the most sacred ceremonies of a secret society. Lindsay always defended herself by saying that female friendships were simply different, and it was clingy for men to compare themselves to their girlfriend’s girlfriends. But then that night happened, and the truth was undeniable. Lindsay loved Hope more than she’d ever love anyone else.

But when they had the chance to see if they might be something other than best friends, Lindsay let the moment slip by. She knew Hope feared she could never be in a serious relationship until she knew the truth about her own past, not to mention the anxiety she had described over physical intimacy. Better not to ruin a good thing, Lindsay told herself at the time.

Or, Lindsay thought now, I was too chickenshit to deal with the truth about the feelings I kept trying to deny.

She was clutching Hope’s journal to her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks, when her phone rang. It was Scott. She almost let it go to voice mail, but that felt like another betrayal.

“Hey,” she said, wiping her face dry with the palm of her free hand.

“You need to turn on the news. Now. New York One.”

Lindsay hopped up from the floor and scrambled for the remote control in the living room. “Wait, there’s no New York One here.”

“Well, find the Long Island equivalent. If it’s running in the city, it’s got to be on there.”

“Damn it, there’s no cable. What’s going on?”

“It’s about Hope. Lindsay, it’s really bad.”

“Scott, you’re killing me. Just tell me.”

“They found a dead body in the water, and now they’re looking for Hope.”

She sucked in her breath. “So she’s dead.”