Gemma’s eyes are wide and tear-filled as she speaks, her voice still flat. “We didn’t even really finish that stupid blindfold exercise,” she says. “It was my fault. I couldn’t relax. I hated him putting his arm around me like he was my buddy or something. He accused me of sabotaging the exercise to make him look bad. It turned into a full-blown screaming match, with me ripping off that damn bandana and throwing it at Glenn’s face. We were so loud that Skeeter actually ran out to find us and break up our screaming match.”
“But how did he end up dead?” Jim asks.
Gemma looks at Jim, pulls her hand away. “Skeeter told us to come back inside, but Glenn yelled, ‘Fuck off, I’m not going anywhere with this bitch.’ He took off on his motorcycle, no helmet, nothing, he was so pissed. And by then it was getting dark.”
“There was an accident?”
Gemma nods. “He evidently skidded into the back of a car. They said he was killed on impact.”
Jim gives a low whistle.
“I know,” Gemma says, and then before she can stop herself, the words she’s kept inside for so long slip out. “I feel like it’s my fault.”