Again, that sly glance between uncle and niece. Ford wants to scream but keeps her temper in check.
“Just give us a few here, okay, Ford?” And to his niece, “Nothing’s leaping out at me. You?” He eases himself down on his knees to look under the dresser.
Kate is holding a notebook with a floral cover, leafing through. “Other than someone’s clearly been through this room already? She writes very pretty poems. Quite a few about death.”
Ford isn’t surprised. English is Camille’s best subject.
Kate flips a few more pages. “She didn’t care for her roommate, that’s for sure.”
“Ash? I didn’t know they weren’t getting along,” Ford says.
“Not getting along is an understatement. Looks like there was some serious bullying going on. ‘She made fun of me again today. She was sitting with the other bitches and looking over her shoulder at me with that stupid smug stare. Later, she told me how I would never get into Ivy Bound. Bitch.’ Lots more in that vein. ‘She was queen of the sewing circle again tonight. It’s like I don’t even exist anymore.’”
“May I see that?” Ford asks.
Kate hands it over, and Ford glances through, flipping pages, seeing phrases that shock her:
Stupid accent, dumb cunt, out of the room late again, should report her, she’s Becca’s bitch now. Bet the two of them are fucking. How else would she get on Becca’s good side so fast? I hate her. I hate them both.
She closes the cover gently. The vitriol is surprising, she’s always seen Camille as a gentle soul. Not this roiling mass of emotion, spilling hate into her diary.
Tony is on his back now, squirming on the floor, reaching under the dresser. “Thought I saw something...yep...hold on...just about got it... What’s this?”
He drags his arm back and is holding a white bag with a green sticker on the front. It looks like it’s come from the pharmacy in Marchburg, Ford has a few herself.
He opens the bag and out fall two pill bottles. They don’t have the Marchburg Pharmacy label. He reads the label aloud.
“Cytotec. Place two pills in each cheek and let dissolve fully. What is this?”
Ford snatches it away. “Let me see that.”
Camille’s name is on the bottle, along with instructions to take the pills forty-eight hours after returning home. Ford is unfamiliar with the drug name, but Kate isn’t.
“It’s a chemical abortifacient,” Kate says. “Dean Westhaven, were you aware that Camille recently had an abortion?”
43
THE INTERROGATION
The door to the attic office creaks open, and I raise my head blearily. I’ve fallen asleep in the chair; my neck is stiff. Becca is asleep opposite me, one leg pulled up, cheek resting on her knee. I’m filled with a rush of tenderness seeing her like this, so vulnerable, lips slightly open, face relaxed. She looks so young, so pretty. I belong to her now. I am her Swallow. She’s chosen me.
As if she knows she’s being watched, Becca’s eyes open and she looks at me like she’s happy to see me, and my stomach does a flip.
“Ladies?” Dean Westhaven’s voice is soft, regretful. She’s sorry to wake us. “Thank you for waiting for us here. I assume Dr. Asolo told you we lost a student tonight. Ash, I’m so sorry to tell you this, but your roommate, Camille, has died. This is Sheriff Wood, and Detective Wood, his niece, from Charlottesville. They’re going to ask you some questions. Becca, if you’d please stay? I know you’ve been mentoring Ash and it would be helpful to have your support.”
Becca smiles. “Absolutely, Dean. I’m happy to help.”
They’re being so kind. It strikes me, as I so desperately wished only weeks ago, I have found a new life, new friends. A new support system, one based on healthy boundaries and mutual respect. Yes, my roommate is dead, yes, I’ve been tortured tonight, but look at what I’ve gained. Look at Becca, eyes shining. Look at the dean, smiling encouragingly. Pity and love. These are confusing emotions for me, but I’ll take them.
But the other two, the strange man and the young, crow-eyed woman, looking at me with matching dark, unfathomable eyes, make me nervous. The juxtaposition of the two emotions is too much. Tears prick my eyes. I blink hard against them, but one wells up and runs down my cheek.
“Oh, my poor duck.” Dean Westhaven pats my hand. “We’ll get you through this. Just answer a few questions and we’ll get you back to bed. Tomorrow is a new day.”
Becca places her hand on my other arm, which throbs. “You’ve got this.”
Buoyed on both sides, I nod to the strangers, and the interrogation begins.
The sheriff kicks us off with a platitude so insincere I wonder how many times he’s said it over the years: “I’m very sorry for your loss, young lady.”
“Erm, thank you.”
“You were close to your roommate?”
“Not particularly. I mean, we were friends, but she was closer with our suitemates. They’ve known her longer.”
“You’re British,” the female detective says.
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not. I’m only surprised. I didn’t realize.”
“I’m from Oxford.”
The sheriff tries again. “You and Camille weren’t getting along?”
“I didn’t say that. We got along fine. She was closer with our suitemates, that’s all.”
“If she were upset, she wouldn’t confide in you?”
“No, sir. Probably not. Definitely not, actually. She cries herself to sleep every night, and when I ask what’s wrong she blows me off.”
The sheriff and the detective exchange a glance.
“Has she been sick recently?”
“Like, a cold? No. She had some...female problems. When term started.” I mumble this last bit and look at the ground, mortified.
“Ah. So, she did confide in you about the abortion. When—”
“What?” My head whips up. “What are you talking about?”
Becca squeezes my arm tightly.
Dean Westhaven snaps to. “Oh, dear. I think we should stop it right here, Tony.”
Tony is the sheriff, I surmise. “Camille had an abortion? I mean, it makes sense, she was hurting and feverish and said it was her time of the month.”
The sheriff ignores the dean, just crosses his arms. “When was this?”
“The first week of classes. She left the room and I found her crying in the bathroom, with Vanessa. They told me to get out, so I did.”
“Vanessa is one of their suitemates,” Westhaven supplies.
“Do you know who her boyfriend is?”
“No. She has a crush on her stepbrother. Had.”
“Remind me not to tell you my secrets,” Becca says softly, chiding, but I shake her off.
“It was hardly a secret. Camille told everyone at dinner, several times. I’m not betraying a confidence. I wouldn’t do that.”
“When did you see Camille last?”
“Around ten. She received a summons to the attics.”
Becca squeezes my arm again and this time, I do stop. Becca addresses the adults.
“Sometimes, when we take an interest in a student from our sister class, we invite them to join us in the Commons, a study room, to get to know them better. As the dean will tell you, mentorship is encouraged at Goode. I did so with Ash early in term. But we don’t know who gave the summons for Camille. It came in the usual method, left anonymously for the waitrons to deliver.”
“Is that how you choose who to invite to your secret societies?” the sheriff asks.
Becca shoots a glance at Westhaven. “Mentorship is different. I can’t comment on the societies, naturally. That’s a question for the dean.”
Spoken like a true politician. After what I’ve seen tonight, I realize Becca holds multitudes o
f secrets.
The sheriff seems satisfied, but the detective isn’t buying it. “And you, Ash? How did you find Becca’s mentoring? What sorts of things did she mentor you on?”
The slight emphasis on the word contains any number of meanings, and I don’t like where this is heading. “I’m sorry, but this has nothing to do with Camille. I feel simply terrible that she’s dead, but you’re going to get to know her much better through Vanessa and Piper. We weren’t close.”
“You recently lost your parents, did you not?”
“Tony,” Westhaven warns.
I push away the panic. “It’s okay, Dean. Yes, sir. I did.”
“How terrible for you. I am so sorry. Why are you so far away from home? Who’s paying your tuition?”
“Dean Westhaven was kind enough to allow me to come here despite my personal tragedy. As for the rest, I don’t think that’s any of your business. And it has nothing to do with why my roommate committed suicide.”
“You think she killed herself?”
“Didn’t she?”
Silence fills the room, and a chill moves down my spine. What is going on here?
Becca says, “Wait, you think someone killed her?”
“We don’t know anything yet. Dean, can we speak with Camille’s other friends?”
“Certainly. Ash, do you feel comfortable going back to your room?”
“Unfortunately, Dean, we need to spend some time in the deceased’s room, have our evidence techs go over it,” Sheriff Wood says, and the implication is clear. They don’t believe me. They are going to take apart the room, my life. My heart begins to thunder in my chest. I run through the items in my closet and drawers that could get me in trouble. The cigarettes. The bag with the calamine. The note. Oh, God, the note.
I cast a panicked glance at Becca, who draws me close.
“She can stay with me tonight, Dean. I’ll make her a bed on my sofa.”
“Oh, thank you, Becca. That’s a great help. I’ll see you two in the morning. No wandering now, straight to bed with you both. Becca, I trust you can get the remainder of the seniors to their rooms, as well?”
The dean practically throws us out the door. I follow Becca. I’m almost to the hallway when the female detective says, “Hey. Hold on.”
I stop. “What?”
“Your shirt. Come here.”
I have seen this cold, calculating look in a law enforcement officer’s eye once before. When the police sat me down for a chat about my mother’s death.
“Were you aware...?”
“Are you sure...?”
“Why didn’t you...?”
“Come with us...”
The detective spins me away and I can feel a hand on the hem of my pajama shirt. Lifting it.
I fight the urge to bolt, though I’ve done nothing wrong. Are they going to arrest me? Handcuff me? Is this all over already?
“What is it?”
The dean’s voice sounds weird, strangled, hushed. “Ash. How did you tear your shirt?”
44
THE PREDICAMENT
I try to look over my shoulder. “What do you mean? It’s torn?”
“There’s a piece missing from your shirt.”
The tone of the room has changed. I face the police and the dean, all three of whom are leaning toward me.
“I wasn’t aware there was a rip in my shirt.”
“Where, exactly, have you been tonight?” This from the detective, who has gone on alert, enhancing her resemblance to a raptor. Becca squeezes my hand even tighter.
“You two an item?” the detective suddenly asks.
“What?” My face starts to burn, and I jerk my hand away, but Becca has a death grip on me.
Dean Westhaven clears her throat. “That is a totally inappropriate question. I don’t see the relevance—”
Becca interrupts, “Why would you say that?”
The detective gestures toward us. “It’s nothing important. You’re holding hands. I was only wondering if you’re in a relationship.”
“I’m comforting her. You’re accusing her of murder.”
I yank my hand from Becca’s, heart taking off at a gallop. “I didn’t murder anyone.”
The sheriff has both hands up. “Whoa, whoa. We aren’t accusing anyone of anything right now. We’re just trying to figure out what happened to your roommate, Ash. Please answer the question. What is the nature of your relationship with Miss Curtis?”
“We’re not an item.”
“All right. Where were you tonight? Can you account for your whereabouts this evening?”
“I—”
“She was with me.” Becca’s voice is strong and clear.
Eyebrows rise all around.
“Not like that. We had a secret society meeting tonight. Ash was tapped. She was with me from a little after 10:00 p.m. until now. So, you see, she couldn’t have hurt Camille.”
Becca blows out her breath as if she’s been holding it and grabs my hand again. Squeezes hard. I get the message. Do not contradict me.
“Well, that’s very helpful,” the sheriff says. “But, Ash, I’m afraid we’re going to have to talk to you alone.”
The dean nods. “Wait outside, Becca dear. And see if you can ferret out who sent the summons, will you?”
With one last squeeze so hard my bones crush and tears start, Becca leaves.
“Why don’t you take a seat, Ash. I need to speak with the sheriff.”
The dean takes the sheriff by the arm and escorts him out into the hall. The detective follows, casting a last curious glance at me.
Oh, God. I am royally fucked.
* * *
“Tony, what is this? You can’t possibly think one of my students had anything to do with Camille’s death, especially Ash. She is so reticent she couldn’t hurt a fly, much less a person. There’s no way she had something to do with this.”
“She’s wearing a shirt with a tear in it, made of what looks like similar fabric to what we saw up in the bell tower. And need I mention it’s her roommate who died? I most certainly am not ruling it out. We need to find out if she was up there. And why. And what happened.”
“Then I’m afraid, as her guardian, I will have to call our lawyers. Alan Markert is in Lynchburg, he can be here in an hour, maybe less. My God, Tony, I can’t have you treating a student like a murder suspect.”
“But what if she is a murderer, Ford? Have you thought about that?”
She bites back a sharp reply. “Detective Wood, could you give us a moment, please?”
Kate nods and steps away. When she’s out of earshot, Ford whirls back to face Tony, whispering furiously.
“This is about us. You’re trying to punish me. I get it. I’m sorry you’re hurt, Tony. But we don’t work. Not anymore. Don’t you dare take your frustrations with me out on my girls.”
Tony’s lips press together in a thin line. “Ford, for an intelligent woman, you can be so colossally stupid sometimes. This situation has nothing to do with us because there is no us. There never will be. You made your position clear. I’m never going to leave this place, and you’re going to get out the first chance you get. I understand completely. But don’t think that just because I fucked you a few times it impairs my ability to do my job. If you want to call a lawyer, do it. I’ll call for a deputy to take Ash Carlisle to the office and do this formally. And I’ll give her a Breathalyzer, too.”
“You wouldn’t dare. You have no cause.”
He laughs, low and mean. “You think I can’t smell the alcohol on all y’all’s breaths? I most certainly do have cause, they’re underage. You aren’t, but I’ve seen you bleary-eyed enough to recognize you’ve had a few yourself. Do you think the parents would be happy about that? One of their kids dies while you’re partying?”
/> “I was not. My God, Tony. You can be so cruel. And you wonder why I broke it off.”
He takes a huge breath, blows it out. “If you’d like to stop being dramatic, you can let me have a civilized chat with the kid, outside of the influence of her girlfriend. Or a lawyer. There could be a simple explanation. It was pretty clear the older girl—Becca?—was controlling what Ash had to say. She was gripping Ash’s hand so tight it was turning white. Let me do my job, and I won’t interfere with yours.”
Ford is deeply stung by his words, by the truth she hears in them, though she isn’t going to let him know it.
“Fine. I will have to be there. You don’t talk to her alone. She’s been through a horrible trauma and she’s barely holding herself together.”
“What trauma, Ford? Exactly.”
“Over the summer, her father, Sir Damien Carr, committed suicide. When her mother discovered him, she shot herself. Ash found the two of them while her mother was still alive, barely. She died in her arms. It’s been terribly hard for her, as you can imagine. Now this...”
A hard, pitiless edge flashes in the sheriff’s eyes. He has cop eyes. Dead eyes. Ford shivers internally—this is why she and Tony can’t be together. There is something cold at his core. He has a mean streak. It felt dangerously fun in the beginning, but she quickly realized he can’t turn it off. It’s his coping mechanism for all the horrors he’s seen, or so he says. She knows exactly what he’s thinking—Ash has been connected to three deaths in two months.
Four, really, there’s been another death, but Muriel Grassley doesn’t count. Ash had nothing to do with that accident.
Still, maybe she should call Alan. Or even her mother.
At the very thought of Jude phoning her relentlessly tonight from her command post at the house, the kitchen table scattered, no doubt, with crystal glasses and empty bottles, Ford’s spine stiffens. No. She can handle Tony.
“I will shut this down the moment I feel it’s becoming too much for her to handle. She has nothing to do with this, Tony.”
“Understood. And I’m sorry to hear about her folks. That’s tough. I’ll be delicate. Kate?” he calls, and his niece hurries to his side. “Let’s talk to her.”
Good Girls Lie Page 18