You, reading my words, would smile, pleased with yourself (happy? Yes, of course, there’s another, but the more sedate pleased is so genteel) at how enthusiastic I seem to be.
You would write back, a pretty little letter, more personal this time, about how genuinely delighted you are to have me joining you.
So sweet.
Yes, glee is a very funny word. A funny word indeed.
Though you really should start looking at the synonyms for sad. You have no idea what’s coming. None of you do.
“The past beats inside me like a second heart.”
—John Banville, The Sea
49
THE COP
Kate Wood takes 29 North to Manassas, one hand on the steering wheel, singing an earworm by Billie Eilish that got into her head back at Goode, “You Should See Me in a Crown.” She heard the song coming from one of the dorm rooms and can’t seem to shake it. She finally looked up the video and had to turn it off almost immediately. Spiders. Ugh. She doesn’t like spiders.
The Goode School gives her the willies just like spiders do, sitting atop the hill like an ancient, cherry-round orb weaver in a desiccated web, waiting. Oh, sure, it’s been renovated, updated, but paint and shellac can’t scrub away ghosts. Just walking through the campus is like nails on a chalkboard. She has no idea how Uncle Tony can stand living there.
Something about Camille Shannon’s death feels hinky to her. Tony thinks it’s a clear case of suicide, the diary was the clincher for him, but Kate isn’t so sure. Something about the roommate is off. Something deeper than British reserve and the aloofness of a teenager. Something in her eyes... A darkness, like she’s hiding something.
Granted, Kate is a cop. To her, the whole world is hiding something. But this girl’s empty eyes have been haunting her.
And how she’s been roped into this case... Stupid. She’s supposed to be at home, minding her p’s and q’s, waiting for the ruling on her suspension. Just the thought of the situation makes her blood pressure spike. She was executing an arrest warrant, a nasty drug dealer turned murderer named Gary Banner. Should have been standard fare, but the idiot had seen her and bolted, hid out in a barn, and when she tracked him down, he started shooting. She responded in kind, killing him.
Cut-and-dried case.
But said scumbag happened to be the beloved, railroaded, not responsible for his actions, must have been provoked—was that warrant properly drafted?—nephew of a state senator.
They took her badge and gun. Have had them for two weeks and counting.
Kate is in the right, she knows this. The department knows this. The media knows this. The city of Charlottesville knows this. But she’s still on suspension pending a lengthy examination of the case by the new Police Civilian Review Board. And she has her doubts she’s going to get a fair shake.
She took off for Marchburg to visit her mother’s twin brother, her favorite uncle, both for comfort and, if she’s being honest with herself, to lay the groundwork for making a jump to the sheriff’s office staff in case she gets run out of Charlottesville on a rail.
Nepotism, but this is hardly an issue. Tony would never hold her back. And Kate’s not going to give up her career because of a civilian oversight committee. She’s just not.
Tony is laconic and acerbic and loves that they have so much in common, the two misfits who stepped outside of the Wood family tradition of producing country doctors to be cops, instead. They talk regularly, and she wishes she could see him more, but she’s been ridiculously busy since she made detective, and he’s running the entire county under his office.
The visit has been good for them both. They’ve had some beers, told some war stories—crime scenes discovered, bodies in strange places, crazy methods of death—the kind of dark humor people outside of law enforcement find wildly offensive, but to her and him, it’s life. You laugh, or you cry. It’s the way of things.
He hasn’t pushed her. He’s been a sane sounding board. He’s assured her all will be well. And now, she’s stumbled into a case.
Not your case, Kate.
She drags her attention back to Goode. Nothing about the broken body of the teenager adds up. And the family slaps them all in the face by insisting on the body being posted up in DC? It’s rather pointless, Virginia’s OCME is an exemplary system of medical examiners all tied together under one umbrella, supporting one another throughout the state. But Tony had agreed without a fuss. The death is a sensitive one.
Another sensitive case.
So, Kate finds herself driving north toward the autopsy, singing a creepy-ass song by a wildly successful teenager with a clear talent for tapping into the emotional issues of her peers.
Kate isn’t here to close the case, it’s not hers, it’s Tony’s, and she’s on suspension. She offered to go because if she’s on-site, she can hear the results right away and can share them with Tony. And make sure they’re all getting the same story, are all on the same page.
It’s not like she has anything better to do. And she likes to drive. It helps her think.
Ash Carlisle—Ashlyn Elizabeth Carr, her real name. Five feet eleven inches, 130 pounds, blue on blond. Pretty. Intelligent. Cultured. Rich as sin. Parents dead. Roommate dead. Hiding something. Kate is sure of it.
The tear in the girl’s shirt notwithstanding, her eyes had been glassy like she was on something, and her breath smelled overwhelmingly of Altoids. Deduction based on Kate’s own teenage foibles: the kid had been drinking, and so had her girlfriend, the all-star senior. Funny, they look something alike, are of a similar height and build, but the senior is tougher, you can see it in the aggressive way she defended her younger compatriot.
Secret societies. What a ridiculous thing to allow in a high school. Granted, Goode is not your normal high school, nor your normal boarding school. The girls are treated as if they are much older, almost as if they are in college instead of high school. Self-reliance, independence, agency. All vital aspects for any young woman in the world. But how young is too young for such responsibility? Why can’t kids be kids anymore?
Break it down, Kate.
Okay. A bunch of rich girls, smart, capable, rich girls, with access to drugs and alcohol, hold a secret society meeting and haze one of their own until she feels compelled to throw herself off a bell tower.
Boom goes the dynamite. Occam’s razor. It’s the first rule of investigation—the most obvious answer is your first path.
That the girl was bullied and killed herself is not an intuitive leap by any means. Rich, smart, determined, or otherwise, they’re dealing with teenage girls. Kate remembers her own time in high school. Granted, she went to good old Orange County (go Hornets!), down in the trenches with the farmers’ kids, but there was still money—horse farms and wineries—and those kids were always the ringleaders when there was hell to be delivered.
A whole school of them, all girls, to boot?
Camille Shannon might have been bullied into suicide, or felt left out and depressed. Add in the abortion, possibly an indifferent or ex-boyfriend, and there was a recipe for disaster.
Tony mentioned the mother is threatening a wrongful death lawsuit, and she probably has a case. Bad publicity is never good but isn’t insurmountable. Goode is self-endowed and run by an old Virginia family with very deep pockets, but still, bad press on top of the murder a decade ago could at least affect them. Affect enrollment. Future endowments.
She takes the exit off Highway 29 into Manassas, her mind touching again on Becca Curtis. She’s also curious about the senator’s daughter. She’s in this up to her delicate, pearl-studded ears. Put that girl in a crown and she fits the bill perfectly—a regal leader. The chosen one.
Add in this Ash Carlisle... Kate can’t shake the feeling the two of them know something. But what?
Not your case, Kate, she reminds herself for the twentieth time. You’re
doing Tony a favor, relaying the autopsy report to make sure he’s getting all the facts right away, that’s all.
But when she pulls into the parking lot of the Manassas District OCME office, she impulsively sends a quick email to a friend she knows who can take a glance into the overseas aspect of this. It’s a short email.
What’s the deal with Sir Damien Carr’s death?
She’s surprised when her phone rings immediately, the number on the screen the +44 UK prefix.
“Hello?”
“Kate Wood, what in the dickens are you doing emailing me at midnight?”
“What are you doing looking at your email at midnight, Oliver?”
“Notifications from VIPs.”
“Ah, I’m a VIP, am I?”
“Always. What’s the sudden interest in British politics?”
“He’s a politician?”
“Carr? No. A wealth manager for the upper crust. Knighted for his contributions to the security of the banking system a while back. But he’s very dead. Took his own life back in the summer. The inquest’s just been closed. They found nothing suspicious. He’d been having an affair, his wife found out, he was humiliated. It’s that stiff upper lip thing, gets us every time.”
“The wife is dead, too, yes?”
“Yes. Found him, then shot herself. Word on the street? She wasn’t stable to start with. After the affair, things were tenuous. But that’s hearsay.”
“And their daughter...”
“Teenager, if I recall. No idea what happened to her, she hasn’t been in the press. The family kept her out of things. Carr was a private man. The scandal clearly cost him.”
“The daughter is here in Virginia, going to a very expensive, private all-girls school.”
“Ah. Makes sense. Get her away from the chaos, find normality, all that.”
“Her roommate just died. We think it was suicide.”
“Really? At an all-girls boarding school? How deliciously gothic.”
Kate laughs. “You are a sick man.”
“I take it you’re on the case, Sherlock?”
She hasn’t shared her status with him, isn’t about to now. “No, no, not at all. The school is in my uncle’s territory. I was visiting. Bad timing.”
“What do you need to know, love?”
“I’m not sure. Something about the daughter feels strange to me. A lot of people have died around her recently. Seems odd for a sixteen-year-old. I’m grasping at straws, probably.”
“Maybe, maybe not. You always have had sound instincts. You figured me out rather quickly if I recall.”
Oliver is a closet queen, perfectly happy to lead a quiet, not-out life with his also closeted, quiet, not-out roommate, Eric. They’re desperately in love but won’t admit it. Not her problem, but she picked up on it when she met them the first time, at a cocktail party in DC, an international forensics conference they all attended.
It’s a shame, too. They could be very happy together.
Oliver is also a proud member of the Metropolitan Police’s Forensic Services division. She’s used him as a sounding board in the past; he has a keen insight into murder.
She hears a keyboard tapping. “I’m sending you the files I have on the Carrs. I can look deeper—”
“It’s okay, Oliver. I’m being gossipy, as well as morbidly curious. Must be hard for a kid to lose both parents like that. And then her roommate... It’s just curious, that’s all.”
“Hmm. I’d say. Well, I’ll send along what I have for giggles, and if you need anything else, you let me know.”
“Wonderful. Love to Eric. Sleep well.”
“Your lips to God’s ears,” he says, blowing her a kiss.
A moment later her email dings. The file he’s sent is big enough she’ll need to wait until she gets to her laptop to open it.
She gets out of the car and heads into the OCME. Might as well stay focused here. She can read all about British intrigue later.
50
THE SPEECH
Ford stands in her spot at the head of the chapel, looking at the sea of dazed, exhausted faces assembling before her as the girls of Goode file into the pews. She hasn’t slept, knows she looks disarrayed. Nothing matters more than tending to her girls.
This was her mother’s first commandment—a unity speech. Fill in the girls on the situation. Assure them they are safe, well looked after, cared for.
The logic is sound, so Ford called for an immediate convocation. The bells rang, word passed quickly, like a fire drill, and they came flooding in, wordless and crying, or laughing, some of them, nasty things.
She isn’t used to seeing the girls mixed together, all classes merged, most not wearing their robes or properly uniformed, instead scared and exhausted and sad, doe eyes from almost all of them, waiting for her to share the horrible truth and then to fix things.
She has to do this, if only to quell the rumors.
“Ladies,” she commands, and the room hushes.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard that we lost a student last night. I want to address what we know, and what we don’t. First, the student was Camille Shannon, a sophomore. We believe, sadly, that she took her own life. A journal found in her room talks about death, and suicide, as a way out of a situation she found herself in. This is very private, and I will not be discussing it with you per her family’s request.
“What I’m here to say is, I failed Camille. And in turn, I’ve failed you, her friends, her fellow students. I wasn’t made aware of this situation. I didn’t know Camille was hurting. It is not an excuse, though I can’t begin to know what might have been if we were aware of her suffering. Rather than look back, we will move forward. I see this tragic moment in our tenure together as an opportunity.
“Our Honor Code exists for many reasons. Paramount is honesty and forthrightness in all facets of our lives, yes. But it is also meant to be a safety net. I’m not sure why no one came forward to let us know about the undercurrents that have been circulating the past few weeks. The health and welfare of your own selves is just as important as the health and welfare of your friends. Being honest and trustworthy is more than telling the truth. It is also reaching out a hand when a friend needs it. When someone is struggling. It might feel like you’re betraying a confidence, but believe me, when the option is to tell one of us you’re concerned about a compatriot’s state of mind or lose your friend forever, you must always err on the side of caution.”
Ford looks at Ash now, sitting meekly by Becca’s side. “You are not to blame, not in the least, but we encourage you to share with your teachers, share with your student leadership, share with me. Anything and everything. In the spirit of this, we will accept anonymous insights this week. And you may feel free to leave concerns with me as well as with your head girl, Becca Curtis.”
There are murmurs at this. The Honor Code model is sacrosanct; Goode has always insisted that the accuser and the accused meet face-to-face. Anonymity is discouraged. But no more. Ford will not have this happen again. Too much is going on behind her back.
“Yesterday morning Camille received a summons. None of the seniors we’ve spoken with know who sent the request for her to go to the Commons. If any one of you has knowledge of this, please, I urge you, come forward. We need to determine what might have sent Camille over the...”
Gasps echo through the chapel, and Ford kicks herself. She was about to say edge, a Freudian slip unintended and ill-advised. She’s had no sleep, she is stressed and upset. It’s okay, she tells herself, everyone makes mistakes. Get through this.
“Classes are canceled today, and counselors will be on campus to talk with you. I encourage you to be open with them. To lose a friend is a terrible thing, and you are right to be sad and confused, even if you weren’t close to Camille. We are all affected by this damaged young woman’s terribl
e choice. Suicide is a difficult topic, sometimes even a taboo topic, but here at Goode, where we strive to shine a light on all things, we will not be handling this any differently. All doors are open. All discussions are welcome and encouraged.
“Some of you may be contacted by the sheriff’s office to answer questions about Camille’s past few weeks. I encourage you to comply with all requests, and I will be available to sit in on any conversations you might be uncomfortable having alone.”
Whispers surge through the chapel. When the speculation dies down, she continues.
“Some of you will want to attend the funeral. Her family has requested the funeral be family only, but any student wishing to attend may petition me and I will pass along your names. A memorial service will be held for Camille here, in the chapel, at a later date.”
Ford feels a tear start in her eye and takes a deep breath, willing it away. She will not break down in front of them. They need to see her strong, today of all days.
“Remember your classmate, Camille. Remember a kind, sweet girl, with a bright future ahead. Reverend Morton will lead us in a blessing now.”
She steps aside and the chaplain takes the pulpit. Reverend Morton—ancient, white haired, well loved—speaks a few words on comfort and the impermanence of life, then leads them in a nondenominational prayer for peace. This is a secular campus, after all.
Ford has a list the length of her arm to deal with today—most generated by her mother. The action items include drafting press releases, calls to alumni, donors, parents, and at lunchtime, an emergency board meeting. Not to mention the sheriff will be back to harangue her, she’s sure of it.
No one wants her to make the same mistakes Jude Westhaven did when the murder occurred a decade ago. Goode needs to keep its sparkling reputation intact. To that end, Jude has both informed the alumni association the meeting for today is canceled and arranged for a phone call with a crisis management team out of DC, lawyers who advise people thrust into the spotlight, usually presidential and judicial nominees. Untried candidates for political office. Newly named CEOs.
Good Girls Lie Page 21