Kill All Your Darlings

by David Bell

  They started walking toward the house together, through the yard, where the grass was mostly dead, and toward the patio, where the three guys were still standing. One of the guys looked up, the one named Isaac. He waved.

  “Madeline?” he said. “Want some?”

  Madeline just waved and then she put her hand out, stopping Rebecca twenty feet short of the patio.

  Rebecca looked back, worried the guy from the alley would be following them. But he was nowhere in sight, which relieved her to no end.

  “Seriously,” Madeline said. “Thank you.”

  “Are you really okay?”

  “I am.” She looked like she was trying to get her breathing under control, like she had been underwater too long. “He’s just . . . I can handle him. Okay?”

  “Who was that guy?”

  “His name’s Zach Greenfield. He’s just someone I know.”

  “Do you want me to call the police?”

  “No, don’t do that,” she said. “I don’t know him that well. And he’s drunk.”

  “That’s not an excuse. Ever.”

  “I know. But look. Do me a favor? I’ve seen these kinds of guys before. Don’t say anything to anyone. He has a wife, and we’re kind of friends. And I wouldn’t want Sophia—her—to know anything about this. Because it’s . . . I just wouldn’t want her to know. Okay?”

  “That’s the blond woman. The one who was with you earlier.”

  “She wasn’t feeling well and went home. Yes. Can I count on you to keep this quiet?”

  Rebecca didn’t like the secrecy, didn’t like going along, covering up that kind of behavior by a guy. But she barely knew Madeline, barely knew anyone in her major yet, and she didn’t want to do anything that might hurt the way people saw her.

  Besides, Madeline seemed to have it under control. She gave off the aura of being the kind of person who had everything under control.

  “Okay, sure,” Rebecca said.

  “Thank you. That really means a lot to me. It’s good to know someone like you has my back. It really is.”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  “Great. Come on, let’s get you another beer.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CONNOR

  PRESENT

  Rebecca mostly tells her story to me in a matter-of-fact way. But at certain points, her voice quavers.

  She always gets past those wobbles, manages to get back on track and maintain her composure. But her voice tells me all I need to know about how tough it is for her to share this.

  When she finishes, she shivers. And I assume it’s not from the cold that swirls around the alley.

  My mind bounces back to my encounter with Zach in his house. He acted like he had a vague, passing acquaintance with Madeline. Either it was more, and he wanted to avoid admitting it, or he really didn’t know her that well—and the night in the alley behind Lance’s house was a drunken attempted assault he’s forgotten or written off as nothing.

  “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” Rebecca says. “I told you about that party at Dr. Hoffman’s house, and you know, he’s taking over your class for you. So I don’t want it to get back to him I was talking about him.”

  “I know about the parties he has for students,” I say. “We all do.”

  I remember what Preston said about Lance that night a few years ago when he’d taken me out to get drunk. Did he just mean the parties or something else?

  “Rebecca, I know how tough it is for you to talk about this kind of thing. I can see that on your face. And I know it’s weird for me to just come up to you this way on the street. I get it. But I think we need to do something more with this information than just keep it to ourselves.”

  “I told the cops about it when Sophia died. My mom made me call them.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They took my statement over the phone. And they seemed really interested in anything I knew about that guy. Sophia’s husband. I thought they were going to arrest him, but I never heard anything else. I don’t want to get all tangled up in this again. I mean, I’m still a student here, and I don’t want Dr. Hoffman pissed at me because I talked about his party. And I don’t want that dude, Sophia’s husband, mad at me either. He might be dangerous.”

  “Rebecca—”

  “I’ve got to go, Dr. Nye.”

  “Rebecca. Just wait. Just wait for a minute.”

  Mercifully, she stays. If she hadn’t, I’d be faced with the prospect of either letting her go or else running out in the street, following along behind her while everyone downtown watches me.

  She looks impatient, but she waits. Her upper teeth rest on her lower lip.

  “There are a lot of people whose lives are being affected by what happened to Madeline. The police are investigating me.”

  Her eyes widen when I say this.

  “Did you know I was probably the last person to see Madeline alive when she first disappeared?”

  “I heard that. Yes. But people say a lot of shit around a school. You can’t tell what’s the truth and what’s just nonsense people are saying to get attention. It really sucks.”

  “I know. Everybody talks shit. It’s not just students. Did the police get back in touch with you when Madeline disappeared?”

  “They asked me a few questions.”

  “They had to, right? I know they came and talked to me and all of her professors.”

  Her chin quivers, but she rights the ship. She folds her arms across her chest. The skin on her cheeks looks red and raw. “I wasn’t good friends with Madeline, so I didn’t know much. But I told the cops about the thing at the party. They acted all interested again, but I don’t know what they did about it.”

  I tell her about the night I heard Sophia and Zach fighting, and how I went into their house and saw the trouble but didn’t notify the authorities.

  “I hate myself for not calling the police. I really do,” I say. And when I say it, my face grows hot with shame at the memory. “If I’d called the police then, maybe Sophia would be alive. And maybe Madeline would be too. Do you see why I feel it’s so important for you to tell what you know now?”

  “I already told it to them. And they didn’t care. They didn’t do anything, so that means they don’t care.”

  “Why do you say that? Did something happen to you?”

  She looks to my right, her eyes trailing over the well-worn and stained bricks that make up the side of Troy’s. Out on the street, brakes squeal as someone avoids an accident, but neither Rebecca nor I flinch.

  “I have a friend. I knew her freshman year in the dorm. She wasn’t an English major. She didn’t stick around here long enough to declare a major at all. But she had a professor in one of her Psychology classes who started harassing her. First he’d ask her to come to his office. Then he wanted to meet for coffee. Here.” She points to the building, as though it’s to blame. “Then he wanted her to come to his house.”

  “That should never happen, Rebecca. Never.”

  “No, it shouldn’t. That’s why she reported the guy to the head of his department. But the head of the department blamed her. He said she was spreading gossip. It’s funny, isn’t it? It’s always gossip when a woman wants to talk about something.” She looks behind her once and then faces forward. “Then the professor, the one who was harassing her, he started coming down on her in class. Giving her lower grades. Not even giving some papers back. It all got to be too much for her. And she left Commonwealth. She transferred and really doesn’t talk to any of us anymore.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to happen to a student. The very thought of it disgusts me. It would disgust any right-thinking person. And I want you to know the university is changing. They’re taking claims made by women more seriously. The culture is different. That kind of thing that happened in the past
shouldn’t happen anymore. I know that. Our department head, Dr. White, he’s committed to that. I promise you. And what I’m asking you to do is to go to the police. To help them solve a crime.”

  “Cops don’t take women seriously either. It’s all the same.”

  “These cops want to solve these crimes. I know because I’ve been in the station with them. I’ve had them coming to my house. You need to remind them of the thing with Zach and Madeline. They have a lot of information to sift through.”

  She reaches back and pulls her phone out of her jeans pocket. She checks the time. “I’m going to be late to the writing center. I’m already late. I barely had time to get a coffee in Troy’s. And now . . .”

  “The police can write you a note,” I say. “Or call the writing center.”

  She stares at her phone as if I’m not here. Her teeth clamp down on her bottom lip again. Doubt creeps in. I think I’m losing her. She’s going to turn and go and never tell the cops what she knows.

  And I’ll be the guy they want to arrest.

  “Are you going to go with me?” she asks.

  “I can’t really do that, Rebecca. It’s not good for me to go there.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m going in to talk to them soon.”

  She still stares at the phone, but the corners of her mouth turn down.

  “I don’t know about going there alone. I’ve never been in a police station. That just seems like too much—”

  “Rebecca, I’ll call the detective in charge of the case. Her name is Alicia Bowman. She’s decent. She’ll treat you well. And maybe you’ll feel like they’re taking you more seriously because the cop is a woman. Do you know where the station is?”

  She shakes her head. “I’ve never been there.”

  “It’s two blocks that way. Over on Kentucky Street.” I point east. “It’s right on the corner. You can practically see it from here.”

  She remains rooted in place, staring at me. She’s looking to me for answers, and I’m not sure I have any. I just hope she can summon the courage to make that two-block walk.

  “I’m going to call my mom on the way. I want to know what she thinks.”

  “You should do that. Absolutely.”

  She heaves a big sigh, the motion lifting her heavy jacket up and down. “Okay.”

  “Thank you, Rebecca. Really. Thank you so much.”

  She stands in place a moment, and I see everything wavering, ready to tip over out of my control. But then Rebecca turns and starts out of the alley. And I hold my breath, hoping she’s really on her way to do what I need her to do.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  I head the other way, back toward the parking lot behind Troy’s, where I’ve left my car.

  I slide my phone out of my pocket, ready to dial Bowman. Someone enters the alley at the far end, and I’m not really paying attention until they say my name.

  I lift my thumb off the call button.

  It’s my colleague Carrie Richter. The one who went out of her way to tell me she didn’t like the kind of book I wrote. She’s carrying a canvas shopping bag and wearing an oversized winter coat and earmuffs, which she pulls off when she sees me. She smiles but looks guarded. I wonder if news of Madeline’s death has begun to circulate online or on campus.

  “Hi, Carrie.”

  “Connor. How are you?”

  She asks me that question the way one would ask the elderly or a small child. It’s the way people spoke to me for months after Emily and Jake died.

  “I’m okay. How are you?”

  “Preston e-mailed the whole department saying you had to take a leave of absence. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Oh, right. Thank you.” I have no idea if Preston gave any more details. I doubt he mentioned my being a murder suspect, but I don’t know. He was eager to get me to talk to the cops. I know that. “Well, I just needed some time to work some things out.”

  “Sure, of course.”

  “I need to go—”

  “Is this an illness, Connor? Or some kind of personal situation? I thought maybe your book was doing so well that you were quitting teaching altogether. It would be . . . unusual to do that so early in the term with so much time left to go, but I thought that might be the reason.”

  When she fishes for information, Carrie isn’t subtle. Most academics aren’t. They want to know if someone else is getting something they aren’t—grants, raises, office space—and they want to know it now. And I can guarantee whatever I tell Carrie will be all over the department by late afternoon.

  “Just a personal issue,” I say. “I hope to be back soon.”

  “Are you getting paid during this time? Do you know Larry Hood over in Music? He had to take a leave when he got divorced, and they paid him. I thought that was excessive, given the state budget cuts, but nobody asked my opinion. I know Preston’s always concerned about our ‘image.’ ” She makes an air quote with her free hand. “Of course, we all know his motivation, right? Preston the Politician. He wants to get promoted to dean. And between you, me, and the brick wall, I’m sure he’ll get it, too. Being a good-looking white man with a picture-perfect family. They still value all that, despite all the strides we women are supposedly making and—”

  “Carrie, I’m late for something right now. But it was good seeing you.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. I have so much to do, I can’t even see straight. I’m going to grade here in Troy’s all day.”

  “Oh, wait,” I say.

  Carrie stops, looks back. Her face is expectant.

  “I was just wondering about something,” I say. “Do you remember we talked about Sophia Greenfield the other day?”

  “I do.”

  “Is there anything else that stood out to you about her?”

  Carrie’s face grows suspicious, like she’s the night watchman and I’m the guy casing the place she’s guarding. “Why are you asking me about that?”

  “I’m just curious. Because . . .” I don’t mention Madeline. “Just curious. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t know anything except Sophia’s death was a tragedy, Connor. I don’t know what else I can say.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I wave at her. “We’ll talk soon.”

  I go down the alley next to Troy’s, not looking back.

  When I reach the parking lot and my car, I get inside and call the police station right away. I ask for Bowman, expecting her to be unavailable, but my name must be the magic word because when I mention it, I’m connected. And Bowman comes on the line quickly, greeting me like we’re old friends.

  “Connor. So glad you decided to call. It doesn’t look good that we haven’t talked to you yet.”

  “I just want to tell you something important.”

  “Again, maybe face-to-face would be the best. Where are you right now?”

  “Far away,” I say. “In another state.”

  “Now that’s not good either, Connor—”

  “Can you just listen for a minute?”

  I tell her about Rebecca. That she has information about the case, specifically about Zach Greenfield and Madeline. And she’s coming in to the station right now and should be there any moment.

  “She’s nervous about going in there and talking to the cops,” I say. “So handle her with kid gloves. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “I deal with students all the time in this town,” Bowman says. “I’m on it. And thanks for the heads-up. Now, let’s talk about you, Connor. Are you sure you don’t want to come in and clear things up on your end? We still have some stickiness relating to Madeline’s death. It’s odd her body was found so close to your family’s graves, isn’t it? Like someone had killed her there and then tried to cover it up. Did you know she was still alive, Connor? Had you seen her back here in town?” />
  “I’m going to go now—”

  “It’s possible someone has seen the two of you together. Or knows she was with you. Again, it’s better to get things out in the open.”

  I don’t know if she’s bluffing. Or if she really does know something about Madeline’s visits to my house.

  I don’t want to find out. Not now.

  “Good-bye, Detective.”

  I end the call.

  But before I can start the car and get out of here, someone knocks against the passenger-side window, and I jump so high, I nearly hit my head on the ceiling of the car.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  I can see only a portion of a person outside the window. A torso. A zipped-up winter coat.

  My insides turn to water. It’s Bowman. She traced the call somehow to find my location. And now I’m going into the police station and never coming out.

  My rational mind wrestles for control of my brain. The midsection outside the window wears a beat-up coat, one that was new about fifteen years ago. Nothing like Bowman would wear. And the body is broader, heavier than Bowman’s trim figure.

  The person bends down, knocks again. Waves for me to open the door.

  It’s Lance.

  “Shit,” I say. Relieved.

  I undo the locks, and he pulls the door open, slipping inside along with a blast of cold air.

  “You looked like you’d gone to another world there for a minute,” he says. He’s wearing the checked Ivy cap he always wears outside when the weather is cold. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  He rubs his hands together. “Are you going to turn this thing on? It has heat, you know.”

  I do what he says and start the engine. The heat comes out cold at first, and I shiver. I smell whiskey on Lance. Not an unusual occurrence. On many a morning in the English Department, he smells like booze before nine o’clock. I’ve always given him the benefit of the doubt and told myself it was likely left over from the night before. I’ve always suspected he drinks at home, sinks into a funk, and then fails to bathe before coming to campus. But I’m never sure if I’m correct.