On her saggy sofa, checking her watch—Claire’s family was now fifteen minutes late—Madeline was also observing the arrival of a deep funk that always came when thinking about her parents. To distract herself, she thought instead about Matt. When she had told Grace about her conversation with him at Ali’s and mentioned how nice he’d been, Grace had sniffed, “Well, it’s true he graduated from Armitage. But in slightly dubious circumstances. It’s a wonder he came back here at all. I’m surprised they’ve let him be involved in this situation,” but said nothing further. Madeline had been startled by the idea of dubious circumstances surrounding Matt, though she remembered with some shame her surprise at finding out he’d been part of this place. Peering through the blinds, she guessed that the detective’s uneasy relationship with Armitage couldn’t stem from something as bald as academic incompetence. He appeared smart enough to have done well here; he looked like a good athlete, too, and he was handsome, not the way all those blond, patrician boys were, but Mediterraneanly. Dark, with brown eyes.
She checked her watch again. Despite their insistence on needing to see Claire’s room, the parents were now almost half an hour late and Madeline had gnawed her nails down to bloody cuticles. She had class prep to attend to and needed to organize her thoughts about what she hoped to accomplish during the last few days of school. It was becoming increasingly apparent to her that her groovy education had fostered in her a reactionary desire to give a lot of tests and grade numerically.
Finally, she saw a Mercedes pull up in front of the dorm. Her father could have recited the make and model, but all Madeline knew was that the car barely made a sound and moved almost as lithely as an animal. Claire’s mother, Mrs. Duval, got out and tugged her pashmina shawl around her shoulders. It was real pashmina, most definitely unrelated to the one Madeline had bought for five dollars from a nice Nigerian man on Newbury Street one weekend. Even from a distance, Madeline could tell Mrs. Duval’s would never pill. The father shut the door on the driver’s side and stood by his former wife for a moment. Madeline caught her breath. They still made a gorgeous pair. The only people Madeline had ever seen to whom the adjective well heeled could be applied with total aptness. There was no way to know from this distance what their expressions were; they both wore sunglasses that wrapped around their faces. They weren’t here to do any actual packing, either. Some assistant would be allotted that particular task. They were here only to witness where their daughter had died.
Madeline hadn’t realized until that moment precisely how frightened she was of dealing with these people. But she was discovering an unexpected ability to live alongside unpleasant emotions and to continue to do what was expected of her. Having been gravely disappointed along the way by people and institutions, she had developed rather strict personal standards about comportment under pressure. Still, she couldn’t help but imagine Claire’s mother rolling her perfect black stockings up her perfect lean shins. How could she have bothered?
“Mrs. Duval?” Madeline said as she walked out to meet Claire’s mother, her hand extended like a little banner. “My name is Madeline Christopher. I cannot tell you how sorry I am for your loss.”
Claire’s mother said, “Thank you.” She looked at her former husband, who was staring fixedly at an oak tree.
“Flora,” he said in a tone that Madeline recognized. A touch weary, a touch exasperated, yet lined with some small confidence in its ability to exert moral suasion. A note that contained the tiny dose of proprietariness that might be tolerated in an ex-husband. The note that David had used with Isabelle on the rare occasions when he and his former wife needed to provide what he called, with an astounding lack of irony, a “united front” for the children.
Flora Duval, it was abundantly clear to Madeline, was long past being able to stand even the slightest hint at old allegiances. What she needed was a clear destination and an immediate task, and although Madeline was only twenty-five, she was the only one there to provide that. She put her hand on the older woman’s and was surprised at the strength of Mrs. Duval’s returned grip. “Are you ready to go to Claire’s room?” she asked, and Mrs. Duval nodded.
The dorm was empty now, except for faculty. Madeline had been surprised at how she had relied on the girls to provide her with a sense of safety, a padding of voices and bodies that she missed only once they were gone.
The mother’s heels and the father’s wingtips jarred noisily on steel risers. They climbed in silence, and then, when they reached the entrance to Claire’s room, the mother stood stock-still. She tore open the crime scene tape, took off her glasses, and walked slowly through the room, her fingers trailing the surfaces of the desk and bedside table. Traces of the powder the police had used to dust for fingerprints had left grayish smudges on the windowsills, Madeline noticed. She had thought that it was stuff that existed only on television shows or in mystery novels, but apparently not. The furniture had been rearranged: the bed pulled from the wall, the armchair positioned at a new angle to the window. Matt Corelli had apparently confiscated the contents of the desk and the crowded bulletin board, with Claire’s Yale letter and its photos and Post-its.
It was the first time Madeline had been back in the suite since she’d seen Claire’s body. She didn’t know how this was possible, but something of the girl flickered through the space. As if she were wondering what they were going to do next, watching them with her cold little smile. Madeline fervently hoped that she was the only one to experience this discomfiting feeling. “Did you see Claire?” Mrs. Duval asked, looking now out the window. “After she was dead?”
“Yes,” said Madeline, edging herself toward the door, the memory of Claire’s bent neck and taut breasts springing uncomfortably back to the front of her mind, though she had tried hard not to revisit that image. The father had sat down at Claire’s desk, his gaze still unreadable. He hadn’t removed his dark glasses, although it was far dimmer indoors than it had been in the thick, bright light of the courtyard.
“This is our fault, William.”
Madeline felt her heart seize slightly, and she made the subtlest of motions, as if to duck out as discreetly as possible. She wanted nothing more than to dash from the room before a scene could be played out in front of her. Claire’s father apparently felt precisely the same way. “You may leave now, Miss Christopher,” he said. But Mrs. Duval raised an imperious hand and said, “No. Madeline can stay.”
“Flora,” Mr. Harkness said, standing, though his eyes were still concealed behind the shades. For the first time, Madeline heard something waver in his voice.
“Shut up, William. Just shut up,” Mrs. Duval said softly, her fingers now propped on the pillow on Claire’s bed, which had been stripped to the mattress, its sage green duvet no doubt being examined in some police lab.
Someone coughed just then, and they all snapped their heads to look toward the open door. Madeline thought it must be Sarah, discreetly announcing her arrival. But she was stunned to find Porter there.
“Hello, Porter,” Mrs. Duval said, tears running openly down her face now. “Although I consider myself guilty here, I’m also holding you responsible for this.” She made her comment almost conversationally. “I am going to want to know about everything that happened. And I want my grandson back.”
Only afterward, when Madeline was back in her apartment, shaking having migrated from her hands through her whole body, would she be fully aware of what Porter had said and done next. He had stood there at the edge of the room, his whole tall body crammed inside the frame, an expression running across his strong face as if someone had slashed his jaw with a straight-edged razor.
“I understand, Flora. I accept that responsibility,” he’d said. And then Mrs. Duval had started to sob, and it wasn’t her former husband or Porter to whom she turned but Madeline, who held the slender woman as she grieved for her daughter. She would never have guessed that such ragged noise could emerge from someone that beautifully groomed, but she held her and lis
tened to the echo of her cries through the building, where the sounds were free to travel, unimpeded now by the gossip and merriment of girls. It was why, Madeline knew, as she held the elegant woman, she had bothered with the stockings. There was a chance that such fine silk might contain all that regret.
By five, Madeline was finally back in her apartment. Sarah had left a message and said with a note of real apology that she was sorry she couldn’t be there; her meeting had run far later than expected. Would Madeline call her to check in when she had a chance? There was also a call from Fred, and ones from Grace and then Kate. The last message was someone breathing heavily before clicking off. More Reign nonsense, Madeline guessed, but she looked longingly at her bed. Could she wrap herself up there for a few minutes to digest what had just happened? Madeline shivered as with the advent of a flu, remembering how fragile Mrs. Duval had felt and how her perfume had smelled of freesias.
Madeline wondered why Claire’s death had struck her with such grounding force. She had survived her parents’ divorces, her haphazard education, life as the unfavored child, and emerged amazingly cheerful and quite competent. The death of a girl whom she hadn’t liked seemed an odd thing to unmoor her. That was bothering her, as were two other things she’d noticed in Claire’s room. First, why had Mrs. Duval spoken to Porter as if she knew him, not just knew him as the headmaster at her daughter’s school but knew him for real, as a man? The second thing was that, when Madeline had seen Claire’s room the morning the girl died, she had noticed that the long mirror usually on the back of the door had been removed and placed near the window. But it wasn’t there now. Had someone hung it back in place? Had the police done that? If not, who?
Madeline steeled herself and went back up the stairs to see if her memory could be believed. The mirror, beveled and unsmudged, was hanging where it had when Claire was alive: on the back of the door that led to the hall, without a single mark on its bright surface. She wondered if she’d imagined its different placement and quickly turned to leave. She was still troubled by the sensation that something of the girl remained, even considering the tack-pocked walls, the mattress and its institutional blue ticking. And in spite of the investigative remnants—the tape and the powder—as bare and impersonal as if a new student might arrive any day. As if nothing of consequence had ever happened there.
She ought to have supper, but for once Madeline wasn’t hungry. Instead, a cold shower and a hair wash with some of the new shampoo she’d acquired from the girls was the most appealing option. In the cool stream of water, she chose a brand that said it was made with coconut and awapuhi, substances that would strengthen the shafts of her hair and make her scalp tingle with vitality. When she went to pour a dollop in her hand, however, something curious happened. Water pounding on her back, she tried to shake the bottle and get it to cough out enough shampoo for her to wash her hair. But the neck was blocked. Madeline turned off the shower and tried to pry at the container. Finally, she snagged a nail on what felt like a plastic bag. It was a Ziploc, sealed tight, and it came out slimy with pearlescent goop. But that didn’t mask the fact that it contained a note. Those girls, Madeline thought, those horrid girls. They even got inside my bathroom. Dripping liberally on the tile, heart clanging away, Madeline opened the baggie. But the note wasn’t addressed to or even aimed at her. It said, in the same scarlet letters that had graced her own message, “Terror is a by-product of virtue, it is nothing less than swift, stern, and unbending justice. MF: Remember what happened to RQ. You’re next.” MF? RQ? Who were they? Madeline grabbed a towel and daubed her face dry. Then she knew. MF was Maggie Fitzgerald, that mousy freshman who had been so stunned someone as beautiful as Claire could die. The seniors were harassing her for some reason, perhaps to do with Claire. And RQ had to be Rosalie Quiñones, Maggie’s former roommate and a local girl on scholarship, who had withdrawn in November. Madeline, caught up in her own first-semester angst, had barely known who the girl was and had no real idea why she’d gone. Now she wondered if the Reign had been responsible for Rosalie’s abrupt departure, too.
As she dressed, she planned to call Sarah and then Matt. This had gone too far. But then she had another thought. It was time to go see Sally Jansen at the infirmary. She’d probably be barricaded in a room behind her parents and a bevy of nurses, but it was worth trying. Sally might just tell her about Maggie Fitzgerald and Rosalie.
Although everyone called it the infirmary, the low, graceful building that had once been the school’s stables was technically known as the McFarlane Wellness Center. Health was no longer enough. Wellness, with its emphasis on spiritual as well as physical vigor, was the new ideal, though the term made Madeline feel dreadfully inadequate. Inspired by a course she’d taken on Buddhism, she had tried several meditation classes, sponsored by her own college wellness center, and done nothing more than fidget and then fall dead asleep in all of them. Once she’d woken snoring, only to find the instructor looming over her, raising his enlightened eyebrows.
Inside McFarlane, therapeutic hush prevailed. Large ficus trees flanked the front desk, at which, for the moment, no nurse fussed with paperwork or answered phones. Perhaps it was time for a shift in staff. Madeline peered at the whiteboard that noted which rooms were occupied and saw that Sally was supposed to be in Room 12. Trotting down the hall, carpeted in a soothing blue, Madeline sniffed at the combined scents of antiseptic and lavender. She knocked on the door of Room 12 and, when no one answered, cracked the door open. But Sally wasn’t there. Heading back down the hall, she found herself in a room that billed itself as the solarium. Filled with potted plants and lofty windows, it was making an earnest effort to create a sense of sunny peace. And in one of its cavernous chairs sat Sally Jansen, curled like a dry leaf inside a fleece blanket.
When she finally noticed Madeline, she jumped the way surprised cats do, and Madeline startled along with her. “I thought you were one of those nurses coming to give me another pill. Sorry, Miss Christopher.”
Madeline pulled up an ottoman and sat down next to Sally. The girl, close up, looked even worse than she had from the corridor: skittish and anemic, with red eyes and lank hair. “I’m not supposed to talk to anyone,” she said, looking not at Madeline but at some point of the soothing vista that the wide windows offered. “My parents told me not to get involved.” But her mouth was quivering, Madeline noticed, perhaps with the advent of tears but also as if a million words were waiting there, ready to be spilled.
“Where are they, Sally?” Madeline asked, aware she might have no more than a few minutes until one of the girl’s protectors descended.
“At their hotel for a little while. They want to take me home. We have tickets to go back to San Francisco tomorrow.” She wrapped the green fleece more tightly about her narrow shoulders.
“But you don’t want to go, do you?”
Sally shook her head no. “I want to find out about the baby. I can’t leave until I know what’s happened to him.” Her eyes began to glisten with tears, and her mouth quivered even more.
“Sally, of course you don’t have to talk with me. But I want to ask you about the Reign. I think it’s important. It might have something to do with why Claire died.” Madeline was using her firmest teacher voice, although she tried to keep it low and almost casual. But both she and Sally knew their time together was limited. Madeline heard voices down the hall and worried that they were getting closer.
If Sally was concerned that Madeline knew about the group, she didn’t show it. Maybe she assumed the adults in the community were more aware than they actually were. “Claire was trying to change it. Make it less exclusive,” Sally whispered, apparently grateful for the opportunity to talk without being monitored. “I mean, she was in a bad situation, and she needed help. She knew we’d give it to her. But she also wanted to make it what it used to be, something nicer, more supportive.” Sally leaned forward in her fleece cocoon and continued to talk as quickly as she could. The Reign had been getting reall
y bad. They were hazing again. Did Madeline remember Rosalie? When Madeline answered “Yes,” she said, “They—Lee and Portia and Suzy, mostly—tried to drive her out. But she fought back. And Claire protected her. But then something really bad happened, Miss Christopher. I don’t know what it was. But Claire was furious and then Rosalie was gone. That’s when she asked us to be part of the Reign and to twist the thread with her. And we took care of her. We gave her prenatal vitamins and made her stop drinking coffee.” Sally sniffed, but even that couldn’t hide the pride she still felt at having earned Claire’s recognition. Claire might have used her, but at least she hadn’t been cruel. Another nuance of the adolescent social hierarchy that Madeline hadn’t realized existed and a facet to Claire’s personality she would never have guessed at. Sally’s color was improving. Every adult around her was trying to silence her, but all she wanted was someone to talk to.
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