Safe in My Arms

by Sara Shepard

  “You didn’t see anything?” Andrea cried. Lauren shook her head.

  “What the fuck?” called another voice. Ronnie sat up on the other side of Piper. She looked at Piper like she was going to be sick. “Why is she here? Did one of you do this?”

  “No!” Andrea cried, inspecting Ronnie as she stood. She, too, had no blood on her. “What happened? Why are you on the ground?”

  Ronnie rubbed the back of her head. “Someone ran into me. Elbowed my head.”

  “Who?”

  But Ronnie didn’t answer. Her gaze flicked to Piper again, and then she made a gagging sound. She twisted to her right, steadied her body with her palms, and dry-heaved.

  “I’m so sorry, guys.” Lauren was backing away from the scene, farther toward the door they’d come through—which, by now, was shut tight. “I should have never brought us in here. I should have told you to stay outside. This is all my fault.”

  Andrea tried to think. How did she not have answers to what had happened? She remembered standing in the hallway outside Piper’s office while Ronnie searched the drawers and Lauren hacked the computer. Her heart had been hammering. Then there had been a noise. Yes, that was right—a noise in the hallway, a sort of thud. Piper, falling? Her head hitting the wall? Whatever it was, it freaked Andrea out. She’d hurried down the hall, needing to see what had happened. The next thing Andrea knew, she was waking up on the ground. She wasn’t immune to fainting; as a child, it happened a few times when she felt stressed or overwhelmed. Perhaps the sight of Piper triggered it? But that didn’t explain why Piper was lying on the ground, unable to breathe. And with so much blood around her.

  “We need to call 911,” Andrea said, reaching for her phone. “And I need to get to Arthur.” Something terrible struck her—if they hadn’t hurt Piper, someone else had. And that someone might still be on school premises, intending to hurt someone else.

  “Wait,” Ronnie said. Her eyes shone in the near darkness. “We will—but wait. How are we going to explain why we were in here?”

  Outside were the grumbles of engines. More cars were pulling into the parking lot. Doors slammed. Parents of the littler kids, here for early pickup, called hello.

  “If we leave now, all the parents will see us,” Ronnie whispered. “And if we call 911, we’ll have to explain how we know Piper was attacked. Behind a locked door.”

  “W-We can’t just leave her!” Andrea cried.

  “We could say the door was ajar?” Lauren suggested. “And we went inside after we heard the scream, maybe?”

  “Do we bring up the notes?” Andrea asked.

  “Of course we don’t bring up the notes!” Ronnie shook her head vehemently. “That gives us motive!”

  They stared at one another. It was insane they were talking about motive and evidence and guilt. Didn’t only guilty people do that?

  And Andrea knew how people could twist things, depending on what they wanted. People saw only what they wanted to see. Take what had happened with her and Roger on that trip they’d planned upstate. Roger had been so excited about it; he’d wanted everything to be perfect. He’d descended into near despair when he found out that his top-choice hotel was all booked, but then Andrea had suggested an even nicer place a few towns over, right on the water, and his spirits had buoyed.

  Andrea headed upstate early, but Roger had to finish the school day. She had been excited when she got off the train. They had plans to eat out, to go on hikes, hit the antique stores. She walked around the little town for a while, soaking it in and thinking—foolishly—that she was flying under the radar.

  Roger arrived just as she was giving her name to the front desk of the hotel. In youthful exuberance, he ran across the lobby, threw his arms around Andrea, and said, loudly, how happy he was to be there.

  A few heads popped up. The desk clerk looked at both of them carefully. It was only later that she realized that the woman saw Andrea as how she’d looked on her train trip: in a suit jacket, her hair longish but still masculine. A man. A semi-famous man. The clerk saw Roger as someone else, too.

  Still, Andrea didn’t think much of it at the time. She and Roger had a fun night together at an out-of-the-way restaurant in the woods. Back in the room, they watched movies on separate double beds and fell asleep halfway through room service dessert. The next morning, they woke to someone banging on the door. When Andrea opened it, a balding man about ten years older than she was stormed inside.

  “Hey!” she started. “This isn’t—”

  But then she’d turned to Roger, who’d scooched back on the bed. He was staring at the man in horror. “Dad?”

  There was no explaining. Roger’s father assumed what he wanted to assume. Hotel security was right behind him, and they called the police because, apparently, Roger’s family had reported him missing. Roger was pulled away, but Andrea still remembered the imploring, deeply repentant look he shot her over his shoulder. But Andrea didn’t blame him. How could she? He was just a kid. Just trying to figure out his life.

  Now, on the floor, Piper let out another gurgle. Andrea pressed the green phone button on her device’s screen. “We have to help her. We can’t just stand here.”

  “Andrea,” Ronnie said meekly. “I can’t be part of any sort of investigation. I can’t have my name released.”

  “But we haven’t done anything. Okay, we’re in this hallway, but we found her like this. Someone else must have come through that door after we did.”

  “You don’t understand.” Ronnie’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “I’ve hurt someone, in the past. Esme’s father. It . . .” She paused, then shook her head as if casting off the thought. “. . . I fled before I could explain it was self-defense. But if the police figure out that I’m that person, if they connect me to that—”

  “It’s okay,” Andrea interrupted, touching Ronnie’s arm. Ronnie was in a sort of C-shape, her head bent toward her legs. “I don’t want them to know who I am, either. My dad’s this guy named Robert Vandermeer, he’s all over the press. I kind of moved to get away from him, away from that life.”

  Ronnie was staring at her, her tears suddenly dried up. “So what do we do, then?”

  “I could call the police.”

  Lauren was now more than twenty feet from Piper’s body, her small frame pivoted sideways almost like she was poised to make a quick escape. “I could call 911. And admit I found her. If it means protecting you two.”

  “No way,” Andrea said, though she was touched that Lauren had offered. “There’s got to be another way out of this building. A back door. We could find it, and then we could call 911 together. And even if for some reason they find out we were there, we say we were all in here, and we give them a benign reason. We were going to approach Piper about a . . . a special guest program at the school. We wanted to form a committee.”

  “A committee,” Ronnie repeated.

  “Of parents,” Andrea went on. She was winging it. “Silver Swans seems like an open-door-policy kind of place, and the door was literally open. And we walked in . . . and there was Piper. We had nothing to do with it. It was just terrible luck.”

  Lauren unpeeled herself from the wall. Ronnie nodded tentatively. Andrea turned right, then left. The obvious Exit sign was above the door they’d come through—the one that led straight to the parking lot where all the parents were. But then, as she turned to her right, away from the offices, she noticed another glowing red Exit sign down the long hall.

  “There,” she said, pivoting. “Let’s go.”

  But at that moment, the door they’d come through flung open again. Light streamed in. A man in a security uniform stepped into the hallway, unassumingly twirling his whistle. When he turned and laid eyes on them, his face registered a look of terror. His gaze dropped to Piper on the floor.

  “What the fuck?” he bellowed, reaching for something in his
pocket. A phone. “Stay where you are! No one move!”

  Andrea glanced at the second exit. Maybe, if she were a different person, she would have run for it. But as it was, the security guard was already barreling for them, cell phone to his ear, simultaneously yelling that they needed an ambulance and a police car and telling the women to absolutely, positively, stay where they were.

  PART TWO

  Piper

  February

  Here’s the thing: your life wasn’t always this beautiful. These days, you have the big house on the ocean, the pretty clothes, the flawless figure. You have enough money to send your son to private school and maybe enough capital to set up a second Silver Swans up the coast. You have sway over so many parents in this community—and they all want their kids to come to this place, learn from the teachers you’ve chosen, participate in the activities you’ve curated.

  That feels good. Of course it does. And for a while now, you’ve felt untouchable, like nothing can knock you from your pedestal, like nothing bad will ever happen again. Something will, of course. The something looms close, coming in only a few weeks . . . but you don’t know that yet. No one knows it yet. But today, you are letting the sunlight bathe you, listening to the kids’ happy cries, and you are happy. Really, really happy.

  You’ve nearly forgotten that it wasn’t always this way.

  Like your time with the Asshole. The relationship began sweetly enough. The two of you lived in a tiny apartment together in a good part of town. In the fresh, early days together, he promised to take care of you, financially and emotionally. He said he was going to make it big someday, and you believed him. He was so damn smart, and he made you laugh until tears rolled down your cheeks. You’d grown up in a household where laughter was scarce. Money troubles hung over your family; levity never punctured through.

  But he swooped in and made everything light and sweet. He gave you permission to smile.

  Then North happened. Things were okay for the first few months, but you could tell the baby’s crying and constant need for attention got to the Asshole. Oh, he said he loved your child, but as time went by, you weren’t so sure.

  About a year after North was born, the Asshole barely came home anymore. You started to form a case against him. All the reasons you should leave. Then you found some emails between him and another woman on his computer: banal innuendo, cheesy banter, a few sexts. You were pretty sure he wasn’t in love with this woman, but it was the final straw. Now it wouldn’t be your fault if you left him. You could at last walk away.

  When he decided to come home that night, he was surly and quiet. He passed by you in the kitchen without saying hello. He passed by North’s room and gave it only an exhausted glance.

  It was over fast. He barely cared that you were leaving. But when you went to take out your half of what was in the bank account, imagine your surprise when you discovered there was nothing left. All your years of careful spending and saving—how could this have happened? Turns out the Asshole had a few more credit cards in both your names you had no idea about, and when he sensed things were taking a turn, he used your joint savings to pay them off. He did it to spite you, it seemed, because you were always the frugal one, the careful one, the person who eschewed buying a bigger car or renting a nicer apartment because it was better to live within your means.

  You and North took off even though you had next to nothing. Moved down the coast, ended up in a pretty town with a quaint name: Raisin Beach. You rented the first apartment you were able to afford, a terrible little place that was loud and cheaply built and had bugs. It was like you were in your childhood bedroom again, burrowed under threadbare sheets, watching the lights above you flicker because your family didn’t have enough to pay the electric bill that month. No, you thought. I can’t go back to that. You looked at North. We’ll get through this, won’t we, buddy? North smiled brightly at you, but you could tell he was scared, too.

  The town was wealthy. You wondered if you made a wrong move, but at the same time, you wanted to belong here. You studied the people on the streets, in the shops, in the grocery stores, the polished mothers, the effortlessness of it all. You wanted to be one of them, the kind of mother people envied, the kind of woman for whom no one felt sorry.

  The first few years were brutal. You struggled. You cursed the universe. And then, about four years after you moved, you took a walk. You brought North along with you, but he was angry about it. He’d already started pulling away from you. On one of your outings, when you were feeling particularly alone, you passed a statue of an angel, her wings outstretched. Her eyes searched you out and drew you in.

  Only after you stared at the angel for what felt like hours did you look around. You were sitting not on the steps of a church but at a daycare. And there was a sign in the window: Director Wanted. Inquire Within.

  You heard children squealing from somewhere inside. You watched the vehicles pull in for pickup time. Well-dressed little kids spilled out to greet their better-dressed mothers. It was only mothers in the cars, holding lattes, offering a thank-you to the school helpers.

  One of the mothers turned her head and looked straight at you. You could only imagine how you looked that day: greasy, unwashed hair, tear-streaked face.

  Her lips pursed. You lowered your eyes, only partly understanding her admonition. You’d never felt so ashamed. So low. So judged.

  You felt called to Glory Be, but it wasn’t out of benevolence, not totally. It was ambition. You were going to show that mother who you really were. You were going to show everyone.

  Which you did. You made this place fucking perfect.

  And you aim to keep it that way.

  From The Raisin Beach Chronicle

  INCIDENT AT PRESCHOOL ACADEMY LEAVES ONE INJURED

  Midmorning on September 26, EMTs and police were summoned to the Silver Swans Nursery Academy on Reyes Avenue in Raisin Beach in response to a 911 call of a potential assault in the facility’s lower floor. Authorities found four women, three parents and a staff member, in a staff hallway unconnected to the school. All three witnesses seemed confused and very disturbed by the fourth individual in the basement, who was unconscious, struggling to breathe, and bleeding from a suspected head injury. This fourth individual has been identified as PIPER JOVAN, the school’s director.

  The parents found on the scene insisted they didn’t hurt Jovan, but they could not offer any explanation of why they were in the hallway, which was only accessible by keycode security. All three were brought in for more questioning. Ms. Jovan was taken by ambulance to Ventura Memorial, condition pending.

  This is a developing story.

  Fourteen

  Watch your head, Ms. Vaughan.” Andrea felt a hand on the small of her back as a police officer guided her into a squad car. “There you go.”

  Andrea was on her way home. She was being released from this mess—for now. As they drove down the clean, quaint streets of Raisin Beach, she slumped down as far as she could go, afraid someone might recognize her.

  The vibe at the police station had been mostly calm, but there were undercurrents of panic—officers hurrying out of the station in groups, whispers, the phone ringing off the hook. Andrea and the others were terrified and confused at what had gone down, and who might have hurt them and Piper, and—the scariest thing of all—why they couldn’t go to their children. The police assured them they’d get through their questions as quickly as possible and that their kids would be taken care of . . . but how did they know?

  The twenty or so minutes Andrea waited in an interrogation room felt like days. She hadn’t been asked to turn in her phone, so she used the tense, scary time of waiting to call Jerry. “This . . . thing happened,” she’d said. “I’m okay, and I think Arthur’s okay, but . . . but I don’t know.”

  Jerry asked her to slow down, start over. When she told him she’d stumbled into so
me sort of “attack” in the office hallway of Arthur’s new school, Silver Swans, Jerry interrupted, in his barking, old-man voice, “Silver Swans? He’s going to school there?”

  “Yes . . . ,” Andrea said. “I told you that.” In fact, Jerry had been the one, indirectly, to tell her about Silver Swans.

  Jerry couldn’t make it to the station right then—he was with Susan at a chemo appointment. “Don’t say anything to the police,” he advised her.

  “But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I know. But still, don’t say anything. I’ll make some calls. I’ll make sure Arthur is okay. Don’t worry.”

  Five minutes later, Jerry called her back to say that the kids at Silver Swans were fine. How he cut through the red tape and found this out, she didn’t know. “Parents are allowed to pick them up,” he told her. “So if you’ve got someone who can run over . . .”

  “Great,” Andrea gushed. “Thank you.” She hung up immediately and called Martina, the babysitter who sometimes watched Arthur. Thankfully, she was free. The sooner Martina could get Arthur out of that place, the better.

  Moments after that, Andrea’s officer, named Detective Allegra, a young man with scraped-raw cheeks and a cowlick, walked into the room and shut the door. He’d looked her up and down suspiciously, and Andrea felt a sinking feeling. Please just let this be civil, she prayed. She was grateful when Allegra wrenched his gaze away.

  He asked her what she’d been doing in that hallway, and she’d told the committee story that they’d planned. It was uncomfortable to lie, but she didn’t know any other way. Allegra had looked at something on his notes and then said, “Says here you had a meeting with Ms. Jovan yesterday.”

  “What?” Andrea blurted. “H-How do you know that?”

  Shit. Did this qualify as saying something? But Andrea’s meeting wasn’t official. She was also caught so off guard—it was the attacker they needed to worry about. “Is there security at the school?” she asked. “Are we sure the kids are safe?”