by Sara Shepard
“I’m not equipped to help you with what you’re going through, though I do think you are going through something,” Jean went on. “But I think . . . I think that perhaps we should step away from focusing on your school and let you sort all that out internally.”
He had been diplomatic, at least. He probably didn’t deserve you telling him to go fuck himself. But what more was there to say? Hulu was out. If you were going to do the documentary, it would have to be on your dime. Which—fine. It was a small price to pay.
But things don’t feel fine. Now that Graham has been here, you feel stirred up and more unsettled than you have in years. The walls are cracking. Soon, they will crumble. Graham isn’t going to keep his word. He’s going to tell everyone about you simply because he can. It’s his only defense against those pictures—if he can get to everyone first, if he can convince all of Raisin Beach that you have serious delusions, then it will throw those images into question. He might suggest that you were self-harming and that he had nothing to do with it. He might paint himself as the concerned and caring but helpless husband.
It’s going to happen. You can feel it. But you can’t let it.
You think of his wife. You remember the email she sent you before you knew who she was, talking about how she suffered from postpartum rage. At first, you’d figured it was just a reaction to the note you’d slipped in her child’s backpack. But you hadn’t known she was married to Graham then. And now you wonder: How bad are this woman’s postpartum issues, actually? Is Graham just twisting it into something bigger than it is?
Your body feels prickly. Jesus. This woman needs your help. If she’s with him for much longer, she might lose too much. Her confidence. Her sanity. Maybe even her child.
And then you stand. You need to talk to her. You need to warn her. North’s death was an accident—at least you thought so. Now, suddenly, you aren’t sure. Now, suddenly, everything feels turned upside down.
You could try calling, but you worry about Graham seeing the number and picking up. Instead, you dash off a note on a piece of stationery. You don’t want to indicate what you want to talk about in the message—you just need to get her into your office, alone. You fold up the note and stride down the hall and push out the heavy front door that leads to the parking lot. It’s nearly empty now—all the parents’ cars that were here for drop-off are now gone.
You push through the red door to the classrooms. Inside, there’s the pleasant hum of classes in session. The air smells like paste and nontoxic paint; the music teacher is playing melody bells several doors down. You turn to the line of nursery cubbies, inspecting the tiny baby jackets and sweaters hung on the hooks outside the room. Each child’s name has been painted above their hook; there’s also a cubby above for larger items, like toys or diapers. After a few moments, you find her child—Matthew Smith. His backpack is in the shape of a cheerful raccoon. You touch its edges, feeling that awful ache again. Through the years, you’ve become more desensitized to being around little kids, especially babies, focusing only on what you need to do for them as their school’s director. But it’s the kind of backpack you would have gotten for North, had he lived.
After the note has been delivered, you feel restless, antsy. So you poke your head into the other classrooms. In the twos, the teachers are helping toddlers pretend-play with fake wooden food. You bite your lip, remembering how you imagined that you and North did the same thing. In the threes, the kids are making a craft with glue, glitter, and feathers. How many crafts did you make “for” North and hang on your refrigerator?
The fours are listening to the music teacher playing the melody bells; you spy Andrea’s and Ronnie’s children sitting politely and suddenly feel a pang of regret for what you’d asked Carson to do. Not that those parents aren’t a liability, but the kids look so innocent and vulnerable—and also rapturous. You picture their small faces when their mothers tell them they’re no longer attending this place. They’ll be okay, you know—it’s amazing how resilient kids are. But at the same time, you hate that you see this heartbreak up ahead for them. You hate that you know it’s coming and you are the cause.
Unless there is something you could do to stop it. Somehow, Graham’s presence is putting everything in perspective. It’s not about being the best here—it’s about doing what’s right and good.
All at once, you want to get back to your office again and make a plan. How much do those women know? Where is Flora, exactly? Is there a way to dig yourself out of this without ruining anyone else’s life?
You pass through the courtyard and around the playground. The other threes class is out there, and you spy Carson in the garden, inspecting some of the vegetable patches. You don’t wave. You’re too distracted to talk to him right now. You reach the loft building from the back entrance and stand for a moment in the cool shade of the stoop. The first time you key in the code on the security panel, you get it wrong—your fingers are slick, suddenly. Perhaps with guilt. The door clicks as it opens, and you push into the cool darkness of the hall.
The back door’s latch closes slowly, barely making a sound. You blink in the darkness, suddenly having a strange feeling that you aren’t alone. A rustle comes from around the corner. A tiny click of movement. You pause. Carson is outside. You’d seen the security guy in the parking lot. Everyone else who has access to this building was in their classrooms.
“Hello?” you call out.
You swear you can hear someone breathing, and you can feel your stomach sucking in. Someone is here. Graham flashes through your mind again. Maybe he hadn’t left at all.
“Who’s there?” you whisper.
The air feels fraught. If you reached out, would you be able to touch an arm, a shoulder? You take another step forward. And then another. “Graham,” you say, though you can’t see anyone.
And then there’s a tap on your back. Disoriented, you swing around and see a shape standing on the riser behind you. Then, features materialize. It isn’t Graham, though. You squint in confusion, your brain a few steps behind your eyes.
“Piper.” The voice is not much more than a whisper . . . and then a sob. “How could you?”
You don’t understand what’s going on. You don’t have time for whatever they want. You’re ready to say that, too, but then you feel hands against your chest, and in those moments, you want to take it all back. I was just trying my best, you want to say. I know that sometimes wasn’t good enough. But I was going to undo all of it. Let me do my best to make amends.
But then the darkness falls over you. And for a long time, you don’t know whether you’re alive or dead.
Thirty-Four
Sign here,” the flower delivery woman said, pushing an iPad-type object toward Ronnie. After Ronnie scrawled her name on the electronic screen, she grabbed the giant bouquet of peonies with both hands and stepped back into the apartment.
“Whoa!” Lane said as Ronnie placed the flowers down on the kitchen counter. “Those are gorgeous!”
“They’re from Andrea,” Ronnie said as she opened the card.
Lane spied the inscription before Ronnie could hide it. “ ‘So happy for you’? Why, because you weren’t killed?” His voice had an edge.
“Um, yeah, I guess,” Ronnie said shakily, dropping the card into a drawer. “Basically.” Really, Andrea had sent the flowers when Ronnie texted over the news that Esme was back with her . . . and Vanessa was gone.
It was astonishing, what Ronnie had narrowly avoided. She and Esme had come back from the donut shop like it had been a normal day. It hadn’t been, obviously—during dinner with his parents, Lane had heard the news about Ronnie breaking into Piper’s house and being held at gunpoint by Lauren’s husband, and naturally he’d wondered where Esme was, because hadn’t Ronnie said something about she and Esme getting away for a bit?
But Ronnie had glossed over that part. She’d felt sort of in
vincible. Her sister turning Esme back over to Ronnie’s care was the kindest, most motherly thing Vanessa had ever done. Ronnie had tried to call and thank her with the number Vanessa had given, but the call didn’t even go to voicemail. Maybe it wasn’t even Vanessa’s number.
She positioned the flowers next to the bouquet Lauren had sent, admiring how nicely they paired. “I guess you should send them flowers, too,” Lane said. “Since you all went through everything together.”
“True,” Ronnie said, lowering her eyes.
Lane wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you,” he said. “You know that, right? You or Esme.”
“I know,” Ronnie said, and she did.
She felt so . . . relieved. This was all over. Esme was safe. Vanessa wasn’t coming back—and though that gave her a specific sort of ache, maybe it was for the best. And Jerrod was gone. Well, hopefully. She looked at Vanessa’s note again and again—you killed him—as well as searched for Jerrod’s name online. Facebook. Google. Anything. He wasn’t there. He didn’t seem to be among the living. Maybe she could really believe that.
But that she’d killed him? Well, that unnerved her a little. But she was trying to bury it. That was her past, and it was gone. She’d put it in a box. Lost the key. Lane never needed to know about it. Maybe in time, the memory would fade for her, too. Sometimes she wondered if this was a big flaw in their relationship . . . but how could it be a flaw if one person didn’t even know the secret existed? And would never have to know?
“Anyway.” Lane bent down to kiss Ronnie’s cheek. “Wish me luck!”
“You’ll be amazing.”
Ronnie squeezed his hand. Lane had an interview with the Raisin Beach public school system; a kindergarten teacher was retiring, and they needed to fill her spot. A lot of Silver Swans teachers were jumping ship; it wasn’t even certain if the school would be able to continue past this year. There was no leadership. The dwindling board of directors—who were in hot water for overlooking the fact that Piper and Carson had set up a separate account to siphon cash from the parents—scrambled to find a replacement for Piper, but no one qualified had applied. And since Piper and Carson had spent all the money they’d stolen on things for themselves, the school was in a mountain of debt. An inspector had been called in; the place needed new windows, stairways brought up to code, and a mural contained lead paint.
Ronnie was sad that this was the end of an era, but maybe Esme didn’t need a Grammy-winning songwriter to teach music class, and an occupational therapist on staff, and a guy who came in weekly to show them how to write Japanese characters with long-tipped brushes. Those seemed like such privileged, trivial things; she was focused on the big picture. Esme was going to turn out fine.
She kissed Lane again, standing on her tiptoes to reach his high forehead. She thought, too, of the box in her dresser drawer with the ring Lane had bought for her. She could say yes now. They could start planning something. She smiled to herself, forming a plan. Later today, when Lane came home and announced he’d gotten the job—because surely he’d get it—she would tell him the good news.
After Lane was gone, Ronnie went to sit next to Esme, who was on the couch paging through a book that listed all the My Little Pony characters in the world of Equestria. “How you doing, baby?”
“Good.” Esme pointed to a blue pony with multicolored hair called Rainbow Dash. “I love her.”
“I know,” Ronnie said. She cleared her throat. “Did you and, um, your auntie Vanessa play ponies, too?”
Esme gave her a side-eye, like she couldn’t quite remember who Auntie Vanessa was. “Not really,” she said. “But she did give me a Popsicle.”
Then she turned a page. The next spread was dedicated to an orange pony called Applejack. The pony was standing on a farm; behind her were apple trees, pigs, and more horses. Ronnie touched one, remembering how Esme had asked Vanessa if the farm they would be living at had horses. Was her daughter just really resilient, or had she suppressed the memories of the time she’d spent with Vanessa? She didn’t want Esme in therapy years from now, talking about that weird, mysterious, harrowing time this random woman took care of her in a motel up the street—trying to piece together what it all meant. Someday, Ronnie would tell her the truth. Maybe. But not now.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you two in that motel,” she said. “You know that, right?”
Esme didn’t answer, just turned a page.
“And . . . maybe don’t mention any of that to Daddy Lane,” Ronnie continued. She was stroking her daughter’s back now. “We should just keep it a little secret between you and me.”
“Ooh, secrets.” Esme’s eyes gleamed. “Me and Daddy Lane have a secret, too.”
“Oh?” Ronnie cocked her head. “Did he make you listen to that awful protest music?” The sixties folk Lane loved was like nails on a chalkboard; Ronnie had made Lane promise never to play it in her or Esme’s presence again.
Esme shook her head, her pigtails swinging and smacking the sides of her face. “It’s a secret about school.”
“School?” Ronnie frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a secret that I had to stay in Miss Barnes’s room for a while. But it was fun! I got to play with Miss Barnes’s dress-up box without all the kids around, meaning I got to try on all the costumes.”
Ronnie blinked. The last time Esme was in Miss Barnes’s class was the day Piper was attacked. The cops had come, Ronnie had been taken away, but Ronnie had called Miss Barnes from the police car, saying she was caught up somewhere and to tell Lane to bring Esme home. “Why did you have to stay in Miss Barnes’s room for that long? Was Daddy Lane doing some stuff in his room?”
Esme’s eyes were wide. “He told Miss Barnes he was talking to the police.”
“With the officers,” Ronnie repeated. “Because of the attack.” But that didn’t make sense. Lane talked to the police the following day. There weren’t enough Raisin Beach officers to get to the staff the day of the attack.
Ronnie’s skin was prickling. Why had Lane lied?
All Ronnie could see, suddenly, was Piper flailing like a wild animal in her hospital bed, pointing at Ronnie and saying, I’m sorry I’m not the person you need me to be. And thinking Ronnie was a guy. She pushed it out of her mind, but it bounced right back in. It’s possible Piper didn’t think Ronnie was a guy—she was speaking to Ronnie about a guy, giving her a warning Ronnie could convey to this guy because she knew this guy best?
Then she thought of something else, something that had been jabbing at her for a few days now. “Be right back, honey,” she told Esme, and headed down the hallway.
She yanked open the same desk drawer where she’d found the lists Lane kept of all the parents at Silver Swans. The book was still there, and so was the curious silver key Ronnie had noticed but dismissed.
She lifted it to the light. The tiny key had an unusual square head and a tiny, slender shaft, just the type that would slide into a file drawer. Ronnie had held a similar key only one other time—in Piper’s office, when she’d unlocked the drawer containing the school’s doctored financial documents. She’d never seen the same sort of key before, and certainly they didn’t have any furniture that would fit it. Theoretically, this could be to some old piece of furniture Lane had now parted with. But something told Ronnie that if she used this on that drawer to Piper’s desk, the lock would turn, and the drawer would slide open.
She sat back on her haunches. What did this mean? Probably nothing. But maybe something?
Lane and his scruples. Lane and his admiration of Piper. Had Lane figured Piper out? Had he left his classroom that day to tell her what he knew? He wouldn’t have wanted anything from her. It was for the principle of the thing. His idol had fallen. But then . . . but then what? Had she pushed back? Had they . . . fought ?
She dared to imagine it. Had things gotten out of hand? And then, afterward, what? Surely he hadn’t gone straight back to his classroom—he would have never been able to collect himself in time.
Ronnie closed the key in her palm. But if that was true, did that mean Lane had been the one to hurt her? She pictured the tears in his eyes in the aftermath. I’m so sorry, Lane had whispered. Because he hadn’t been able to shield her from the police, because this was happening to her, because it seemed unfair. But what if I’m so sorry was an admission of guilt?
Ronnie didn’t know what to do with this blender of thoughts. Was she living with a violent man?
Footsteps padded down the hall. Ronnie glanced up, expecting Esme, but then Lane himself appeared in the doorway. “Sorry, I just forgot my . . .” He stopped. His gaze drifted to the open drawer, and then to the key in Ronnie’s palm. The color drained quickly from his face. “Ronnie,” Lane whispered, his eyes darting again to the key. “Oh.”
It was all Ronnie needed to know. She held up the key. “Is this to Piper’s desk?”
Lane’s mouth opened and closed, like a goldfish. He took a step toward her, but Ronnie stood and moved to the other side of the bed to form a barrier. “Did you hurt her? Should I be afraid of you? Do Esme and I need to leave?”
“Oh God, oh God no,” Lane blurted. He was crying now, the tears spilling out of him. “Ronnie, the day after we talked on the balcony, do you remember? I went into her office. Something you said bothered me—I wanted to make sure she wasn’t judging you for some reason, like maybe because we weren’t married. And . . . okay, there was this file on her desk. It was about . . . you.”