by Shari Lapena
If he hadn’t gotten such a charge out of the hacking, he wouldn’t have kept doing it. But after that house, there had been others. He became pretty good at getting into people’s computers. He saw their private information, but he never took anything or changed anything. He never did any harm. He never left any sign that he’d been there.
It had been a mistake to tell Mark what he was doing. If only Mark hadn’t sent that stupid text—
Raleigh is startled by the sound of his name being called over the PA system. All eyes turn to him automatically, then shift away. He packs up his books and saunters casually to the door. But he’s painfully self-conscious. He can feel his face flush slightly.
He makes his way down three flights of stairs to the office, the sweat blooming on his skin. He never gets called down to the office. He’s afraid that this has something to do with the break-ins. Are the police here? Were there cameras somewhere and he missed them? Maybe someone saw him coming out of the house and recognized him. He fights the urge to grab his things from his locker and avoid everything by just going home and hiding in his bedroom.
When he gets to the office he’s swept with relief when he sees his mom there waiting for him. No police in sight.
“We have an appointment,” she says. “Get your things. I’ll wait in the car out front.”
His anxiety spikes again.
As they drive downtown to the lawyer’s office, it is painfully silent in the car. His dad works downtown in the central business district and will meet them there. Raleigh spends the time worrying about what the lawyer will say.
The law office is intimidating. He’s never been in one before. It’s on the top floor of an office building, all glass doors and sleek furnishings. One look and he knows that this must be costing his parents a lot of money.
His dad is already in the reception area and will barely meet his eyes. Raleigh sits miserably, waiting with his parents. They’re obviously embarrassed to be here, pretending to read copies of The New Yorker. Raleigh doesn’t even pick up a magazine; he just stares at his feet, missing his phone.
It’s not long before they’re ushered down a quiet, carpeted hall into a spacious office with an impressive view of the river. The lawyer behind the large desk gets up and shakes hands with each of them. Raleigh knows his hands are clammy with nerves; the lawyer’s hands are cool. Raleigh takes an instant dislike to Emilio Gallo, a heavyset man who stares at him, sizing him up.
“So. Tell me what this is all about, Raleigh,” Gallo says.
Raleigh glances at his mom; he doesn’t dare look at his dad. He thought his parents would do all the talking and that he would just sit here and look sorry and do whatever he’s told. But his mom refuses to catch his eye. So he tells the lawyer the same story he told his parents, terrified that Gallo will be able to see through him. He doesn’t want the lawyer to know how many houses he’s broken into, or the extent of his computer expertise, what he’s capable of doing. All he actually did was hack in and look around and get out. That’s the truth. He could have done a lot more.
“I see,” the attorney says when he’s finished. He smooths his tie with his fingers. “So you haven’t been caught.”
“No,” Raleigh says.
“That’s breaking and entering and trespassing,” the attorney says. “And the computer stuff is even worse. The state of New York takes these kinds of crimes very seriously. Are you aware of New York Penal Code Section 156?”
Raleigh shakes his head, terrified.
“I didn’t think so. Let me educate you.” He leans forward and pins Raleigh with his eyes. “Under section 156, ‘unauthorized use of a computer’—that’s a crime. That’s when you gain access to or use a computer without the permission of the rightful owner. That’s a Class A misdemeanor. People get fines and even a bit of jail time for that. It goes up from there. Are you absolutely sure you haven’t taken or copied anyone’s data, or deleted or changed anything on their computers? Because that’s tampering, and you could go to jail for up to fifteen years for that.”
Raleigh swallows. “No, I just looked. That’s all.”
“And sent those emails. That’s identity theft.”
“Identity theft?” his father says sharply.
“He wrote emails from someone else’s account,” the lawyer reminds them, “pretending to be that person.”
“Surely a prank email doesn’t constitute identity theft,” his father says, looking appalled.
“Well, you wouldn’t want to risk it, would you? People don’t take kindly to having their privacy invaded.” The lawyer focuses his sharp eyes on Raleigh, who feels himself shrink further down into his chair. “And there’s always the possibility of a civil suit. This is America, and people are very litigious. And that can get very expensive.”
There’s a long, horrified pause. Clearly his parents hadn’t thought of that. Raleigh certainly hadn’t.
Finally, his mother says, “I thought he should apologize to these people, maybe make reparations, but my husband was against it.”
“No, your husband is right,” Gallo says, looking astonished. “He definitely should not apologize. That would be tantamount to confession to a crime, or crimes.”
Then she says, “What if he sent them a letter, anonymously, to apologize?”
“Why the hell would he do that?” his dad says.
The lawyer says, shaking his head, “I’m sorry, that’s a lovely gesture, and I’m just a cynical criminal lawyer, but that would be very foolish. Far better that these people don’t know that he was ever there at all.”
Raleigh notices his mom flush a bit at the rebuke.
“Tell me more about this other boy, Mark,” Gallo says. “Who’s he?”
“He’s a friend at school.”
“How much does he know?”
“Just that I broke into a couple of houses. And that I snooped in the computers.”
“Is he likely to rat you out?”
“No way,” Raleigh says firmly.
“How can you be so sure?” the lawyer asks.
Raleigh suddenly isn’t sure. But he says, “I just know.”
“Anything on any social media we need to worry about?”
Raleigh reddens and shakes his head. “I’m not a complete idiot.”
The lawyer sits back in his chair and looks as if he disagrees. Then he glances at both of Raleigh’s parents. “My advice is to sit tight and do nothing. If no one’s come forward and the police haven’t knocked at your door, consider yourselves lucky. But let me remind you, young man,” and here he leans forward and pins Raleigh again with his sharp, shrewd eyes, “luck always runs out. So I strongly advise you to leave off your life of crime right now, because if you’re caught, you’re definitely looking at juvie.”
Raleigh swallows nervously, and on that note, they get up to leave.
* * *
—
Olivia doesn’t say a word on the way home. Her thoughts are in turmoil. She’s furious at Raleigh, and furious at the situation. She regrets, now, those two anonymous letters. She’s not going to tell anyone about them, but now she’s worried that they may come back to haunt her somehow. She hears the lawyer’s voice in her mind, saying, that would be very foolish.
Why didn’t she leave well enough alone? That’s what comes from trying to live ethically, from trying to do what’s right in a crazy, cynical world that doesn’t give a shit about doing the right thing. What’s wrong with apologizing? Instead it seems to be all about not getting caught, about getting away with it. She didn’t like that lawyer much, but she’s afraid that he knows what he’s doing; she’s so naive next to him.
She can’t help worrying about what all this is teaching their son. He might be scared straight at the thought of jail—and that’s a good thing, she’ll take it. Although he’s probably not as frightened of i
t as she is. But she wishes he understood why what he’s done is wrong instead of just being afraid of what might happen to him. How, she fumes, are you supposed to teach a kid right and wrong when so many people in positions of authority regularly behave so badly? What the hell is wrong with America these days?
* * *
—
Carmine has had her lonely supper of a single chicken breast and a salad, eaten at the kitchen table, the television resolutely off. She has standards. She maintains the routine of cooking an evening meal for herself, even though some days she wonders why she bothers. She has cookbooks that celebrate the joys of cooking for one, but it doesn’t feel joyful to her. She loved cooking for her husband and kids. But her husband is dead and her kids have all moved on to their own busy lives.
She has established another routine—her evening walk around the neighborhood. Routines give structure to empty days. This nightly walk is both for exercise and to satisfy her natural curiosity about her neighbors. It takes her down Finch and around to Sparrow, then back to her own street. It’s a long block and a pretty walk. She will keep it up as long as the weather allows, admiring the well-kept homes, glancing in the warmly lit windows. Tonight as she walks along she thinks about the break-in and the letter. So far she has only spoken to her next-door neighbor, Zoe Putillo, about it. Zoe is the only one she’s become friendly with so far. Carmine hasn’t completely decided whether to let it go or try to find out who broke into her house. Part of her feels a natural sympathy for the mother who wrote the letter. But part of her feels slightly outraged, and wants to do something about it.
As she turns back down her own street she nears a house that is brightly lit. She can see across the front lawn and through the large windows into the living room, where a small group of women are gathered. They are talking and laughing animatedly, wineglasses in hand. Just then Carmine notices another woman hurriedly approaching. She turns up the driveway of the house, a book in her hand, and rings the bell. Carmine hears the muffled sound of voices briefly, while the door is open and the newcomer is admitted, and then the sound is abruptly cut off again.
It’s a book club, Carmine realizes with a pang of longing, stopping for a moment. The longing is mixed with a touch of resentment. People haven’t been particularly friendly here.
SEVEN
Olivia, in a rush to leave for book club, almost forgets the book, but grabs it as she heads out the door. She usually looks forward to book club, but tonight she suspects she’s too upset about Raleigh to enjoy anything. Supper was strained after the visit to the attorney.
She walks to Suzanne Halpern’s house on Finch Street. The book club started years ago, a collection of women from the neighborhood who know each other through school, sports, and other neighborhood events. There are several regular members. They all take turns hosting.
Suzanne loves to host book club: She’s a bit of a show-off. She always makes a fuss, preparing elaborate snacks and ostentatiously pairing them with just the right wines. When it’s Olivia’s turn she usually defaults to a good, solid red and an uninspired white that will go with everything, and grabs a bunch of things from Costco. She doesn’t particularly like hosting. For her, book club is about getting out.
Glenda is already there when Olivia arrives. The women stand around the living room chatting, with their glasses of wine and their little plates of food, leaving their books at their seats. Tonight’s book is the new Tana French. Of course, they never start with the book. They catch up on small talk first, usually about the kids—they all have kids—which is what they’re doing when Jeannette’s phone pings. Olivia sees Jeannette give her phone a casual glance—and then Jeannette’s face freezes. At the same time Olivia hears two or three other pings from other phones and wonders what’s going on.
“Oh, my God,” Jeannette blurts out.
“What is it?” Olivia asks.
“Remember how Amanda Pierce went missing a couple of weeks ago?” Jeannette says.
Of course they remember, Olivia thinks. Amanda Pierce had left her husband rather abruptly without telling him. Olivia didn’t know Amanda, except by sight. She’d only actually met her once, at a neighborhood party held at the little park between Sparrow and Finch just over a year ago, in September, shortly after the Pierces had moved in. Amanda Pierce was a striking woman, and all the husbands had watched her, practically drooling, stumbling over one another to hand her things—ketchup for her hot dog, a napkin, a drink, while the wives tried not to look pissed off. She looked like a model, or an actress—she was that perfect. That sexy. That confident. Always wearing smart clothes and fashionable sunglasses. The husband—she can’t remember his name—but he was ridiculously good-looking, too. He had the same movie-star quality, but was more reserved. A watcher. They lived on Olivia’s street, but farther down. They were both in their late twenties, considerably younger than Olivia and her friends, and had no kids, so they didn’t have much reason to cross paths.
“She didn’t really go missing,” Suzanne says. “She left her husband.”
“There’s a news alert,” Jeannette says. “They found her car, in a lake up near Canning. Her body was in the trunk.”
There’s a stunned silence as the room fills with shock.
“I can’t believe it,” Becky says, looking up from her phone, her face suddenly pale.
Olivia recalls with a jolt that Raleigh had been inside the Pierces’ house.
“Poor Robert,” Becky whispers. Becky Harris lives next door to the Pierces. “He did report her missing. He told me that himself.”
Becky is a good friend of Olivia’s, and had told her all about it. Olivia has a sudden picture of Becky, who is still quite attractive, but perhaps not as attractive as she thinks, talking to the handsome, abandoned husband over the back fence.
“I remember hearing that,” Glenda says, sounding shaken. “But if I remember correctly, the story was the police didn’t take it seriously because she’d lied to him about going away for the weekend with a friend. They figured she left him, that it wasn’t a proper disappearance.”
“Well, it’s obviously a murder now,” Jeannette says.
“What else does it say?” Olivia asks.
“That’s it. No details.”
“Do you think her husband did it?” Suzanne asks after a moment, looking around at all of them. “Do you think he might have killed her?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Jeannette says quietly.
Becky turns on her suddenly. “You don’t know anything about it!”
There’s a strained silence for a moment at Becky’s outburst. Then Suzanne says, her voice tinged with something like awe, “It’s too creepy.”
“The husband could be perfectly innocent,” Zoe suggests.
“But isn’t it usually the husband?” Suzanne says.
“If he killed her,” Becky says, “then why would he tell the police to look for her?” Becky obviously doesn’t want to believe that the handsome, lonely man next door may be a murderer.
“Well,” Olivia says, “he would have to report her missing, wouldn’t he? He couldn’t just ignore it. He has to play the part of the worried husband, even if he killed her.”
“God, you’re morbid!” says Glenda.
“Think about it, though,” Olivia says thoughtfully. “It could be the perfect murder. He kills her, reports her missing, and tells the police she said she was going off with a friend for the weekend when she wasn’t. Then when she doesn’t turn up, the police will think she just left him and won’t actually look that hard. It’s brilliant, really.” They all stare back at her. She adds, “Especially if they’d never found her car in the lake. He’d probably have gotten away with murder.”
“I’m not sure I like the way your mind works,” Suzanne says.
Becky gives Olivia an annoyed glance and says, “For the record, I don’t think her hus
band did it.”
Suzanne stands up and starts refilling everyone’s wineglasses. She shudders visibly. “God, remember how gorgeous she was? Remember the party last year? That was the first time any of us really got a look at her. She had all the men wrapped around her little finger.”
“I remember,” Becky says. “She was too busy being fascinating to help clean up.”
“Maybe she had a stalker or something,” Glenda says. “A woman like that—”
“She was such a flirt. I don’t know how her husband put up with it,” Zoe says. Zoe had been at the party, too, Olivia remembers, looking around the room. They’d all been there.
“Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he was jealous, and he killed her,” Jeannette says.
They all glance at one another, uncomfortable.
Zoe abruptly changes the subject. “Have any of you heard about the break-ins and the anonymous letters?”
Olivia feels her stomach clench and deliberately avoids looking at Glenda. Shit. She really never should have written those letters. She reaches for her wineglass on the coffee table.
“What break-ins? What anonymous letters?” Suzanne says.
“I heard it from Carmine Torres,” Zoe says. “She’s my new next-door neighbor. She told me she got an anonymous letter this morning from someone saying that her son had broken into her house and that they were sorry.” She adds, “It was slipped through her mail slot overnight.”
“Seriously?” Jeannette says. “I haven’t heard anything about this.”
Zoe nods. “She knocked on my door to ask me if I’d gotten one, too, but I hadn’t,” Zoe says.
“Was anything taken?” Suzanne asks.
“She didn’t think so. She said she’d had a good look around but nothing seemed to be missing.”
Olivia dares to take a quick look at Glenda and a flash of understanding passes between them. She’ll have to talk to her after book club. She hadn’t told Glenda about the letters.