I can’t make out his face. His back is to me, and even if it weren’t, it would be too dark to see if he had a cleft in his chin.
The front door opens, and a few cops walk in. I slouch and block my face with my sketchbook. I hear them order drinks at the bar—one of the voices is Sergeant Daniels’s. “Give me a Stroh’s.”
A waitress starts walking toward my booth. Shit! I slip into the ladies’ room before she gets to me.
I sit in a stall, on top of a cigarette-singed toilet seat, and think, Okay, what’s my plan? I can’t let him get away. What if it’s him?
I dial Sergeant Daniels’s number.
“Daniels,” he answers on the first ring.
“Hi. This is Bea. I know you’re gonna think I’m nuts, but hear me out, please,” I whisper. “The photographer taking the Polaroids of the dead girl on the football field today… I think he’s the murderer!”
“What? What are you talking about? Where are you?”
“I know it’s him! You have to believe me,” I whisper again. “And he’s sitting at the bar with you, the guy in the baseball cap. Don’t let him know you know!”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Did you hear me? Did you? Sergeant…”
I hear footsteps and the door of the bathroom opening. A face, the waitress’s face, peeks at me below the stall. “Yeah, she’s in here,” she calls out, snapping her gum.
Damn!
I jump off the toilet, open the stall, and the sergeant stands at the door of the john, his face set in a hard, angry stare.
I cradle my bag close to my chest as if it’s a shield. “I know I shouldn’t be here, but I had to follow him. I had to. I figured it out. He’s been taking photographs of the girls. Willa’s legs, Veronica’s torso, and now this girl’s face!”
His eyes grow wide. “What? Where were you today? What did you do?”
“I saw him! I saw him taking pictures of the dead girl, Polaroids, and it was the same noise that Willa heard—the noise from the camera.”
“Get out of here!” the sergeant yells. “Now!” He backs away from the door. I hurry past him, flinching at his anger, and walk into the bar.
“Holy Christ! What’s she doing here?” Detective Cole sneers.
I pause, looking back at the photographer, still sitting at the bar.
“Leave, Miss Washington, now! Unless you’d like a police escort… to the station,” Sergeant Daniels orders.
“But that’s him,” I exclaim, pointing. “He’s the murderer!”
The guy turns, takes off his baseball cap, wipes the top of his balding head, and rubs his cleftless chin. “What did she say?”
My knees go weak and start to buckle. “Oh, no… I made a mistake. A terrible mistake. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
The sergeant takes me by the arm and pulls me outside to the parking lot.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I just wanted to help…”
“Well, you can’t. Don’t you get it? You can’t help.”
“Yes, I can!”
“Willa was the one raped, not you!” he snaps.
I take a step back, holding in tears. “You could have said that same thing to Beth at the mall yesterday afternoon—and look what happened to her.”
I sit in my car and hit the steering wheel over and over. I am so stupid! I’m idiotic! I wish I’d never gotten sober… this wouldn’t have happened if I were still using. I can’t take this anymore!!!
I dial his number. He answers. “Marcus.”
I hang up—fast—and race to the meeting at St. Anne’s, get my fix—the good kind—and end up crawling onto my parents’ bed after dinner, in between them. They make room for me as they watch an antiques auction show on television.
My mom pets my hair. “This has been a rough couple of weeks for you, Bea. And now this girl at your school…”
“Mom, I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just watch TV.”
My dad puts his arm around me.
I settle in and listen to my parents bicker about what they think something is worth on the show. I allow the comforting banter to fill my confused, pounding head.
“Why would anyone bring that vase to the show? It’s hideous,” Mom scoffs.
“I bet it’s worth a fortune, Bella.”
“No. You’re wrong. It’s a fake.”
“And how would you know that?”
“I just do.”
I text Chris.
The picture pops up.
Another photo. This time the professor looks right at the camera, at Chris. I turn my phone sideways, making the photo bigger.
His dark hair falls into his eyes as he looks straight at the camera… a square jaw, sculpted face, and a slight beard hiding what looks like a cleft embedded in his chin.
I stop breathing.
Dad peers over my shoulder. “Hey, look at that. Professor Woolf from my department. That’s the photography teacher I wanted you to meet, Bea. Chris sent you that?”
I stare at the face on my phone and nod. Professor Woolf.
“Hah!” Mom exclaims. “I was right. You were wrong. The vase is a fake!”
“Guess you were right, as always, Bella.” Dad sighs.
Ping.
Woolf… Professor Woolf… James Woolf.
I scroll through the messages on my phone—the messages from the frat boys that night.
I read it again.
Holy Christ! J.W. James Woolf. Someone recognized the poster and texted me!
I sit up in bed, turn my back to the TV, and face my parents. “So Dad? Professor Woolf—that’s his name? The photography teacher?”
“Yeah,” Dad answers, absorbed, watching an appraisal of a grandfather clock.
“You know, I’m thinking that I should check his class out. Chris has inspired me lately with his photos, and maybe I should meet that professor.”
This grabs my dad’s attention—and my mom’s. “But I thought you weren’t interested in college?” Dad asks.
“Well, I don’t know. I guess I could be, a little.”
Mom lowers the volume on the TV. “Really.” It’s not a question.
“Tell me more about the photography professor, Dad.”
“Professor Woolf? Well, he’s a new teacher. I just hired him.”
“Oh. So, he’s only taught since September?”
“Straight out of Northern Michigan University. He’s young, but he impressed me last spring in his interview.”
“Last spring?”
“Yes, he was here right around your birthday. I remember because I had to rush him. I needed to pick up your cake.”
April. Veronica. Arboretum.
“You know, Dad, they’re cancelling school tomorrow. Maybe I could come by the university for a bit, look around again?”
“Of course, Bea. Nothing would make me happier. I’ll arrange an audit.”
“Dad, is it okay if I walk around by myself? It’s kind of awkward when people know I’m your daughter.”
“I understand.”
“And could you give me the prof’s schedule? So I know when he’s there?”
“Sure. No problem.”
I kiss him on the cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”
The phone rings. “Hello?” Mom answers. Pause. “This is she.” She turns the television off and gives me a puzzled look. “Yes, I can. I can tell you with all certainty that she’s here, at home, with us. I’m looking at her right now.”
Dad takes off his glasses. Mouths, “What?”
“Okay. Well, thank you, sergeant. Thank you for checking in.” She hangs up the phone.
“Who was that, Bella?”
“A Sergeant Daniels from the Ann Arbor Police Department.”
I swallow.
“He wanted to make sure that you were home, Bea.”
I scramble. “Oh, yeah, Mom… the principal said they were going to make calls to some of the girls at school. You know, see if we’re okay.”<
br />
“Well, that’s above and beyond what I would expect. There has to be a thousand girls at your school,” Dad says, surprised.
“I think they’re only calling juniors and seniors.” I fake a yawn. “Well, I’d better go to bed. I’m exhausted. Good night.”
My mom squints at me, chews the side of her mouth. “Good night, Bea.”
3 months
16 days
13 hours
I wait on a bench in the Arts Quad. It’s one o’clock—Professor Woolf’s scheduled break. My tummy grumbles. I haven’t been able to eat a thing since last night. I’m afraid I’ll puke.
I have to be sure this time. I have to know, without a doubt! I can’t screw up again.
The door to the photography studio opens. Students pour out. He’s the last to leave, locking the door behind him. He wears a woolen cap and flips the collar up on his jacket, responding to the sudden chill in the air, and I follow him across North Campus, toward the student union.
He buys a prepackaged sandwich and a cup of coffee from a vendor and sits on a couch by a fake fireplace. He removes his coat, bites into the sandwich, sips his coffee, and stares at the fire.
I take a seat at a table across the hall from him, behind a potted plant. I open my sketchbook and peer through the plastic leaves at his face. I draw his profile: dark sideburns that lead to a trimmed beard on a strong jaw, long nose, full lips. I scootch my chair a little to the left to get a good look at his face—his eyes. They’re set far apart under a heavy brow.
He looks up at a passing student, waves, mouths a “hi,” takes another bite of his sandwich, and then … whoosh—a hand, a man’s strong hand rushes in and takes hold of my brain.
It’s there, right in front of me—reaching out, touching, stroking something… what is it?
I begin to draw dark, tangled, wild lines on the paper, entwined in the hand. My head throbs with the image.
Oh my god.
I look down at the sketch.
Hair. He’s thinking of hair! My hair! Reaching for it… touching it!
I look up at the professor.
His lips curl like ugly, swollen worms, just like Willa described.
And he’s smiling at me…
I pull into my driveway, right behind my dad. He kisses my pounding head. “I saw you today on campus, Bea. It took a lot of control not to say hi to you. You looked good, walking around—comfortable. Did you get to see what you wanted?”
“I guess you could say that, yeah.”
Woolf’s creepy smile flashes in my head like a shorted-out neon light. My nerves still raw, I shiver, massage my temples.
“Yeah, it’s a little nippy out here.” My dad rubs my arms. “The weather’s crazy. Said it may snow tomorrow, can you believe that? It was in the sixties yesterday.”
“I know. It’s weird.”
“Come on, let’s go inside. I wonder what your mother’s up to, what she’s concocting.” He laughs.
We walk into the kitchen. It’s empty. No Mom, nothing burning on the stove.
“Guess we’re ordering in,” Dad says, taking off his coat. “Bella?”
We hear a wail, my mom’s voice coming from upstairs.
“Mom? Mom, what’s wrong?”
“Bella? You alright?”
We run up the stairs. My bedroom door is wide open, and my mom stands in my closet, pulling clothes off hangers, tossing shoes and purses over her shoulder.
“Holy Christ! What the hell are you doing, Mom? Why are you in my room, in my closet? And why are you making this mess?”
She doesn’t answer me—she continues on, pawing through my belongings.
“Bella! What in god’s name is going on here?”
“Mom! Get out of my closet!”
She turns. Her eyes are puffy and red from crying. “Why should I, Bea? Do you have something to hide in here? Do you?”
I’m confused as hell.
“Bella, what’s this all about?”
My mom falls to her knees on my closet floor. “She’s using again, Richard. She’s using!”
I’m shocked into silence—incredulous silence.
“Bella!” my dad protests.
“Richard!” Snot runs down her face and spit sprays out of her mouth as she holds out two pills. “I found these in an envelope in her purse!”
The two pink pills—the ones Marcus wanted me to take that night.
Damn him! He dropped them in my bag!
“What are they, huh? Tell me!” she sobs.
“Oh, Bea.” My dad crumbles down on my bed, his head in his hands.
“Shit, Mom, Dad,” I stammer. “I don’t know what they are—probably downers, and they’ve probably been in there for a while, from before. Flush them down the toilet, I don’t care! I’m not using!”
Mom stands, points an accusing finger at me. “I knew something was going on! I knew it. You’ve been acting shady lately.”
“Mom, please stop. You have to believe me! Please!”
But she continues on. “I’ve noticed a police car driving by, looking at our house, the past week. And that phone call last night? From the sergeant? What was that all about, huh?”
“Mom, I can explain…”
“Richard, are you ready for this? The principal of her school left a message saying that Bea never showed up to her homeroom during the lockdown yesterday. He said that this is her second strike! She’s already been called into his office once before. One more time, and he’ll have to reconsider her enrollment!”
“Bea! What did you do? What’s your mother talking about?”
“Yeah, what am I talking about?” My mother wipes her nose on her sleeve. “Give me your phone.”
“No. I’m not giving you my phone!”
She yanks my purse from my arms, pulls out my phone, and scrolls through the calls. “Aha! You called him—you called Marcus last night! I knew it!” She shoves the phone at my face. “Explain that!”
“Mom, yes, I called Marcus, you’re right. But it was a mistake. I knew it as soon as I did it, and I hung up. Look at the time—the call was one second. I didn’t talk to him!”
“You called him, Bea!”
“Give me the cup—I’ll pee in it, take a hair sample, whatever. I’ll do whatever you want me to.”
“You’re damn right you will! I have a blood test scheduled for you first thing tomorrow morning so you can’t fake it.”
“Fine! Then you’ll see that I’m telling the truth!”
“And I’m taking your keys.” My mother grabs them out of my purse.
“What? My keys, why?”
“Because you’re grounded, that’s why! And don’t try and sneak out like you used to. We’re setting the alarm on the house tonight, and I changed the code.”
“Dad, please.” Now I start the hysterics. “Why is she doing this? Mom, not my keys, I need my car…”
“Bella, aren’t you overreacting a bit? Let’s wait for the test results.”
“Overreacting? You want to see overreacting, Dick?”
She picks up my bedside lamp, pulls it out of its socket, and throws it across the room. It shatters against the wall. “That’s overreacting!”
“Bella, come on!”
“No, you come on!” Mom’s rage is now directed at my dad. “I almost lost her once, Richard! I’m not going to sit around ignoring all the signs right in front of my nose, like you did before, and risk losing her again! No. Never. Never again!” She turns to me. “Do you hear me? I can’t lose you. I just can’t.” She storms out of the room, marches down the hallway to her bedroom, and slams the door shut.
I can see my dad thinking, trying to sort through all the rubble, the emotional debris in front of him—his large, praying hands poised at his pursed lips, his eyes closed.
“Dad, I need my car. Please talk to her,” I plead.
He looks at me, his eyes dripping with disappointment, and he nods. “We’ll get the blood test tomorrow. That’s what we’ll
do. And then we’ll see about your car.”
He leaves my room and closes the door.
God damn you, Marcus!
A couple of hours pass, and my closet is back in order. I feel like a caged animal and have arranged my clothes by color, my shoes by heel height, my accessories alphabetically by the last name of the designer. I pick up the pieces of the broken lamp and toss them into the trash can. I remake my bed, fluff the pillows, collapse, and smell hot dogs and beans.
My mom must still be holed up in her room, because Dad is making his favorite supper—the only thing he knows how to cook—hot dogs and beans. He knows I’m a sucker for that dinner (a welcome relief, not having garlic), and I’m sure this is his way of trying to lure me down to the kitchen table to talk about the damn pills.
A tap on my door. He pokes his head in. “Franks and beans, Bea. Join me?”
“I don’t feel like eating,” I say, starved.
He walks in, his head hanging low, and picks up the trash can with the broken lamp pieces. “Well, I’ll make a tray for you in the kitchen, just in case.” He closes my door, and I hear him set the alarm.
I sit down on my bed and write:
I have to get out of this house somehow, get to Willa, to campus.
She has to identify him.
But how?
I hear scratching. A branch of the sycamore tree lightly touches my window in the wind.
I walk over and peer out. She looks naked in the moonlight, having lost most of her leaves during the past month. Her limbs move gracefully with the breeze.
Wait. They have never alarmed the second floor—never had a reason to. There’s been no way out, no trellis like at Aggie’s, nothing to climb down on… until now.
I turn the brass latch on the window, unlocking it, place my hands under the lower sash, and lift it an inch. The wind whooshes in, hitting my belly.
Silence. No alarm, no siren, no hysterical, wigged-out parents running into my room.
I try and push the window higher. It sticks halfway, and I shove my right shoulder into the wooden sill until it creaks open. I bend down, and my face is smacked with the cold—and smacked with a solution.
She’s right there in front of me, beckoning me—her farthest limb reaching out, luring me onto her mottled bark. I stick my head out the window, look down, and see the strong boughs spaced evenly, forming a ladder down to the front lawn—to freedom.
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