Where They Found Her

by Kimberly McCreight

  “Without you?” Panic flooded Sandy’s belly. “What are you talking about? That’s crazy. I’ll miss you. I can’t go somewhere alone.” She was starting to cry. She didn’t want to be, but she was. Because she already knew that Jenna was right. She had to go.

  “I love you, baby,” Jenna whispered. “But if you stay, you won’t stand a fucking chance. I’ll destroy the both of us.”

  Then Jenna pulled Sandy’s face close, kissing her on the forehead—just like the mom Sandy had always wanted her to be.

  Sandy was numb when she pushed herself out into the busy hospital hall, doctors and nurses and patients moving this way and that. Life and death keeping on.

  In tears, Sandy started toward the front doors of the hospital, waiting for someone to stop her. Waiting for someone to tell her that she wasn’t free to go. That she needed to go back. But no one did. No one asked her to slow down. No one stood in her way. And before long, Sandy was outside, the sun in her face, the town to her back, trying to figure out which way to go.

  But forward was all there was. That was the only way to go.

  Molly

  I was finishing cooking dinner, Ella coloring on the kitchen floor next to me, when there was a knock at the front door. When I looked out the window, Stella was on our front stoop, arms crossed, a determined set to her jaw. I’d been avoiding her since our last awkward coffee date a week earlier. I considered ignoring the door. Stella hadn’t seen me look out, but surely she had spotted my car in the driveway. And I knew her well enough to know: If she really wanted to talk to me, she wouldn’t go away until she did.

  Apart from necessities like bringing Ella to school, meeting Stella at the Black Cat had been the first time I’d emerged from hiding in the six weeks since I’d found out about Justin and Hannah. It wasn’t as though their involvement or the baby had gotten extensive coverage in the local news. Thanks to Erik, the Reader hadn’t mentioned it, but people in town knew. At least I felt like they did.

  Luckily, Barbara had left town with Hannah and Cole, one less horrifying interaction for me to contemplate. They’d gone for Hannah—whose prognosis was apparently good, and Cole was much better, too—to get her rehabilitation treatment at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital. Or so Barbara was telling people. There were rumors that Barbara’s parents, humiliated by Steve’s arrest and what had happened with Hannah, had insisted she leave for an extended summer at the family beach house in Cape May, New Jersey. Steve was in Ridgedale, awaiting sentencing. He’d confessed to killing Simon Barton in exchange for a reduced, voluntary manslaughter charge. Given the circumstances, which Jenna had come forward to corroborate, the prosecutor seemed loath to pursue much jail time.

  Five minutes into that first coffee with Stella, and I was glad I’d agreed to meet her. As always, I got lost in Stella’s silly color commentary on life in Ridgedale. And I was impressed by her restraint. She didn’t even mention Justin’s name. We’d never talked about what had happened between him and Hannah, and I was sure Stella was dying for details.

  Ironically, I was the one who ended up mentioning Justin, offhandedly repeating a joke he’d made recently about the Black Cat barista whom Stella couldn’t stand. A joke I thought she’d appreciate.

  “Wait, you’ve been talking to Justin?”

  For weeks, I had hated Justin so much it frightened me. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to hate another human being that much. The detailed fantasies I’d had about ways to inflict suffering on him—physical and mental—were so elaborate, they were alarming. But eventually, my hatred had given way to sadness and then to resignation. Justin had betrayed me in the most horrifying way, exactly when I needed him most. And I had been lost to him for so long, caught up in the worst of my depression for over a year. Both things were true. That made me sad, mostly for me and Ella, but occasionally for Justin. After all, his life was ruined, too.

  He’d left Ridgedale, fired immediately by the university, and moved back to Manhattan. With the help of a loan from his parents, he was trying to get a freelance career off the ground, editing a well-respected political blog. He and I talked, but not much.

  “He’s the father of my child, Stella,” I’d said that afternoon at the Black Cat, already wishing I hadn’t brought him up. “I have to talk to him.”

  “Yeah, I know. But the way you mentioned him.” She looked sickened. “It seemed like you’d forgiven him. I hope you’re not blaming yourself or something. It doesn’t matter if you were depressed when he did it, Molly. That doesn’t excuse it.”

  I felt a hard wave of anger that pushed me right to my feet. I was not going to sit there and be judged by Stella, of all people. “Okay, I think I’m going to go.”

  “I’m sorry, Molly. I’m not trying to be a bitch here. But I am your friend.” Stella had pressed her lips together as she looked at me. “I—I just don’t want to see you make a bad situation worse by trying to pretend it’s okay.”

  “Well, thanks for that,” I said, though I was pretty sure Stella’s motives weren’t nearly that altruistic. “But trust me, Stella, when I need your advice, I will let you know.”

  Now I peered at Stella, standing there on our stoop. She looked awful. She had on worn jeans and an ill-fitting, unflattering shirt. Her skin was blotchy. Maybe she was there to apologize. She had sent me some texts that I’d ignored. I owed it to her to hear her out.

  “Can I come in?” she asked when I opened the door. Even her voice was deflated, no trace of her usual bravado. But she didn’t sound all that apologetic. “There’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s been bothering me ever since we met last week. Longer than that, really. I just— It will only take a minute.”

  “I don’t need another lecture, Stella,” I said. “I know you think you’re helping, but honestly, I’m fine.”

  She didn’t say anything else as she took a couple of steps into the living room. She also didn’t sit down. Instead, she looked toward the kitchen, where Ella was conducting an elaborate play with paper bag puppets. Like she wanted to be sure that Ella was safely out of earshot before she said whatever inappropriate thing she was about to say.

  “For the record, I’m not forgiving Justin, Stella.” I hated myself for launching into yet another explanation to which Stella was not entitled. I didn’t need to explain myself to anyone. But I was hoping it would keep her from saying something else that would aggravate me. “And I’m sorry if I don’t hate him the way you hate Kevin. But that’s not what I want for myself. I don’t enjoy it the way you do.”

  She winced but didn’t argue. How could she when it was true?

  “Maybe you could hate him just a little,” she said. She was holding out her phone to me. “You never saw these, did you?”

  “Saw what? What is it, Stella?” Reluctantly, I glanced down at the screen, long enough to see that it was a comments page from the Ridgedale Reader. “I don’t read the comments on my stories. You know that.”

  “Now I do. But I didn’t at the time.” She was still holding out her phone. “Please read just this one. Then I will go. And you never have to talk to me again.”

  Never talk to her again? This time I squinted down at the screen, trying to make sense of the message. This baby belongs to you. And from a user name, 246Barry, that had Justin’s office number in it—246 Barry Hall—posted at the time I’d written the story, long before anyone knew about Hannah, much less Justin. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know,” Stella said ruefully. “I was too cryptic. Too clever for my own good. For anyone’s good. I wanted you to figure it out without me ever having to tell you.”

  “Stella, what are you talking about?” I had the most terrible feeling. Not anger, fear. I wanted to be angry again.

  “I saw a text someone sent to Justin, Molly. He went to the bathroom, left his phone there on the bar. I wasn’t snooping or anything. It was just right there. And I didn’t know who it was from at the time. It didn’t even say anythi
ng that specific—just ‘I really need to talk to you now, please,’ that kind of thing. But it was the way it was written, you know? I just knew.”

  “Stella, ‘knew’ what? What are you talking about?”

  “I made a joke about it to Justin when he got back from the bathroom: You get her pregnant and leave her by the side of the road? And there was just this look on Justin’s face, Molly. Like he wanted to kill me. It was obvious: There was someone out there that he’d gotten pregnant. Then after they found the baby and you told me how he was acting about the story—I just—” Her voice caught. “I couldn’t be sure it was his baby, except I was. But I was too much of a coward to tell you, so I posted some stupid messages that you never even saw. I would have told you if you hadn’t found out yourself. I swear.”

  “What?” It was all I could think to say. None of what she was saying made any sense at all. “Wait, how would you— When would you have seen Justin’s texts?” The three of us hadn’t had dinner together in months, and even then they hadn’t been alone together. “What bar?”

  Stella took a deep breath as her eyes filled with tears. “It was just one glass of wine, Molly. One time. Nothing happened. But if Justin hadn’t gotten the text that night? If he and I hadn’t argued right after, would something have?” She shook her head. Shrugged. “I can live with you hating me for that. I’ll have to. I can even live with you not hating him. Just don’t forgive him, Molly—not all the way. He doesn’t deserve that. And neither do you.”

  Erik came in while I was clearing out my desk. He was carrying coffee and a muffin, with several papers tucked under his arm. He looked tired but happy, like the parent of any new baby. I was so happy for him that it had all worked out at last.

  “You don’t have to do that, you know,” he said as I gathered up the last of my files. “I’ve already said this a hundred times, but I’d love for you to keep a desk here. You can even freelance for whoever else you want.”

  Erik had said this many times since I’d given my notice two months earlier, five long months since Justin had moved out, three and a half months since I’d spoken to Stella. I’d seen her, of course, Ridgedale was small, but she’d kept a respectful distance.

  “Can I leave it as a maybe?” I said, even though I knew it was a no.

  “Of course,” he said. “I understand, you’ve got a lot on your plate. And I can’t wait to read it, truly.”

  I smiled. “Me, too. Now I just need to go write it.”

  “Well, the article was excellent, I’m sure the book will be, too,” Erik said, referring to the New York magazine cover piece I’d done on Thomas Price, as well as the book deal I’d gotten in its wake. “I never had any doubt what you were capable of.”

  In the end, the assaults had spanned two decades and three universities, starting with Jenna Mendelson, who’d agreed to be interviewed for my article as long as I referred to her only as JM. I told Jenna about my connection to Sandy. It would have felt dishonest otherwise. But I didn’t tell her that we were still exchanging emails. Sandy had asked me not to.

  Sandy had gotten her GED with honors the first day she was able—on her seventeenth birthday—and was already taking classes at the New School while waiting tables and making plans to apply for a scholarship to attend college full-time in the fall. She and Aidan were in touch, as friends only, Sandy had been quick to clarify. She wasn’t in the market for a boyfriend, not until she got where she wanted to go.

  “Steve’s allocution is today,” Erik went on. “You want to cover it for old times’ sake?”

  He was joking, at least I was pretty sure he was, trying to make light of my very public situation. And I appreciated his kindness. It was a relief to have someone not ignore whom I’d been married to like it was some kind of shameful disease. In the end, Erik and Nancy had become the close friends I had always hoped they’d be. Right when I’d needed them the most.

  “Thanks for the offer,” I said, “but I think I’ll pass.”

  I never could have passed up writing the story on Thomas Price, though. He’d been fired swiftly, then arrested shortly thereafter for sexual assault. Finally, he was no longer in a position to threaten anyone; further violence was apparently his threat of choice. Four women, some not so young anymore, planned to press charges. Not Rose, at least not yet. She hadn’t resurfaced.

  “I had a feeling about Price from day one,” Deckler had said when I’d finally caught up with him for my article. A supervisor at Ridgedale University now, he was allowed to wear khakis and a button-down shirt, which, even I had to admit, looked a little better on him. He’d been hired back, and given the promotion, after threatening to sue for wrongful termination. “Guys like that don’t bother to cover their tracks very well.”

  “Why did you give me the files?”

  He’d shrugged. “You were new to town. I could be sure you weren’t connected to anyone. Price had made real clear that he knew the chief of police from high school. That Steve would protect him no matter what. Same kind of lies he probably used to keep all of those girls quiet. After we found the baby and then you came around asking about Rose Gowan.” He’d glanced away, uncomfortable. He knew about Justin—that was obvious. “Turns out they’re not related, but I thought they might be. And I felt like that was enough. I had to do something, even if I lost my job.”

  At least Price would finally pay for something. He’d never again work at a university and would likely see real jail time. And the publicity had thrown Ridgedale University’s procedures for handling sexual assaults under the microscope.

  The door to the Reader’s offices opened again. It was Nancy, pushing a stroller. She looked elated and exhausted. Maybe a little more exhausted than Erik but also a little more elated. They’d fought so hard and so long for a baby that they seemed to be wasting not a second complaining about the less enjoyable parts of new parenthood. It was a wonder that Erik had been able to hold it together as well as he had during those first few days when I was working on the story about Hannah’s baby. The birth mother of Erik and Nancy’s baby had been having second thoughts. She’d taken off for her sister’s house, and Erik had gone after her, hoping to change her mind. Apparently, since absolute secrecy had been the birth mother’s prerequisite, Erik had been afraid to say anything to anyone about where he was or why. In the end, she’d decided to go through with the adoption.

  Unable to resist, I went over to see Delilah, their impossibly chubby now-seven-month-old girl. “She keeps getting cuter and cuter,” I said, touching her little toes as she broke into an enormous toothless grin. “How is that even possible?”

  “I don’t know,” Nancy said, beaming cheerfully. “But I have to say, I agree. She certainly has opinions, though.” She shrugged and smiled some more. “Like her birth mother says, I guess you’ve got to let go or be dragged.”

  Let go or be dragged. It bounced in my head like the ringing of a bell. And then I remembered where I’d heard it before, in Rose’s hospital room. Stella had been the one to say it, but the words had belonged to Rose.

  Ella and I went outside after dinner. The August night, fresh off a storm, felt cool and electrified. As I sat on our front steps, breathing deep the smell of grass and rain, I watched Ella race back and forth in the darkness, a long wand in her hand leaving enormous shimmery bubbles in her wake.

  I was still watching her giggling in the fading light as my phone vibrated on the steps next to me. Justin, it said when I looked down at the screen. Calling again, as he did so often despite my repeated requests for emails only, and only about Ella. We’d told her the basics—Mommy and Daddy would live apart from now on, but that they both still loved her just as much. And no, Daddy wasn’t coming home soon. He wasn’t coming home ever. Civility, I was committed to that. But that was all.

  I couldn’t change how slow I’d been to see the truth about Justin or how much longer it had taken me to accept it. But I could do now what needed to be done for Ella and me. And I could do it wi
thout turning our lives into a torrent of rage, the way my own mother had. Without looking at the phone again, I silenced it and turned it facedown on the steps next to me.

  Because Justin had been right about one thing: Not everything about where you’re going has to be about where you’ve been.

  “Mommy, look!” Ella squealed. When I turned, she was sprinting barefoot across the grass, pointing to the glow of fireflies, sparking and then disappearing in the darkness. “Can we catch some, Mommy?”

  I looked over at our picture-perfect front yard, at our white picket fence and pretty white house, watching the glow of all those fireflies, so lazy and random and beautiful. Did capturing them require a special jar or a net? What happened if you gathered them in your hands? I had not the faintest clue.

  “Yes, sweetheart. Of course we can,” I said when Ella had run, full speed, back to me. I brushed back her curls from her sweet upturned face. “Come, let’s go get a jar,” I said, grasping her hand as we made our way inside. “And then I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  Acknowledgments

  My deepest gratitude to the brilliant and insightful Claire Wachtel. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Sharing this creative process has been a true gift. Thank you for seeing this book’s potential, then sticking with me in the trenches until it was all the way there.

  Many thanks to Michael Morrison and Jonathan Burnham for your generous support and incredible enthusiasm. Thanks also to Hannah Wood, Leslie Cohen, Katie O’Callaghan, Amy Baker, Mary Sasso, Leigh Raynor, Kathryn Ratcliffe-Lee, and everyone else on the HarperCollins team. It’s a pleasure to work with such warm and wonderful people.

  To Marly Rusoff, the very best agent and most lovely friend, I am so lucky to be the beneficiary of your wisdom and grace. Thank you, Michael Radulescu, for your foreign rights and associated genius, and Julie Mosow, for always dropping everything to read another draft. Thank you to the fabulous Shari Smiley and the wonderful Lizzy Kremer.