by Susie Bright
“So her vegetarianism became an annoyance?”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Natalie replied. “You know who else was a vegetarian? Hitler. And Pol Pot.”
“I guess that’s what happens when you love animals too much—genocide.”
Natalie giggled. My little joke seemed to have won her over.
“So, just to make sure I’m understanding you correctly, the reason you called Elizabeth a slut was because she had loud sex with her boyfriend? Is that all?”
“N-no, that’s just part of it. Elizabeth stole Chet away from another girl, and then turned around and cheated on him. Did Alice tell you about the flowers?”
I nodded.
“Chet didn’t send them. He put up with all her whiny bullshit, and this is how she rewards him?”
“A potential love triangle. Interesting.” I took out my smartphone and began typing up notes. Natalie didn’t know I’d already started recording her.
“Don’t quote me on that!” she said, only half-serious.
“I’ll keep your name out of the article. But tell me this: who else was Elizabeth seeing?”
“Not sure. Someone older, I think.”
“What do you know about Chet?”
“Nothing, really. I’ve never spoken to him.”
I handed Natalie a business card. She inspected it like a cashier examining a suspiciously crisp hundred-dollar bill. “If you think of anything, my cell number is on the back. Don’t call the office. That’s not a direct line. I don’t want anyone getting my messages and poaching the story, okay?”
“Sure,” Natalie said, “but I gotta eat my lunch now. My tacos are getting cold.”
* * *
Elizabeth’s social media accounts offered few clues. Highlights included a couple of gorgeous West Cliff Drive sunsets and a handful of perfectly composed selfies highlighting Elizabeth’s natural beauty. She’d crafted her online persona to suggest her life was incredibly fun—and conspicuously solitary. Her last post had been the previous summer.
I’d brought a box to pack up some of Elizabeth’s things, but to my disappointment, the police took almost everything of value. No laptop. No tablet. Not even a stapler. Her desk drawers were all empty too. I thumbed through every book on her shelf, hoping to find some sort of clue—a diary, a scrap of paper, something.
Back in the Mustang, I stared at the only thing of value I retrieved: a photograph of a little Korean girl, probably five or six years old, smiling between two adoring Caucasian parents—Gregory and Susan White. The couple had difficulty conceiving, but with the help of an international adoption agency, they found and fell in love with a baby girl named Jae-Hee Kim, soon to be renamed Elizabeth Jane White.
While it’s true that Elizabeth’s parents were initially childless, her roommate Natalie didn’t know half the story. The first twelve years of Elizabeth’s life were relatively happy, though when her parents divorced, things took an ugly turn. Her father had only agreed to the adoption for the sake of his wife, so once the divorce was finalized, he cut off contact with Elizabeth, never to be heard from again.
Elizabeth’s mother retained custody, yet when she remarried two years later, her new husband wasn’t fond of a teenager in the house, especially one so obviously not his. Having to explain the existence of this Korean child, a constant reminder of his wife’s previous marriage, made him deeply uncomfortable. Elizabeth’s stepfather wanted children of his own, and he got his wish when her mother became pregnant with twins through the miracle of in vitro fertilization.
When Elizabeth completed high school, her stepfather accepted a job in Boston, taking her mother and her half-siblings out of state. Elizabeth’s weekly phone calls from college to her mother slowly turned into an annual call and then into no calls at all. By the time she graduated from Michigan State, the family had ceased all contact. Thankfully, she’d been accepted into graduate school at Santa Cruz, a place where she could begin again—or so she thought.
Perhaps there was more to the story. But with Elizabeth gone, it was unlikely that I would ever discover the full truth.
My thoughts returned to the happy little girl in the photograph. Her adoptive parents looked happy too, no clue of the misery they would cause in the years to come. After drying my eyes, I put the photograph down and reached under the seat. To my relief, my pistol—a Ruger 9mm—was still there. I popped the magazine and checked the bullets. All seven rounds were ready for use.
* * *
At first glance, Chet Crawford was something of a disappointment. Despite Elizabeth’s interest in all things Jane Austen, I’m sorry to report that Chet was no Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. If anything, I suspected he had more in common with Mr. Wickham, Darcy’s charming but deceitful foil.
Chet’s apartment wasn’t difficult to find. Boasting Spanish Colonial Revival architecture and an iconic bell tower, the Beach Street Villa must have been breathtaking during its 1930s heyday. Eighty-five years later, the place was considerably less impressive. I suppose “crack house” might be a more apt description. Still, the appeal lay mainly in its location: to visit the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, all you had to do was walk across the street.
For some reason, I expected Chet to be taller, but we were at eye level when he answered the door. He was alone, accompanied only by the distinct stench of alcohol. When I identified myself as a reporter, I figured Chet would slam the door in my face, but instead he invited me inside without protest.
If the villa’s exterior looked bad, the interior of Chet’s apartment was worse: dirty clothes draped everywhere, empty cans of beer stacked on the dresser, even a couple fast-food wrappers crumpled on the floor. Chez Chet had all the charm of an indoor landfill. Adorning his yellowed cracked walls were the markers of a cultured man: a framed poster for Wong Kar-Wai’s Days of Being Wild, a reproduction of Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss, and Yousuf Karsh’s iconic photograph of Bogart.
“Beth was always so sensitive,” he told me later, his handsome face blotchy with an alcoholic’s sunburn. “I mean, being sensitive is fine if it means you’re sensitive to other people’s feelings, but it was a one-way street with her. She was so thin-skinned. Actually, it was like she was missing a layer of skin.”
“Why didn’t you break up with her?”
“Because she beat me to the punch. We hooked up at the end of spring quarter, and she wanted to keep seeing me through summer break. I was planning a cross-country road trip with my buddies—y’know, do the whole Kerouac thing—but I ended up canceling because of her. At the time, I didn’t mind. I thought things were going well. But then, out of the blue, she breaks up with me and starts sleeping with somebody else. It’s crazy!”
“And by somebody else, do you mean the mystery man sending her flowers?”
“How did you know about that?”
“I have my sources. But I don’t know his name.”
“He’s a professor . . .”
“Which professor?”
“My advisor, Christian Malory. He’s teaching this huge lecture course, two hundred people. It’s called ‘The Fantastic,’ but believe me, it’s anything but. Anyway, me, Beth, and two other grad students were assigned as his teaching assistants. At first, I admired him. Of course, I didn’t realize Malory was such a fucking creep. He’s always hitting on his students, even though he’s got a fiancée in Los Angeles. It’s like they always say, Never meet your heroes.”
“So what happened?”
“Last month, I met up with Malory and his grad school groupies at the Rush Inn, a dive bar on Knight Street. Beth, on the other hand, never came to these drink nights.”
“Why not?”
“Well, she’s a real bookworm, homebody type. Unless we did something together, she was always in her room studying. But this one fucking time, Beth shows up. This is like a day after breaking up with me! And she’s acting flirty—with Professor Malory. Like, at one point, she’s sitting on his lap. She just wanted to make me jealous.�
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“What did you do?”
“What could I do? Beth never drinks, but she got pretty wasted that night. I tried to stick around to make sure she got home safely, but her behavior with Malory was tough to watch.”
“So you left the bar early?”
“Yeah, though I actually stayed up waiting for her.”
“Where did you wait?”
“What do you mean?” Chet seemed truly puzzled.
“Where specifically did you wait? Outside her apartment? Or inside?”
“Oh, inside. I have a key. Ended up sleeping there. When she didn’t come home in the morning, I left.”
“Did something happen between Elizabeth and Dr. Malory?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Chet turned his back to me and cracked another beer. “He’ll be at the Rush Inn tonight.”
* * *
After meeting with Chet, I drove downtown and bought a tight red dress that accentuated my curves and a pair of knee-high boots with stiletto heels. With a dusting of glittery eye shadow, my outfit came together nicely.
That night, at the Rush Inn, I found Professor Malory with his coterie of hangers-on, just as Chet described. He was an imposing sight: well over six feet tall, muscular, with a supremely confident smirk.
I introduced myself as an undergrad looking for guidance on whether to switch my major. I expressed my admiration for his body of work, peppering my compliments with information I’d gleaned from a cursory reading of his campus bio. Malory was so pleased, I suspect he asked me back to his place on that reason alone.
When we crossed the threshold of his vintage Eichler home, I expected to be offered a drink, but Malory had other ideas—he lunged at me. His lips were pressed against mine, his tongue forcing my mouth open and flopping inside like a fish on a riverbank. Before I knew it, his hands were around my neck—and not in a tender caress. He was choking me. When I realized he had no intention of letting go, I cuffed him. Literally.
“What’s this?”
I’d solidly clipped a pair of handcuffs to his left wrist.
“Let’s play a game,” I commanded, in the most seductive voice I could muster.
Christian Malory was a Berkeley-educated scholar, a man who spent the majority of his adult life dedicated to the pursuit of social justice, and a self-described activist who positioned himself as a feminist ally. And yet here, in his own home, he behaved like a horny teenager—and a willing captive.
Thus, he happily complied with my order to remove his clothes and lie on the bed. He owned a metal headboard, so I snaked the handcuffs around one of the bars and closed the open cuff around his other wrist. Eager to participate, he directed me to a dresser where he kept his neckties, so I secured his ankles to the two newel posts at the foot of the bed. Malory loved every second of it—that is, until I grabbed my purse and drew out my pistol.
“You’re kidding, right?” he asked, almost amused.
I shook my head.
“Look, I’m all for games, but this is crazy.”
I pointed the Ruger at his head.
“Don’t shoot! You can take anything you want!”
“I only want one thing.” I placed the tip of the barrel between his eyebrows.
“It’s yours! Name it!”
“The truth about Elizabeth White.”
“There’s nothing to tell. She was my TA.”
“Oh, I think she was more than that.” I aimed the gun at his crotch.
“Okay! We slept together. Just once, I swear!”
I shook my head. “She was intoxicated. She couldn’t possibly have consented. That’s rape.”
“You’re crazy! She was into it!”
“Then why no second date? Why were you sending her flowers?”
“What? How do you—? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Enough lying.” I grabbed one of Malory’s argyle socks from the floor and stuffed it in his mouth. “Let me tell you a secret. I had an appointment at the student health center last Friday. I saw Elizabeth there. I wanted to say hello, but she didn’t acknowledge me. It’s understandable. Nobody wants to talk about why they’re seeing the doctor. I was still in the waiting room when she came out. She looked horrible. But why am I even telling you this? You were there.”
Malory’s eyes widened, but he didn’t make a sound.
“I followed her outside. I don’t know why. I probably should’ve respected her privacy. But then I saw you waiting for her in the parking lot. And I saw the look on your face when she spoke to you. I didn’t know your name. I had no idea how to find you. But now I have.”
Malory grunted, so I took the sock out of his mouth.
“You’ve got it all wrong!” he screamed, gasping for air. “Let me explain!”
“What’s there to explain? You raped her, you probably got her pregnant,” I said, almost crying, “and then you killed her to shut her up.”
“I didn’t kill her! That was the last time I saw her. She texted me later that night, but I didn’t reply. She needed a ride. The cops already questioned me about all this! I wasn’t even in Santa Cruz! I was in LA with my girlfriend!”
“I don’t believe you,” I hissed. “You’re a liar. And a rapist.”
“It wasn’t rape! If she didn’t want it, she shouldn’t have thrown herself at me.”
“Your behavior put her in an emotional state that resulted in her death. You’re responsible.”
“Actually, I disagree,” he began, as if he were lecturing a student. “I think—”
“I don’t care what you think.”
I put a pillow over his face and pulled the trigger.
* * *
The following afternoon, I awoke to the sound of a text message. I’d forgotten I’d even given Natalie my number.
I called Natalie. She suggested meeting up near one of the campus bridges. Not that bridge, she giggled, but one located at the far end of Kresge College deep in the redwoods. There was a park bench near the entrance of the bridge, making it the perfect place for a clandestine meeting. She actually used the word “clandestine.” Obviously she’d seen one too many spy movies. I wanted the diary, so I agreed to meet her that night at eight.
* * *
“Take her legs,” a voice said. I couldn’t tell who was speaking, and I had a hard time opening my eyes. Two arms were shoved under my armpits, dragging me through wet leaves.
“Think we can carry her to the bridge?” asked a different voice.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“What if someone sees us?”
“Don’t worry. No one’s out here but us.”
How could I be so stupid? If I hadn’t been curious about Elizabeth’s diary, I never would’ve agreed to meet Natalie in the first place. I’d gotten sloppy. If I’d been quicker to react, she wouldn’t have been holding my feet.
“Are you sure we should do this?” Natalie asked the man clutching me. “We don’t even know who she is.”
“Check her driver’s license when we get to the middle of the bridge.”
When did Natalie figure out I wasn’t Stephanie Williams of the Santa Cruz Sentinel? I’d pocketed a couple of business cards from the real Stephanie’s office on Monday. Even with my phone number written on the back, I knew passing her card off as mine would be a risk. I just didn’t think it could cost me my life.
When Natalie showed up a half hour late, the first thing I asked for was the diary, no small talk. I should have run away the moment she started grinning like an idiot.
But all that planning had made me overconfident. During our meeting, I clutched the Ruger hidden in my jacket pocket, knowing full well that if things spiraled out of control, all I’d have to do is squeeze the trigger and the bullet would do the work. But Natalie had an accomplice. That realization came too late, all thanks to a sharp blow to the back of my head. Chet Crawford was the last thing I saw before losing consciousness.
“Switch with me, babe,” Chet ordered.
“Prop her up. I’ll grab her legs and throw her over.”
“What about her head?” asked Natalie, as she changed positions. “You hit her hard. She’s bleeding.”
“They’ll think she got it in the fall.”
“Fuck, she’s heavier than Lizzy.”
The mere mention of Elizabeth finally woke me up. I could feel Natalie’s bony hands digging into my armpits. Chet’s face loomed large in front of me. They were taking a breather. Hauling my limp body from the park bench all the way to the bridge must’ve been exhausting.
This was my chance.
I reached into my jacket pocket and fired four shots from my Ruger, striking Chet in the chest. He careened backward over the opposite guardrail and plummeted seventy feet to his death.
Unlike the other bridge where Elizabeth died, the guardrails here were only four feet high. They were next on the university’s list to be replaced.
“Chet!” Natalie screamed.
I slammed the back of my head into Natalie’s nose and heard a distinct crunch. She shrieked in pain, releasing me as she fell to the ground.
“Please don’t!” she screamed, her face covered in blood. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen!”
I grabbed her by the collar with my gloved hands and dragged her back to where Chet went over. Natalie tried to fight back, but every arm-flail in her defense proved useless. When I reached the middle of the bridge, I let go of her collar and pointed my gun at her face. “Tell me what you did to Elizabeth.”
“It was an accident,” she said.
“You already said that. Explain.”
“After her doctor’s appointment, Elizabeth wandered around campus in a daze. That night, she texted me to come pick her up. She was too exhausted to walk back. I ignored her message, but Chet said we should go anyway. Chet and I—we’d started seeing each other again.”
“And then?”
“She was in a pretty fucked-up state of mind when we found her. She said some nasty things. I said some things. Chet got involved and then . . .”
“And then what?”
“She slipped. Like I said, it was an accident.”
“And yet, you and your boyfriend were perfectly willing to kill me tonight.”