by Sandra Block
She pats my back. “It’s all right. We’ll figure it out.”
I sniff, catching my hiccupping breath, and she kisses my face, my tears. I feel worse somehow, with all this love. Not deserving of it.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” she asks.
I don’t really, but I tell her. And it feels good to let it out. To tell the whole story to a fully loving audience. Not a doctor who won’t meet my eyes. Not the police who are muttering behind my back. My mom still has her arm around me, and when I’m done, I can see that she is crying too. She digs a tissue from her purse and rubs her nose. There is a long, painful silence before she speaks.
“I don’t blame you, honey, of course I don’t,” she says, her chin wobbling.
I can’t tell if she’s angry or sad. Maybe both. A sick feeling creeps into my stomach.
“But I warned you about this, didn’t I? Drinking too much? What could happen?” She lets out something between a sob and a sigh.
I feel time stop, slow down. My arms go heavy and fall from the hug. My mom sits there, shaking her head, noiselessly crying, while Shoshana stares at her knees.
Chapter Twenty-One
Dahlia
Daisy gets back to me the next day. Saw the video. This is followed by a sad face emoji. It seems trite for the situation, but then again, there’s really no appropriate emoji for this situation.
Do you remember Blake Roberts?
Doesn’t ring a bell. Is he in there?
I don’t want to say for sure, in case I’m wrong. But I think it might be him.
I plug the name into my Google search box.
He’s a gazillionaire, Daisy texts. But maybe it’s not him? Face a little shaded on video.
I click on images and get plenty of head shots. She’s right. It looks a lot like one of the guys in the video from what I remember, but it’s hard to say for sure. He was mostly in shadow, though I do recall a beak-like profile in one part of the shot.
Not sure, I answer back.
Had an unpleasant run-in with him after college. And he was in WSJ a few days ago. So he might just be on my brain.
WSJ? I am typing, but don’t send, as I figure it out. Thanks, I type, then put my phone away. “Have you seen the Wall Street Journal this week?” I ask Sylvia, who looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Yeah, right. You know me. I’m always perusing the Wall Street Journal.”
“I need it,” I say, trying to control the urgency in my voice. “For a case.”
She puts a red pencil in her teeth and lisps, “It’s probably in the conference room.” Then she adds, “Or online,” before taking the pencil out of her mouth.
“I’ll check the conference room,” I say, launching out of my chair. We probably have an online subscription, but I don’t know the password or anything. Connor is sitting cross-legged in a chair, his dark-gray socks showing. And of course, he is flipping through the Wall Street Journal.
“Hi,” I say.
He peeks his face over the paper and looks surprised to see me. I’m not a regular in the conference room. “Hi,” he says back. “Just waiting on a client. Did you need something?”
“Nothing major.” I readjust my barrette, as a piece of purple hair slips out. “I was actually looking for the Wall Street Journal too.”
“Today’s?”
“No, last week’s.” I wander over to the table, to the neat outlay of newspapers, all from today.
“Might have been recycled already.” He heads over to the bin with me, watching me with a mixture of concern and curiosity.
I start sorting through the bin, flipping through soft, loose pages.
“Do you know the exact date?” he asks.
“No…” Then I see it. The paper is folded over to that page, with his face. “I’m just going to…” I say, motioning toward the back of the room.
“Oh, sure,” Connor says and returns to his chair.
I steal off to the back corner, by the window. Traffic flows by on the street, oddly silent all those floors below. Like I’m in a bubble up here, hermetically sealed off from the world that plods on below me, like any other ordinary day.
I turn on the video and put it on silent. At minute 2:15, he pops up, and I get one solid glimpse of his face. It’s definitely him, the same face from the article.
It’s hard to miss it. The article features a huge picture of him. Blake Roberts: Hedge Wunderkind. His face is enormous. His smile, ghastly. And a smaller picture is included, with his beak-nosed profile smiling at his lovely wife. The same face that in minute 2:19 of the video announced, “This is getting boring. I’m going to do her in the ass.” I notice a crinkling noise and realize the paper is shaking in my hands. After folding the paper back up, I walk back to the front of the room.
Connor looks up at me from his own paper. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer, my voice scratchy.
“You look like you’ve seen the proverbial ghost.”
“Yeah, sort of,” I answer in a daze. I motion to the paper. “I just need to make a copy of this…because…” My voice trails off.
“I think you can have it.” He shrugs. “It was just going in recycling.” There are footsteps in the doorway, and a smile brightens his face. “Chuck,” he calls out and strides over to his client, his arm outstretched. I walk out of the room, the paper tight underneath my arm. And I text Daisy.
It’s him.
• • •
“Did you get what you were looking for?” Sylvia asks, sliding open an overhead shelf and pulling out a hefty binder.
“Yup.” The article is splayed out on my desk, and I don’t even look up to answer.
“I never read that one. I just get all my info on Facebook.”
“Uh-huh,” I answer, still poring over every word. She seems to sense my myopic viewpoint and stops talking, flipping open her notebook.
Blake Roberts is a billionaire. Not a millionaire, like a number of my classmates who also immediately became hedge fund managers directly after graduation. He bet big on some particular wheat product, of all things, as well as other unlikely money magnets, and is now a billionaire. His ugly face is handsome, his expression pure confidence. Zipping over to his profile in his company website, I learn that he is happily married and a Big Brother for less fortunate kids in Cambridge because he “just wants to give back to the community.”
I feel physically ill.
“Is that something for work?” she asks, probably noting my sour expression.
I take a deep breath. “Yeah. We’re getting this guy for tax evasion.”
“Good,” she says, glancing at her computer screen. “Rich pricks. They deserve it.”
She has no idea the truth she speaks. My phone rings, and I figure it’ll be James, informing me of a hundred things he’s already found on Blake Roberts (a.k.a. Rapist #2) since I texted him the name a few minutes ago. But it’s not him. It’s Daisy. “So, you’re sure then?” she asks. “It’s him?”
“Yeah.”
There is a pause. “I wanted to make sure before I called.” She coughs. “I saw him a couple years ago at a conference in New York.”
“Uh-huh?” I turn the paper over, to stop staring at that disgusting smile.
“He had just gotten married. And he totally made a pass at me. Made ridiculous hints the entire time about visiting his hotel room.” She chokes out a laugh. “Not even hints. He slipped his fucking hotel card into my pocket with a note about what a great night we could have.”
“Ew.”
“Exactly. I wouldn’t have gone in there for a million dollars.”
“Well,” I say, “he certainly had a few million to give you.”
“Yeah,” she grumbles. “The whole conference was sort of gross. Caviar freaking everywhere.”
“I’ll bet,” I say, thinking how he’ll have to do some adjusting though.
Because they don’t serve caviar in prison.
• • •
I can barely concentrate all class.
My mind keeps drifting away, dreaming up all sorts of vengeance plots for Blake Roberts, each with serious pitfalls. Finally, the professor wraps up, and I file out with the others. Dodging past some students glued to their screens, I walk through the Yard, then see a familiar form waiting by the front gate.
“Hey, stranger,” I say.
“Hey.” James is standing in front of me, casting a shadow in the streetlight. A bite of fall is in the air, but he’s still in Birkenstocks. He happened to have an appointment out this way, so we decided to meet after class to take the T home together. As we walk out past the gates, the noise of the cars swells, the tires rumbling over the streets.
“How was your appointment?” I ask.
“Good.” He shoves some papers in the front of his hoodie, maybe from the appointment. He doesn’t offer what it was for. “How was your class?”
“Good,” I say. A car races by us, spraying a light sheen of water from a puddle. “I thought you hated the T.”
“I do,” he says. “Car’s not quite ready.”
We race-jaywalk together across the street to Harvard Station. “So, any thoughts on Blake Roberts?” I ask. The squeaking of trains rises up the stairs at the mouth of the station. “I’ve come up with a few million ways to kill him. Unfortunately, it goes against the code.”
“What do you mean?” he asks, his voice bobbing with each step. “We’re coding this?” We get to the bottom of the steps. “I suppose we could,” he says. “Java would be simple enough. Or Ruby maybe, but then again—”
“James,” I interrupt him. “What are you talking about?”
“Computer code,” he says.
“Oh,” I say. “Not that kind of code. I meant a code of conduct. Our rules. Not hurting anyone.”
“Oh right. That code.” The train emerges, drowning him out. As it screeches to a stop, we step on. The train is nearly empty, and we easily find two seats together. We settle into the red plastic seats as the train lurches away, announcing the next station.
“Maybe we could hack into his computer?” James asks.
“Maybe,” I say, realizing that hacking appears to be James’s answer for everything. I sway back and forth with the movement of the train. “What will that do for us though?”
“I don’t know.” His eyes wander up to the subway map. “Won’t be easy anyway. I’ve already looked into BR Funds. Super good firewalls.”
The train veers to another track, and we rock forward then back in our seats. A wall rumbles by us then floats off, leaving us in blackness. I remember when I first rode the subway. It reminded me of some sort of dystopian Disney ride. I’m used to it by now, but sometimes it still leaves me feeling disjointed and displaced. “This is me,” I say, as the train announces my stop.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll change over here too.” We step off together onto a crowded platform. The shuffle of the passengers shoves us together and we push our way toward a steel pillar, away from the crush of people.
“Oh, hey,” he says, reaching into the front pocket of his hoodie. “I almost forgot.” He hands me a folded-up stack of papers. The paper crackles as I unfold it, straightening out the creases. It appears to be a list of names. “It’s the Hawk Club members,” he says, “starting from five years before your attack.”
My mouth falls open. “You got it? Already?”
He looks down at his Birkenstocks. “Yeah. I tracked down an old reunion invitation that made it onto the web. They’ve changed servers since, but they didn’t deactivate the old one so I got into their membership database.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It wasn’t that hard,” he explains.
A wave of passengers files onto the train, running past us. I am gripping the paper in my hands. My treasure map. “James,” I say with appreciation.
He blushes, then gives me something between a wave and a salute, before disappearing into the crowd.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dahlia
“How are you doing?” Connor asks, touching his beard, which is rustier than his blond hair.
“Good,” I answer.
He rakes his fingers through his hair, and I worry that he is going to bring up the video again. “Good, good.” He clears his throat. “So, where are we with the Davenport file?”
The simplicity of his work-related question fills me with relief, rapidly followed by total panic. The Davenport file. Shit. I’d completely forgotten about it. “Um, still working on it. Just got to make a few more changes.”
“Great. End of day then?” he asks.
“Definitely,” I say with false certainty. The file is seventy-five pages. End of day will be a stretch.
“Okay, perfect. Thanks.” He walks away.
I start searching my pile for the Davenport file. “Crap, I’m dead,” I say once Connor’s out of earshot.
“Need some help?” Sylvia asks.
“Oh my God, could you?”
“No problem.” She scoots out her chair from her desk. “I know you’ve had a lot going on lately.”
Translation: I know the entire law firm just watched you get raped. But what the hell, I could definitely use the pity-help right now. I peel out the last twenty-five pages from my ream. “I’ll email you what he wants.”
“Sounds good,” she says, taking the stack. She peers over toward his office and lowers her voice. “He’s cute, isn’t he?”
“Connor?” I ask, pretending I never noticed. “I suppose, for a boss.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “I wouldn’t date my boss either but still…” Sylvia tosses something in the recycling bin, then spins back to the desk. “So sad, about his wife. I had a cousin who died of breast cancer.”
“Yeah. It’s too bad.” Uncharitably, I wonder if she is making up some of these cousins.
My phone rings, and it’s Daisy. I don’t have time to chat right now, but she never calls during work, so I figure it might be some news. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Nothing much,” she says. Then she pauses. “I have a question for you.”
“Okay,” I say, disquieted by her weighty tone.
“Do you remember Sean Gowers, from our class? Works for his father’s law firm?”
“No.” It doesn’t surprise me not to remember him. Daisy knows everyone and I know no one. “Was he from Hawk Club?”
“No. Phoenix Club.”
“Okay.” Phoenix is one of the “good” final clubs, one that started accepting women early on. “What about him?”
“Well, he’s doing some work for us. And I asked him about the Hawk Club. He said he knew some of the guys there. Turns out he was punching for Hawk Club and dropped out. Said he heard some scary shit about them.”
“Oh?” My interest is piqued.
“He might recognize some of those guys. You mind if I show him the video?”
The question makes me wince, but it’s a solid lead. “Sure. Of course.”
“Great,” she says. “I gave him your number. If he knows anything, he’ll call you.”
• • •
It’s past seven by the time I’m done with the Davenport file, and the office is empty. But the file is complete, scanned, and emailed. I’ll have to bring Sylvia a Starbucks tomorrow as a thank-you.
My stomach is complaining as I clean up my desk. On the way out, I stop by the vending machine, staring at the dull light. Pretzels might do the trick, if the machine will take my crinkly dollar. I am pulling out my wallet when I get a text from Eli.
Got extra from the kitchen tonight. Pumpkin ravioli.
Getting free food is one of the few
perks of his bartending job. I put my wallet back. Pumpkin ravioli definitely trumps pretzels.
My apartment at 8?
See you there, he texts back.
A half hour later, I’m off the subway and a block away from the apartment. I pull out my phone to see if any more comments were added to the video. It was off-line for a while, but someone put it back up. Eli told me I was sick, watching it all the time. He’s probably right, but I can’t help it. It’s like an itch that I need to scratch, even if it draws blood, even if I tear the scab off. Because now it’s out there, that night. Part of my life that I could never account for was finally given back to me. Like a gift, spiked with poison.
I scroll through all the old comments, many suggesting Photoshopping, rape apologists explaining about what the girl might have been wearing or how much alcohol she might have had or how she shouldn’t go to parties anyway and how I would never let my daughter get in that situation, etc., along with the usual bitch-whore-cunt type of stuff. But there is one new comment, at the bottom.
I stop in my tracks, staring at the screen. People jostle by me on the street; someone bumps my shoulder. A car whizzes past me, and I’m still staring. A sick feeling in my stomach boils over into fury.
It wasn’t rape. That cunt was begging for it all night.
—Cary G.
• • •
When I get to my apartment, Eli is already in the kitchen, dumping the ravioli into a strainer. Steam twirls above the pasta hissing in the sink. My brain is racing through all the people I know named Cary, which is no one.
“Yo,” I say.
“Yo back,” he answers, then peers over at me. “What’s wrong? You’re scowling.”
“I’m not scowling.”
“Fine,” he says, putting a loaf of bread on the table. “You’re not scowling. You always look like someone just killed your dog.”
“I don’t have a dog.”
“Not the point,” he says.
I wasn’t going to say anything because he’s so touchy about the revenge thing, but he’s too good at reading me. Always has been. As I am at him. So, as he turns the burner off the sauce, I show him the comment on the screen. His expression sours. “Jesus.” Handing me the phone back, he starts ladling ravioli onto our plates.