by Sandra Block
“Had an idea.” James pulls a small roll of packing tape from his hoodie pocket and heads to the bathroom. “I saw this in a movie once,” he says, removing the toilet lid from the back of the toilet.
“Ooh, like The Godfather.”
“Never saw that one,” he says, taping the bag up against the lid, then replacing it with a soft clink.
“You never saw The Godfather?” I whisper, as we tiptoe back down the stairs. “Leave the gun, take the cannoli? Seriously?”
He shakes his head.
“Wow. I can’t believe that,” I say, as we descend back to the kitchen, where the dog is fully engaged in mastication, the jar stuck on his nose. He still manages to growl, in case we’re thinking of taking it back.
“Aw,” James says. “He actually looks kind of cute.”
“Peanut butter,” I say, “works every time.”
James gives me a look that rightly questions how often I actually do this, when suddenly we hear the garage door. Footsteps. His eyes flash open.
Madly, I glance around the room. “Come on,” I shout-whisper, motioning toward the back of the house. A doorknob is turned, someone whistling. I spy a guest bathroom, and we both tumble in. I softly shut the door. The tiny rectangle of a room has a huge, gold basin sink with a gold-gilded mirror and smells like a lemon exploded. I unlock the window latch.
“What on earth?” a feminine woman’s voice scolds. “Dipsy, did you get into the peanut butter?” It must be Tina Delgado, the fiancée. “Your father,” she goes on, still scolding, “forgets to put on the alarm. Never puts anything away.” Her voice disappears into their pantry.
I keep yanking at the window. “Shit. It’s stuck.” My hands are sweating through the gloves, slipping on the wood.
“Here.” James reaches over me and gives it a massive shove. The window opens but with a loud bang. We stare at each other in endless, utter silence, finally broken by crazed barking.
“Hey,” the woman calls out. “Cary, is that you?” Footsteps march around the kitchen, creaking the floor.
I leap through the window and James tries to follow, but his torso gets stuck, folding him in half like the assistant in a magic show. I grab his shoulder and yank as hard as I can, and he finally grunts and falls onto me as our magic show has turned into a slapstick routine. We race to the car without a word.
In seconds, we are in the car, seat belts on and halfway down the street. James makes a sharp turn. The neck of his T-shirt is dark with sweat, and his scrub hat is askew, like some kind of deranged surgeon.
“Holy fucking shit,” he says.
And out of nowhere, I start giggling. After a sidelong look at me, he starts giggling too. “Dipsy?” he asks incredulously as he races through a yellow light. “Who names a Rottweiler Dipsy?”
“Oh my God,” I gasp through laughter. I put on her scolding, high-pitched voice. “Dipsy, did you get into the peanut butter?”
This sends us into another round of giggling. James wipes his eyes, and I roll around in the seat, laughing so much that my stomach aches.
In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard in my entire life.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Five Years Ago
When I wake up, I am gagging, a disgusting taste in my mouth. I try to open my eyes, but they are crusted shut. For a moment, I have a flash. Fingernails digging into my scalp. The smell of a mattress. I moan, and a hand appears in mine.
“Dahlia?”
My throat is burning. I am being choked, struggling to breathe.
“I think she’s waking up,” someone says. I recognize the voice. My mom? My eyelids are stuck together; I am fighting to open them and manage to see a glimpse between gluey eyelashes. A face is hanging over me. My mom.
“Dahlia?” she repeats in question. I nod and try to say something, but my lips are taped to something.
She grips my hand. “Don’t worry, honey. It’s a tube, to help you breathe. They’ll take it out soon.”
I nod but gag again, my eyes watering. Tears sting the cracked creases on the side of my eyes. My mom is smoothing my forehead, and I try to relax, then hear footsteps thudding over. Kind faces hover over me—nurses. An Indian woman joins them, with a pudgy face and dark eyeliner. “Are you ready, Dahlia? We’re going to take out the tube.”
She is speaking loudly, over the beeps. I love the way she says my name. Drawn out, exotic. Daah-la-ya. I have never loved my name before today. I am nodding, but they are already removing it. I feel my stomach lurching, retching, and then I can breathe.
My mother hugs my entire arm.
“Mom.” It comes out raspy, barely a whisper.
“I’m here, honey.” She rubs my fingers. They feel tingly.
Alive. I am alive. Thank God I am alive.
“Mom,” I repeat, croaking louder.
“Shh…” She combs my hair off my forehead. Her touch, a warm feather.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She shakes her head again. “No, honey. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.” She leans her head against mine, and I can smell her makeup. “It was never your fault.”
My eyes close again, exhaustion hitting me. I feel her hand smoothing my blanket, and I let my guard down, which has been ratcheted up high since the day I woke up in a strange room on a mattress. I let my guard down and allow myself be pulled into her care, her warmth. I don’t need to be sorry anymore. She doesn’t blame me now.
Trying to kill myself was apology enough.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Dahlia
“Did you have a good lunch?” Sylvia asks as I trot back to my desk a couple minutes late. My mouth is still dry from the shock of our escapade.
“Oh, sure.” I sit in the chair, practically collapsing.
“Where’d you go?”
“This little sushi place. James took me.” Rubbing my cheek, I feel the line from the elastic of the scrub hat.
“Huh.” She undoes the ring of a binder with a bang. “You guys getting serious?”
I shrug in answer and log on to the computer. My hands are still trembling, my nerves jittery. As the computer loads, I take a deep breath to slow down the adrenaline coursing through me. But when a text comes, I still jump.
I expect to see James, inquiring whether Snyder called it in yet. He said he’d reach out to one of his friends in the department; we just have to say the word. But I haven’t had a chance to call him yet. It isn’t James though.
Hi. This is Sean Gowers, Daisy’s friend. She said I could get in touch with you.
It takes me a second to remember. The one from the Phoenix Club. Yes, thanks.
Can I call?
I debate. I’m already over on lunch. But I suppose I could take a quick trip to the bathroom. I’ll call you in a minute, I text back. As I walk out of my chair, Sylvia watches with open curiosity. Luckily, the women’s bathroom is empty, and I sit on a surprisingly comfortable sofa chair in the corner. I make the call.
“Hello?”
“Hi. It’s Dahlia.”
“Sean,” he says, then there is a pause. “First of all, I’m sorry about what happened to you.”
“Oh, thanks.” This is followed by an awkward pause. It’s like making small talk at a funeral.
“But anyway,” he says with an air of relief at getting that over with, “unfortunately, I don’t recognize anyone from the video. The one does look a little like Blake Roberts, like Daisy said.”
“Yeah, agreed.” Someone walks in to put on lipstick with a comical fish lip in the mirror, then leaves, her heels clacking like nails. I don’t recognize her. “There are actually only two guys left to identify,” I say. “The one with the reddish hair isn’t in our class, but I think I can find him eventually. But I don’t know about the guy filming. It’s basically a flash of his forehead.�
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“Right, yeah.” There is a sound as if he’s dropped something, then a muffling of the phone. “Sorry about that,” he says. “So, here’s the thing. I didn’t recognize them, but I do know a possible way you could find out.”
The automatic paper towel dispenser goes off against the wall, without anyone there. I jump at the buzzing sound and stand up to be sure. No one. A ghost in the machine. “Okay?”
“I heard rumors about that place. Hawk Club. Daisy might have told you. That’s actually why I left.”
Prickles run along my neck. “What kind of rumors?”
“Well…” This is followed by a long pause. “The gang rape thing…”
I bite back bile rising up. I detest that term. Gang rape. So casual and chummy. Hey, gang. Let’s all go a-raping tonight and ruin some girl’s life!
“That wasn’t just a spontaneous thing,” he continues, “that happened to you. Not that that makes it any better. But they do this thing, every year.”
“What thing?”
“This…gang rape,” he says, sounding uncomfortable. “And they record it, like they did to you. Rumor is that it’s a party they have every year around punch time. They call it the rape party.”
His voice goes tinny. I feel it start. A whirlwind, a vortex. “The rape party?” I squeak out. “Every year?”
“Yeah. They randomly pick someone. Roofie her drink. That year, it just happened to be you.”
A rape party. My body is going loose. I can feel it sucking me in and I remember what James said then. The incantation. In my head, I say the words in my head. Go back from whence you came. Go back from whence you came. Go home. I stand up, and slowly, I feel the pull of the undertow receding.
“You okay?” he asks, and I wonder how much time has elapsed.
“Fine,” I answer. I shake my head to slough off any remaining wooziness.
“Right. Okay. So here’s the thing. This is what I thought could help you.”
“I’m listening.”
“When I was punching, a guy told me about it and where they keep the tapes. In a cigar box somewhere.”
“A cigar box?” I search my memory for any such thing and come up blank. I’ll have to look over the video again, but I didn’t see it. “In the club?”
“I assume so. I didn’t see it. I dropped out as soon as I heard that shit.”
“Uh-huh.” It sounds like he wants a medal for this. For selflessly deciding not to join a club that holds rape parties. “But you didn’t tell anyone,” I note, not letting him off so easy.
“No, I didn’t.” A guilty pause follows this. “I should have. I know that.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, but don’t push it. I’ve made my point.
“But, if you can find that cigar box, or have someone else find it for you, you’ll probably be able to see the whole thing. Not…that you want to or anything…but I’m sure there’s more footage of the guy who was filming. Or maybe in other parties.”
Other parties. The thought makes me want to vomit. “Yeah, maybe.”
After a pause, he says, “I can show the video around a bit more…if you want.”
“No,” I bark out. “You don’t have to.” Someone walks in and smiles at me, then enters a stall. I lower my voice. “I mean, I know it’s out there. I just don’t need to spread it around anymore.”
“All right,” he says.
I hear the toilet paper roller squeaking. “Listen, I’ve got to go,” I say, and we end with a quick and awkward goodbye. As I put the phone in my purse, my knees feel a touch wobbly. I push open the door and walk back down the hallway, in a daze.
Rape party. Pick a girl. Cigar box. Roofie.
Every year. Which means it happened already this year. And will happen next year, and the year after that.
I sit back in my chair at my desk and stare at my computer screen.
Sylvia spins in her chair to look at me. “Everything okay?”
“Sure,” I answer. But it’s not. It’s not okay at all. The Hawk Club is gang-raping a woman every single year.
And I have no idea what to do about that.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Five Years Ago
I’m not in the ICU for long.
As soon as I can breathe on my own, they ship me off to McLean. I might have gone home, but when the psychiatrist came and asked if I would try to kill myself again, I said I doubted it. I have no idea why I said “doubt.” I should have said “hell no,” but she caught me in a contemplative moment, and so now I’m here, at the psych hospital.
Which sucks. But hopefully not for long.
My roommate is nice enough though. She’s bipolar with a possible borderline personality, she told me, and trying to get her meds right. It’s her third suicide attempt, and she’s only twenty-five. Jeri is her name, “with an I.” She’s overweight from her meds and a bit doped up from them, and her wrists are wince-provoking. Angry red slices, puffy and sutured. To be honest, I’m shocked they didn’t do her in.
So, I’m in the psych ward—not exactly what I planned to do when I grew up.
Six months ago, I would have told you I’d be applying to law school. Quinn and Daisy would have told you I’d be applying to law school. Ditto my family. In fact, anyone who had met me for ten seconds would have told you that. In fact, I have a stack of law school flyers on my desk at school. But looking at them filled me with such a despairing sense of ineptitude and exhaustion that I finally threw a sweatshirt over the pile to spare myself the self-loathing at each glance.
I wouldn’t have told you I would be here in the psych ward, that’s for sure.
But there’s nowhere else that it makes sense for me to be right now. The thought of stepping back on campus gives me hives. Going back home would be admitting failure. And I must admit, it’s simple here. No one expects much. There’s a routine. Breakfast, then group. Lunch, then group. Then dinner, and sometimes group. They’re big on group. And groups are easy too. Sometimes we draw or have “social time.” It’s all intentionally low key. A landing pad to hopefully regain your strength before attempting another launch.
After lunch (steamed vegetables, which is all they seem to think vegetarians eat), Jeri and I mosey over to group. When I say mosey, I mean mosey. Everyone moseys here. There is no hurry to get anywhere. We take up chairs in a circle. I sit next to Jeri as usual. Everyone murmurs reluctant greetings to each other, barely making eye contact. There are no cheerful people here, which is refreshing at least. No one with a perky hair band and perfect mascara and a smile that hurts to return.
Today, a new kid sits next to me. He looks about my age, and he is beautiful. I would never have described a man as beautiful before, but he is. Jeri shoots me a look, an eyebrow raise with a smile, which could be sarcastic or not. The new kid has blond hair, which slopes over his eyes, and you can tell he’s buff, even in hospital clothes. He is half-slumped in his chair, looking at the floor.
“So, what brings you into this fine establishment?” I ask. The question sounds painfully dorky, even to me.
He attempts a smile. “Just passing by. You?”
“Same.”
“Eli,” he says, reaching out to shake hands.
“Dahlia,” I answer. As he looks up at me, I notice his eyes, which are a peculiar shade of light, bright blue. Like a pool.
And they are filled with immeasurable sadness.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dahlia
Did Snyder call in tip? James texts me the next day.
Early this AM, I text back. No word back yet.
We waited to ask Snyder to call in a tip to his narco buddies until today, after we had planted more fake evidence. James sent another text from a burner phone last night. And we sent a couple more this morning from different phones. This time, we came up with the content together.
>
Ready to pick up, usual place?
Friend told me you could get me some blow. Text me.
Big G, awesome shit. Can I get two more oz? Hit me back.
They still sounded like a script for a bad crime sitcom, but I figure the police have arrested folks on less. And just to add fuel to the fire, James dropped off a few “Big G” bags to Natasha yesterday, while pretending to be giving her money for panhandling. She was going to trade the coke to her dealer for her own poison, simultaneously getting the “Big G” name out there. If he does make it to prison, we reasoned it couldn’t hurt to have some dealers pissed off at him from the get-go for infringing on their turf.
So we have Cary G all tied up and ready to go like a pig on a spit, awaiting Step Three. But I still haven’t figured out what to do about the cigar box.
“You doing anything this weekend?” Sylvia asks, rapidly touch-typing.
“Huh?” I turn to face her. I didn’t even process the question.
“This weekend, you doing anything?”
I pause. “It’s only Wednesday.”
“Yeah, but…I like to plan.” She takes out a stamper and starts thumping on papers, the rubbery smell filling our cubicle. “Beau and I are going to Newport.”
“Oh, cool.”
“Checking out the mansions.”
“Cool,” I say again and check my email for any work stuff but find nothing. Just something from Shoshana titled “Interesting?” It appears to be an ad for a prelaw summer program at Stanford for “nontraditional” (read: older, hit-some-bumps-along-the-way) applicants. Sounds interesting, in fact, but the price tag is exorbitant. With a sigh, I minimize the email.
Quitting time is still ten minutes away. I’m done with all my work, so I examine my screen again, which features a blown-up picture of the bill of the baseball cap.
Sylvia powers down her computer and starts gathering her things. “What’s that?” she asks, catching a glimpse of my screen.
“Oh, it’s for a case,” I say, acting nonchalant.
She leans in closer for a better look. “It’s a signature?”