Choose Me

by Tess Gerritsen

  He clicked onto the Boston Globe site and typed her name into the search box. A short article appeared.

  Boston police are investigating the death of a Commonwealth University student who was found dead in Boston early Saturday morning. The body of Taryn E. Moore, age 22, of Hobart, Maine, was discovered lying on the sidewalk outside her apartment building at 325 Ashford Street. Police believe she died after a fall from an upper-level balcony.

  Taryn’s apartment was on the fifth floor.

  He tried not to think about the damage that a fall from that height onto concrete could do to a body. That body, once so warm and alive as it had writhed under his own, was now cold and lifeless flesh.

  Thank God Maggie had already left for work, so he could sit and process this information while alone. He’d woken up an hour ago with his head still thick from an Ativan fog, dreading the day to come. The consequences of his actions were fast closing in on him, and he’d felt certain this was the day that life as he knew it would be over.

  But this news changed everything.

  He clicked onto other online news sites but could find no other mention of her death. On Facebook, however, he found a photograph of Taryn wearing a brilliant smile, accompanied by the caption: My heart is broken. It was posted by Cody Atwood. Jack stared at the image, torn between gnawing guilt and a perverse sense of relief. And sadness; how could he not feel sad about the loss of a young and vibrant life? Yet he couldn’t deny that he had hoped for some sort of divine intervention, and this was exactly what had been delivered.

  No one could argue that jumping off a balcony wasn’t her decision and hers alone. As horrible as that was, Jack could not be held responsible, even if their affair was what had made her do it.

  An affair that no one would ever have to know about.

  He drove to school in a daze, wishing he did not have to face his seminar students today, but this was the final week of the semester, and he had no good excuse to cancel class. The president’s email had gone out to the entire university, so by now, Jack’s students would know about Taryn’s death. He would have to address the issue and allow them to express their grief. Even though she was not the most popular member of the seminar, she was their classmate, and for him to ignore her passing would be insensitive.

  It would also make them wonder.

  When he walked into the classroom, he expected to see somber faces. Instead, his students seemed no different than on any other day. There was Jason, slouched in his chair and staring at his smartphone as usual. There was Beth, laptop open, ready to take notes. There were Jessica and Caitlin, heads once again bent together in conspiratorial whispers.

  But Cody was absent. The two chairs where Cody and Taryn had sat much of the semester were now a gaping hole, glaring at Jack from the end of the table.

  He tried not to look at the vacant chairs and instead focused on the thirteen students who were there. “I assume you’ve all heard the news by now. About Taryn,” he said.

  There were nods all around the table. And finally, a few appropriately solemn expressions.

  Beth said, “It’s so hard to understand why she did it. It seemed like she had it all.”

  “No one ever has it all, Beth,” Jack said gently.

  “But she was so smart. And pretty.” Beth looked at the empty chairs and shook her head. “God, this has got to be horrible for Cody.”

  “Has anyone seen him? Spoken to him?” Jack asked.

  Shrugs all around the table.

  “Didn’t know him all that well,” admitted Jason.

  Of course he didn’t, because he’d never wanted to. That was the nature of popularity; everyone avoided the homely kid, lest their stain rub off on them. But Taryn, to her credit, had not.

  “Do you know why she killed herself, Professor?” asked Jessica.

  Jack stiffened at the question. “Why would I?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought you might.”

  He stared at her, wondering what was behind the question. What did she know? What game was she playing? Thirteen pairs of eyes watched him, waiting for his answer.

  Or maybe for his confession.

  “I have no idea why she did it, Jessica,” he finally said. “And I don’t think anyone ever will.”

  CHAPTER 37

  FRANKIE

  Although she graduated from college three decades earlier, Frankie still feels a freshman’s twinge of anxiety, sitting across the desk from a university professor. Jack Dorian’s bookcase is crammed with intimidatingly fat textbooks, some of which bear his name as the author. On the desk is a stack of student papers, the top one bearing an ugly C-minus. Frankie can imagine what it’s like for a student to sit in this chair and face the man with the power to flunk them—or help launch their career.

  But today, the balance of power is tilted toward Frankie’s side of the desk. Though he may not realize it, Jack Dorian is the one with everything to lose.

  At the moment, Dorian appears unruffled, his hands relaxed on the desktop, his attention focused on Mac. Male subjects always assume their most formidable opponent is another man, and too often they regard Frankie as merely an appendage, scarcely worth a glance. There are advantages to being overlooked; it gives Frankie the chance to observe without being noticed, to focus on body language and nonverbal cues. She notes that Dorian is still lean and fit at forty-one, that the hair at his temples is just beginning to show flattering glints of silver. He is certainly attractive enough to deserve the four chili peppers he’s been awarded on RateMyProfessors.com.

  “Taryn’s death is a loss not just to her friends and family but also to the academic community,” says Dorian. “She was a brilliant student and an exceptionally gifted writer. I can show you the most recent paper she wrote for my class. You’ll see for yourself how promising she was. We were all shocked when we heard about her suicide.”

  He does not yet know this is now a homicide investigation, and that is to their advantage. They don’t want to rattle him. They want him relaxed and talkative, and Mac is wearing his most congenial smile.

  “You said you were Taryn’s faculty adviser,” says Mac. It’s an easy question, nonconfrontational. Nothing to alarm him.

  “Yes. I was advising her on her senior project.”

  “What sort of project?”

  “She was writing a paper about how women are viewed in classical literature.”

  “Would that be, um . . .” Mac glances at his notes. “‘Hell Hath No Fury: Violence and the Scorned Woman’?”

  Dorian blinks in surprise. “Why, yes, as a matter of fact. How did you know?”

  “We saw a draft of the paper in her apartment.”

  “I see.”

  “How well did you know her? As her senior faculty adviser and all.”

  There is a three-second pause before Dorian answers. “I get to know all the students I advise. Taryn dreamed of a career in academia but she started off at a disadvantage. I know she was anxious to rise above that.”

  “What sort of disadvantage?”

  “Her father abandoned the family when Taryn was just a child. She was raised by a single mom, and I gathered it was something of a struggle to pay the bills.”

  “Have you spoken to her mother?”

  Dorian winces. “I know I should call her. But it’s, well, a painful conversation. I don’t know what I can say to make it easier for her.”

  “Taryn’s mother is desperate to find out why her daughter killed herself, and we don’t have any answers. Do you?”

  Dorian shifts in his chair, and the squeak of leather seems startlingly loud. “I’m not sure I do.”

  “You deal with kids her age as part of your job, so you must have some insight into how their minds work. She was a pretty girl, and she was looking forward to starting grad school. She had her whole life ahead of her. So what went wrong?”

  Dorian’s gaze drifts toward the window, where the wintry light casts his face in a chilly shade of gray. “Who know
s what goes on in the heads of kids her age? I’ve worked with enough of them to know they’re on emotional roller coasters. One minute they’re deliriously happy, and the next, their whole life’s a catastrophe.”

  “Why would she take her life?” asks Mac.

  “That’s a question for a psychiatrist, not an English professor.”

  “Even a professor who knew her well?”

  Again a pause, but this one is longer. Frankie sees the muscles of his face twitch, and the fingers of his left hand are suddenly pressed flat against the desktop. “I have no idea why she did it.”

  Frankie at last enters the conversation. “Did she ever mention her boyfriend?”

  He frowns, as if suddenly aware of her presence. “The boy from Maine? Is that who you mean?”

  “So you’ve heard about him.”

  “Yes. His name was Liam something.”

  “Liam Reilly. Taryn’s mother said he dated her all through high school.”

  “He could certainly be the reason for her suicide, then. When they broke up, she was distraught about it.”

  “You didn’t think that detail was worth mentioning?”

  “You’ve just reminded me about it.”

  “Tell us about this breakup.”

  He shrugs. “For a week, she didn’t show up for class. Then she came to my office and told me she wanted to apply to grad school. I think it was to prove to herself, and to him, that she was worthwhile.”

  “Did she seem suicidal at the time?”

  “No, just . . . determined.”

  “Did she mention having any other boyfriends? Anyone new she was seeing?”

  Dorian’s gaze veers back to the window. “I don’t recall her saying anything like that.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I was her academic adviser, not her therapist. Maybe her mother can answer that question.”

  “She can’t. But parents are often the last to know.”

  Mac says: “Do you know anyone who might have hurt Taryn?”

  Dorian’s gaze snaps back to Mac, and Frankie catches the flash of alarm in his eyes. “Hurt her? I thought it was a suicide.”

  “We’re exploring all possibilities. That’s why we’re here, to be certain we don’t overlook anything.”

  Dorian swallows. “Of course. I wish I could help you, but that’s all I know. If I think of anything, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Then that should do it.” Mac closes his notepad and smiles. That smile is not benign; it is more like a glimpse of a shark’s jaws about to clamp down.

  And Frankie is the jaws.

  Dorian is already rising to his feet when she asks him: “Are you acquainted with a student named Cody Atwood?”

  Slowly Dorian settles back in his chair. “Yes. From my seminar.”

  “Which seminar?”

  “Star-Crossed Lovers. About tragic love stories from mythology and classical literature.”

  “Was Taryn Moore also in that seminar?”

  “She was. Why are you asking about Cody?”

  “Because he’s been talking a lot about Taryn. And about you, Professor.”

  Dorian says nothing. He doesn’t need to; his pallor tells Frankie what she needs to know.

  “Cody said that Taryn had a very big crush on you.”

  “It’s possible,” he admits.

  “Were you aware of it?”

  “She may have, um, flirted with me. That’s not unusual for female students.”

  “Is it also not unusual for you and a female student to travel out of town together?”

  He stiffens. “You’re talking about Amherst? The Annual Conference on Comparative Literature?”

  “Where you stayed in the same hotel.”

  “It was the official conference hotel. Most of the attendees stayed there.”

  His attention has shifted from Mac and is now fully riveted on Frankie. Only now does it dawn on him who is really in charge. Yes, Professor, I’ve been here the whole time, watching. Observing. But you didn’t pay attention to this middle-aged gal in the size-fourteen blue pantsuit.

  “Cody Atwood was so concerned about you and Taryn that he called the university’s Title Nine office to complain,” says Frankie.

  “I was cleared of any accusations.”

  “Yes, we spoke to Dr. Sacco. She said you denied it.”

  “That’s right. That should have been the end of it.”

  “Still, we have to ask. Is there anything you haven’t told us about your relationship with Taryn?”

  Four beats of silence pass. He straightens and looks Frankie in the eye. “I don’t have anything else to tell you.”

  She stands to leave, but at the door she stops. “I almost forgot to ask. Did Taryn ever mention losing her cell phone?”

  “Her cell phone? No. Why?”

  “We searched her apartment, but we haven’t found it. It seems to have disappeared.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I have no idea where it might be.”

  “Oh. One final question.”

  She sees the flash of irritation in his eyes. He is so anxious to get them out of his office that he barely manages a tight smile. “Certainly.”

  “Where were you Friday night?”

  “Friday? You mean . . .”

  “The night Taryn died.”

  “You’re asking me? Seriously?”

  “It’s just a routine question. We’re asking everyone who knew her.”

  “I was home all night,” he says. “With my wife.”

  Frankie and Mac sit in her parked car, sleet ticking their windshield, and watch a leggy young woman in a miniskirt walk by, hugging herself in the cold.

  “What the hell’s wrong with girls these days?” Mac says. “Look at that getup she’s wearing. Gonna get frostbite up in her you-know-where.”

  Frankie thinks of her own twins and their sometimes-reckless choices of wardrobe. The see-through blouses, the minidresses on subzero nights, the skirts with thigh-high slits. How do parents protect them, she wonders, when kids are biologically programmed to take risks? Stay alive, stay safe is every mother’s prayer, the same prayer that runs through her own head late at night whenever her twins are out on the town. Stay alive, stay safe.

  A prayer that failed Taryn Moore’s mother.

  “So what do you think about the professor?” Mac asks.

  “He’s hiding something.”

  “No shit.”

  “Maybe murder. Or maybe just an affair.”

  “She was an adult. Even if he was boinking her, it’s not a crime.”

  “But it is a motive. An affair with a student would wreck his career, not to mention his marriage.” She looks at Mac. “You get a look at his wife’s photo on the desk? She’s a good-looking woman, but a hot young student’s got to be a temptation.”

  “Okay, so he’s got a motive. But that’s a long way from proving he killed her.”

  Frankie starts the car. “We’re just getting started.”

  CHAPTER 38

  JACK

  Is there anything you haven’t told us about your relationship with Taryn?

  As he lay in bed, Loomis’s words were on a Möbius strip, continuously running through Jack’s brain. The only other time he’d been interrogated by the police was when he was twelve years old and had shoplifted a cheap bracelet at the mall for a Mother’s Day gift. After a stern warning, the police officer had let him go. He had been terrified by the encounter and had never again shoplifted.

  He was three decades older now and still every bit as terrified by the police.

  Thanks to Cody Atwood, they knew Taryn was in love with him. They knew about the Amherst conference. It wasn’t so much the questions they’d asked that rattled him as the damning blankness of their expressions. He’d seen Charlie wear that same look, an unforgiving poker-player’s face that could make any suspect squirm. A dead-eyed stare that seemed to cut straight to your soul. With her intimidating stare, Detective Loo
mis had telegraphed that same authority.

  Is there anything you haven’t told us about your relationship with Taryn?

  Loomis had said they were “exploring all possibilities,” and one of those possibilities was murder. That was why they were in his office. They were there to scare him into confessing to a crime he’d never committed.

  Or had he?

  That terrible possibility struck him as he lay in bed. What if he had done it? The night Taryn had died, he’d gulped down wine and chased it with Ativan to help him sleep. Ever since the Christmas when that same combination had caused him to take a midnight drive that he’d never remembered, he had avoided mixing the two. But that night, after Taryn had texted him she was pregnant, he’d been desperate for sleep. Had he taken another late-night drive without remembering it? Was he, deep in some reptilian part of his brain, capable of murder?

  As soon as Maggie went downstairs to make coffee the next morning, he grabbed his iPad from the nightstand. Quickly he scanned local sites for any updates on the investigation.

  The headlines still covered Taryn’s death as a probable suicide, buttressing the story with articles about the growing number of young people who killed themselves and how one in five college students was so stressed out that they considered ending their life. One piece listed the possible causes: academic pressures, physical and mental health problems, failed relationships, loneliness.

  They’d neglected to include one more cause: impregnated and abandoned by one’s professor.

  He was relieved to read that Taryn’s phone had not been located, but it was only a matter of time before the police subpoenaed her mobile carrier and gained access to her text messages—and his.

  He glanced at the night table, where the bottle of Ativan was still sitting. How many had he taken that night? He couldn’t remember.

  He googled Ativan and clicked on a drug-advice website.

  Ativan (lorazepam) is an antianxiety agent (benzodiazepines, tranquilizer) used for the relief of anxiety, agitation and irritability, and insomnia and to calm people with mania, schizophrenia, obsessive-compulsive disorder . . .