I remembered hearing about the stolen exam. I had questioned it. Jake had always been a straight-A student. Confident and smart. So unlike the portrait of the person conjured up in that suicide letter. I had known something was off, something wasn’t right. But then my mother had told me to stop asking questions, to stop picking things apart so that everyone could start to heal.
“It wasn’t until later—when the autopsy report came out—that we discovered Jake didn’t die of an overdose,” Margot said. “He drowned. Turns out, he was still breathing when we threw him in.”
They had killed Jake and then they had turned him into something he wasn’t.
“But if Jake had Percocet in his system when he died, wouldn’t that have shown up on the autopsy?” I asked.
“It did,” Margot said. “They found evidence of alcohol, acetaminophen and oxycodone in Jake’s system when they ran the tox screen. They’re listed in the autopsy. But that’s not unusual for suicide cases. I’m sure Jake’s family was made aware of the results, but I can understand why they might not have shared that particular detail with many people.”
I exhaled the breath that I had been holding. “Why did you tell me all of this?” I asked Margot.
Margot shrugged. “Because I knew it would kill you to know,” she said. “And I’m really going to enjoy watching you rip your marriage apart over this.”
“My marriage?”
Margot took a sip of wine and gave me a cruel smile. “Just imagine it. Every time you look at your husband—for every day of the rest of your life—every time you kiss him, or pour him a glass of wine, or laugh at one of his jokes, or make love to him, you’ll know he’s the person who’s responsible for Jake’s death. If it weren’t for Alistair, Jake would still be here. In fact, if it weren’t for Alistair, who knows? You and Jake would probably be married right now, and settled in the suburbs with a house full of little brats. It’s kind of funny if you think about it, you ending up with the guy who stole Jake’s life.”
“You’re going to pay for what you’ve done,” I said. “All of you—all of you are going to pay.”
There had to be consequences. I would make sure of it.
“What we did?” Margot asked. “Don’t you mean, what Alistair did?”
“You were all there,” I said. “You could have done something. You could have stopped him. You’re just as guilty.”
Margot looked at me like she almost felt sorry for me. She wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin in a precise gesture so that it didn’t smear her lipstick. “Oh, honey, don’t be so clueless,” she said. “What evidence do you have to bring any sort of case?” She gestured at the photographs on the table. “A couple of paltry pictures that put us at the place of Jake’s death on the night he killed himself? Those don’t prove anything. Short of a confession, which none of us are going to give you, you don’t have a leg to stand on here. We’re not seventeen-year-old kids, scared of getting expelled for being out late and doing drugs on a school night. Like it or not, this all ended a long time ago.”
I reached for the photographs and tucked them into my purse. She was wrong. She had to be wrong. They couldn’t just kill Jake and completely rewrite his story and then walk away with no consequences. This was murder we were talking about. Murder.
I slung my purse determinedly over my shoulder and stood.
“We’ll see about that,” I said, and walked out as fast as my shaky legs could carry me, nearly knocking over the waiter and our entrees in the process.
Thirty-One
Charlie Calloway
2017
It had been three days since Drew had been expelled. I couldn’t stand being in my room anymore—not with Drew’s bare mattress and her empty closet and the naked hook on the door where she used to hang her bath towel. I also avoided the dining hall, where I would have to see Stevie and her judgmental glare, or Dalton and Crosby, who looked nearly as glum as I felt. So, I went to class and then the library until it closed and I ate cereal and whatever sustenance my mini fridge could provide and avoided everything else altogether.
I had just come back from the library that evening and unlocked my door. When I flipped on the switch, I jumped.
Because Drew’s mattress wasn’t empty anymore. There was someone sleeping there.
“What the fuck?” I said, putting my hand on my chest. I could feel my heart pounding in my rib cage.
Greyson threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the light and blinked at me. “Hello to you too,” he said.
I came in and closed the door quickly behind me. “Jeez, you scared me,” I said, dropping my bag on my bed. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” Greyson said, sitting up. “I was worried after I got your text, and you haven’t really been responding to my calls.”
“No, I mean, what are you doing here in my room?” I asked. “Like, how’d you get in?”
“I was asking around for you on the quad and I met this girl—Hayley? Harmony?”
“Harper?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s it. I told her I was a friend from home and that I wanted to surprise you and so she snuck me into the dormitory hall and showed me which room was yours.”
Hmm. That was oddly nice of her. I couldn’t help but think she had some hidden, evil agenda, though what that could possibly be, I didn’t know. Maybe I was just being paranoid.
“Then I just jimmied the lock,” Greyson said. “What? Like it’s supposed to be hard?”
“Okay, MacGyver,” I said.
“If you don’t want me here, I can leave,” Greyson said.
“I didn’t say that,” I said. Because it was nice that he was there, and I really didn’t want him to go. “Sorry about not returning your calls. I’ve just . . . been in a mood. I haven’t really felt like talking to people.”
“I understand,” Greyson said.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“I’m a guy,” Greyson said. “We’re always hungry.”
I went over to my mini fridge and pulled out bagels, a jar of pizza sauce, and a bag of mozzarella cheese.
“Tonight, we feast,” I said.
Greyson and I sat on the floor of my dorm room, the spoils of our dinner spread out around us—plates smeared with pizza sauce, a half-empty bag of pretzels, four empty soda cans, and an empty carton of cookie dough ice cream.
“How’re Claire and the boys?” I asked, leaning back against my bed. I was so full I felt like I might throw up.
“They’re . . . good,” Greyson said.
“What’s with the pause?” I asked.
“I didn’t pause,” he said.
“You did,” I said. “Come on. You can tell me. I just made you listen to everything that’s going wrong in my life. The least I can do is return the favor.”
Greyson sighed. “It’s just . . . okay, so I haven’t really talked about it with anyone,” he said. “My mom’s been sick.”
“Like the flu?” I asked.
“No,” Greyson said. “Like sick sick. Cancer. She got the diagnosis a few years ago. And she’s in remission now, but it’s just been really tough on her and the boys.”
“Is that why you moved home?” I asked. “To help out?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Well, I feel like an asshole, then,” I said. I cringed when I thought about the comments I had made about Greyson’s being a man-child, freeloading off Claire by living at home.
Greyson laughed. “No, you’re not.”
It made sense then, the strange comment Claire had made to me when we were in her kitchen, how it was good for Greyson to get out of the house, have some fun.
There was a knock at my door.
“Shit,” I said. “That’s probably Ms. Stanfeld. It’s almost curfew.”
I stood and picked up Greyson’s gym bag and handed it to him.
“Get in Drew’s closet—quick,” I said.
He scurried to hide and I opened the door.<
br />
But it wasn’t Ms. Stanfeld. It was Dalton.
“Hey, Charlie,” he said.
“Um, hi,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“I just came by to see if you were okay,” he said, but something about him seemed off somehow—the way he buried his hands in his front pockets, the way he squared his shoulders. He seemed tense. “You missed dinner.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I just didn’t really feel like being around a bunch of people right now.”
As I talked, Dalton’s gaze slid behind me, to the plates and food scattered across my floor. And then to something else. I turned and saw Greyson standing there.
“So it’s true,” Dalton said. His voice was suddenly steely, his eyes guarded as he appraised Greyson.
“What’s true?” I asked.
“Harper mentioned she ran into some guy who was looking for you, asking to be let into your room.”
Of course she did.
“This is my friend Greyson,” I said, taking a step back and opening my door wider. “From back home. He’s an old family friend.”
Yes, that was good, knock him over the head with the word “friend.”
Greyson nodded at Dalton, but he looked different too, taller somehow. Tougher.
“Hi,” Greyson said.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to your little party then,” Dalton said. “Or whatever it was that you were doing.”
“Dalton,” I said, because I didn’t want him to think what he was obviously thinking. “It’s not like that. We were just—”
“Cool,” Dalton said, cutting me off. “It’s fine.”
He turned and started off down the hallway, and I was about to follow him, to explain, but I saw Ms. Stanfeld two doors down, making the rounds. So I let him go.
The next afternoon, I loitered in the corridor outside the dining hall after lunch. I was waiting for Dalton; I wanted to explain about Greyson and the other night. I could tell he had gotten the wrong idea about the whole thing. He obviously thought Greyson was more than a friend. I had to set him straight.
“Charlie.”
I heard someone call my name and I turned around. It was Stevie; she had her backpack slung over her shoulder and an armful of books.
“I haven’t really seen you around the past couple of days,” she said guardedly. Some of the ice had thawed in her voice since the last time we had spoken.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve been busy.” Busy avoiding you and everyone else.
Stevie shrugged. “Well, I was just going to grab a bite to eat. Yael’s in there already. You should join us.”
It was a peace offering and it softened me a little. Drew had been the glue that held our group together, but just because she wasn’t here anymore didn’t mean that I should just let my relationship with Stevie and Yael dissolve. Did it?
“Thanks,” I said. “I, um, already ate, but maybe another time?”
“Sure,” Stevie said. “Hey, if you’re not doing anything tonight, maybe you could come by the dining hall later? The student council is working on the Trustee Benefit Gala, and we could use an extra pair of hands.”
“The Trustee Benefit Gala?” I asked. “I thought that wasn’t until December.”
Knollwood held the Trustee Benefit Gala at the end of the fall semester every year in the banquet hall across campus. It was a fancy black-tie dinner at five hundred dollars a plate that filled the scholarship fund for the upcoming year. My father always bought tickets for me and my friends so we could sit together, and he’d give us each a grand to bid on things in the silent auction. Last year, Drew and I had pooled our funds and gotten a high-end espresso machine for our dorm room. Stevie had bought a private lesson with the concertmaster of the New York Philharmonic; Yael had gotten a pair of Tiffany diamond stud earrings.
“Yeah, but there’s a lot of planning to do,” Stevie said. “I could really use your help.”
Just then, the door to the dining hall opened, and I saw Dalton come out with some of his friends.
“Okay, maybe,” I said quickly to Stevie, even though organizing sanctioned school events was totally not my thing. “I gotta go, but I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”
I didn’t wait for her to respond. I was already halfway down the corridor, running after Dalton.
“Dalton, wait up,” I called. For a moment, I thought maybe he wouldn’t stop, but he did. He turned around reluctantly, and I could tell by the way his shoulders slumped forward and he kept his hands in his pockets that he was already annoyed with me.
“Yes?” he asked, an indifferent glaze in his eyes.
“Can we talk, please?” I asked. “It will just take a moment.”
I could feel his friends looking at me. Marcus Lansbury and Zachery Fitzpatrick and Leo.
“Ooooh, trouble in paradise,” Zachery singsonged.
“Come on, guys, let’s give them some space,” Leo said, tugging on Zachery’s arm.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Dalton said. “You guys can stay.”
I sighed. Did we really have to do this with an audience?
“What’s up, Calloway?” Dalton asked. His voice was cold and empty.
“I wanted to explain,” I said.
“Explain what?”
“Greyson,” I said. I looked at Leo and his friends standing there and then looked away. Just pretend they’re not there, I told myself.
“Who?” Dalton asked.
It took all that was in me not to roll my eyes. Was Dalton really doing this? I was trying to explain, to set things right. Why wouldn’t he let me?
“Can you just hear me out, please?” I asked. “It wasn’t what it looked like, the other night. Greyson is an old family friend—”
Dalton put his hands in his pockets and laughed. “Look, Calloway,” he said. “I don’t give two fucks what you do with your friends.”
“Okay,” I said, taken aback. “Okay, fine.”
Dalton shrugged. “I’m just tired of playing,” he said. “That’s all.”
“What do you mean, you’re tired of playing?” I asked.
“Nothing, okay?” Dalton said after a moment, as if he had thought better of what he’d just said. “I didn’t mean anything.”
I looked at Leo. Panic flickered in his eyes as the cold, nauseating realization hit me. Dalton had been playing. The whole time, when I thought he liked me, he had just been playing a stupid game.
“You put me on your fucking board game?” I asked Leo.
Me. Leo had put me on his sick Board of Conquests. He had put me on there knowing that I would become some target for his friends to mess with.
Suddenly, I remembered that evening in my room when Leo had asked me about Dalton. He had warned me about getting involved with him. At the time, I had taken it as genuine concern for my well-being, but now, I saw what it really was. Leo hadn’t been looking out for me—he had been looking out for himself. He knew that Dalton was just with me so that he could check off a box on his board, and Leo didn’t want him to win.
“Charlie—” Leo said.
“What base was I?” I asked.
“I didn’t—”
“What base was I?” I shouted.
I could feel people staring. I didn’t care.
“Fourth,” Zachery said. He had a cruel smile on his face, like he was delivering the punch line to a dirty joke. “You were fourth base.”
I looked at Leo. His jaw was set in a hard line, like he was waging some sort of battle inside himself, and he wasn’t sure yet which side should win.
I didn’t say anything. I pushed open the French doors to the patio, and I ran.
I didn’t go back to my room. Instead, I got in my car and drove down to the Ledge.
I sat by myself on the edge as daylight faded around me and looked down into the black waters of the ravine running a hundred feet below. I took out my phone and dialed Drew, but it rang and rang and she didn’t answer. I knew that her parents had probably taken a
way her phone privileges, but I was desperate. I needed to talk to her. When I got her voice mail for the third time in a row, I hung up and stared down at the ravine.
I hadn’t meant to do it, I hadn’t meant to let them in, but somehow I had. Dalton and Leo and Drew and Stevie and Grandma Fairchild and Uncle Hank and my mother, all over again. I had let them in—I had made the mistake of caring, of trusting, and now, in one way or another, they had all abandoned me, screwed me over.
For a moment, I closed my eyes and pictured the bottom of the ravine and wondered what it would be like to just let go of it all, to jump.
Thirty-Two
Alistair Calloway
July 2007
My eyes traced my wife’s profile in the photograph. That was her. Grace. Sitting at a booth in a greasy diner off the interstate between Hillsborough and Hartford. Hal’s Diner. I had never heard of it, never been there. It wasn’t the type of place I would ever take Grace and the girls, wasn’t the type of place locals patronized. It was a dive diner frequented by truckers looking for a warm meal at two in the morning or drunks trying to sober up after the bars closed down. And apparently, a place frequented by adulterous housewives looking to have secret rendezvous with their lovers.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
The man across from Grace in the booth was average-looking. The photo had been taken from across the parking lot with a telephoto lens, so I could see the man my wife was fucking in exquisite detail. He was in his early thirties, and he wore a cheap-looking department store suit that was too long in the sleeves. His hair was starting to thin at the temples. If I had seen him on the street, he wouldn’t have inspired a second look. He was exactly the type of man I wouldn’t have hesitated to leave my wife alone with. But here he was, in a booth in a dark diner off the interstate with my wife, holding her hand.
“Peter Hindsberg,” Mr. Lynch said.
“Peter Hindsberg,” I repeated, racking my mind for any recollection his name might stir, and finding none. I had never heard of him.
For weeks now, Grace had been acting odd. Cold. Withdrawn. Unaffectionate. One night after dinner as she was washing the dishes in the sink, I came up behind her and put my hands in her back pockets, kissed her neck, and she flinched. She actually flinched. She turned her neck, drew away, like my touch had offended her.
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