The Jodi Picoult Collection

by Jodi Picoult

  “Yes, I have. Gillian’s been at Exeter . . . but Amos and I would much prefer it if she were at a school a little closer to Salem Falls.”

  “Amos,” the headmaster repeated, feigning surprise. “As in Amos Duncan of Duncan Pharmaceuticals?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Thayer smiled more broadly. “I’m certain that we’d be able to squeeze her in, with a little ingenuity. After all, we wouldn’t want to turn away a girl who would be a real asset to Westonbrook.”

  More like you’re considering all her daddy’s assets and what they could endow. “We’re very interested in your school, Dr. Thayer, but we’ve heard some disturbing . . . information. I was hoping you might be able to clear things up for me.”

  “Anything I can do,” Thayer said solemnly.

  Addie looked him straight in the eye. “Is it true that one of the faculty here was convicted for sexual assault?”

  She watched heat creep up the headmaster’s cheeks like mercury in a thermometer. “I assure you, Mrs. Duncan, our faculty is an elite corps of the finest teachers.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Addie said coolly.

  “It was a very unfortunate situation,” Thayer explained. “A consensual relationship between an underage student and a faculty member. Neither one of them is affiliated with Westonbrook anymore.”

  Addie’s heart fell. She had been hoping Thayer would say that it had never happened at all. And here, close enough to touch, were the words that proved Jack had lived here, done something, been convicted.

  Then again, statutory rape was different from forcible rape. Falling for a girl half his age wasn’t the same crime as assaulting one by force. Addie could understand neither . . . but this one, she could possibly forgive.

  “What happened, exactly?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say—protecting a minor and all that. I assure you that the school has taken measures to ensure that this will never happen again,” the headmaster continued.

  “Oh? Are all your teachers now younger than sixteen? Or are your students older?”

  The minute she said the words, she wished them back. She gathered her coat and her dignity and stood quickly. “I think, Dr. Thayer, that Amos and I will have to discuss this further,” she said stiffly, and left before she could make any more mistakes.

  “So when you move the variable to this side, dividing it,” Thomas explained, “it’s like you’re pulling a rug out from under its feet . . . and it disappears on this side of the equals sign.”

  Chelsea was so close to him that he was amazed he could even explain basic algebra to her. The scent of her shampoo—apples, and a little bit of mint—was enough to make his head swim. And God, the way she leaned down over his notebook to see what he’d written . . . her hair brushed back and forth over the metal rings, and all Thomas could think about was what it would feel like to have those curls sweeping over his skin.

  Thomas took a deep breath and put an extra few inches between them. It didn’t help that they were sitting on Chelsea’s bed—her bed, for Christ’s sake!—where every night she slept in something pink and flimsy that he’d seen peeking out from beneath one of her pillows.

  When he shifted away, Chelsea smiled up at him. “I’m starting to get the hang of this.” She moved in the direction he had, erasing the buffer zone he’d so carefully put between them. Then, scrawling a few more lines with a pencil, she grinned triumphantly. “A=5B + 1/4C. Right?”

  Thomas nodded, and when Chelsea whooped with delight, he scooted backward again. She’d invited him here to teach her math, not to attack her. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to ignore how amazingly gorgeous she was when she smiled, and he put another foot between them for good measure. His hand slid beneath her blankets and bumped into something hard, dislodging it from beneath the comforter.

  “What’s that?” he asked, at the same time Chelsea jumped on the black-and-white composition notebook.

  “Nothing.” She tucked it under her leg.

  “If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be so freaked out.”

  Chelsea chewed on her lower lip. “It’s a diary, all right?”

  Thomas wouldn’t have read it if it was private, but that didn’t keep him from wondering whether the reason Chelsea didn’t want him to see it was because, holy God, there might even be an entry in there about him. He looked at the salt-and-pepper cover, peeking out from under her thigh. “Book of . . .” he read.

  Suddenly Chelsea was in his arms, pressing him back on pillows that released her scent and surrounded him, the most wonderful web. “What’s the going rate for a math tutor these days?” she whispered.

  Pinch me, Thomas thought, because I have to be dreaming. “A kiss,” he heard himself say, “and we can call it even.”

  And then her mouth moved over his. She drew back for a moment, surprise in her eyes, as if she never expected to quite find herself here, either . . . and was astonished to realize it was this good a fit. More slowly this time, their heads dipped together. And Thomas was so stunned by the soft weight of the goddess on top of him, by the sugar taste of her breath, that he never noticed Chelsea slipping the diary between the bed and the wall.

  Jordan was engrossed in reading about Gillian at age nine, which explained why he didn’t even look up when Selena opened the passenger door and slid into the seat beside him with a look that could have stopped a Gorgon in its tracks.

  “You’re not gonna believe this,” she said.

  Jordan grunted.

  “The factory is on strike. The part’s not coming in for ages. Shit, I ought to just rent a car and go.”

  “Maybe not quite yet.”

  Selena turned to him. “Care to elaborate on that?”

  But Jordan’s nose was buried in a folder. Selena grabbed it from him. “What’s got you so entranced?” She turned the envelope, reading the name on the side. “Gillian Duncan’s psychiatric records? Houlihan gave these to you without a fight?”

  Jordan shrugged. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. And listen to this stuff, it’s beautiful. ‘No evidence of psychosis . . . information from collateral sources contradict her account . . . manipulative . . . history of mendacity regarding interpersonal relationships.’” He grinned. “And she stole shit from stores, too.”

  “Give me that.” Selena snatched the folder again and scanned the pages. “Why was she seeing a shrink when she was nine?”

  “Her mother died.”

  Selena clucked softly. “Makes you feel sorry for her.”

  “Feel sorrier for Jack St. Bride,” Jordan suggested.

  “So what are you going to do with this?”

  He shrugged. “Use it to impeach her, if I need to.”

  “But presumably, she’s better now.”

  He arched a brow. “Who’s to say this isn’t the way Gillian Duncan reacts under stress? Here’s a girl who historically says whatever she needs to, to get attention.”

  Selena winced. “I hate it when you use me for test runs of your defense theories.”

  “Yeah, but how is it?”

  “The jury isn’t going to let you go there. You’re being too hard on a victim. You’ll lose your credibility.”

  “You think?” Jordan sighed. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Plus, there’s every bit as much of a chance that St. Bride’s the one who’s lying.”

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “There is that.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead. “So . . . should we look for a Hertz dealership?”

  Selena busied herself with securing her seat belt. “I’m in no rush,” she said.

  His hand was on her, melting the skin where it touched. It slid from her hip to her waist, then fumbled over her breast. Hot, like a stone in the sun. She froze, hoping he’d pull away, praying he wouldn’t.

  “Are you prepared in the event of an accident?” said the announcer on the radio spot, waking Meg instantly. She rolled over and hit the alarm�
��s button to shut it off.

  A knock on the door. “You up?” her mother called.

  “Yes,” Meg murmured. But instead of rising, she stared at the ceiling; wondering why she was soaked in sweat, breathing so hard she might have run a mile in her dreams.

  Charlie tried very hard not to stare at the hatchet job that was now Gillian Duncan’s hairstyle. He’d seen enough victims in Miami to know that she’d done this to herself, and it was probably better than cutting up her arms or worse, trying to commit suicide. “What you need to remember,” he said, as he walked Gillian through the police station, “is to keep a cool head. You have all the time in the world when it comes to a lineup.”

  She nodded, but Charlie could tell that she was still nervous. He glanced at Matt, who shrugged. This was the first time they’d insisted the girl be separated from her father during the investigation, and with her anchor missing, she was completely adrift. But Matt had been adamant—today, he didn’t want anyone around who could influence Gillian. Not even Amos Duncan.

  Matt stepped around them to open the door. A uniformed officer stood guard over the proceedings. “All right.” Charlie let Gillian step up to a table, while he and Matt stood a few feet behind. “Do you remember which one you saw that night?”

  The table was covered with six different kinds of condoms in an array of colors and variations. Charlie knew this for a fact, since Matt had made the detective go out and buy them himself at the drugstore. There were ribbed ones and natural-skin ones and even glow-in-the-dark . . . and mixed up among them was the brand Charlie had seized from the night-stand beside Addie Peabody’s bed.

  Voice shaking, she asked, “Can I . . . can I touch them?”

  “Of course.”

  She reached out, going straight for the purple-packaged Trojan. But her hand veered to the left, and her fingers skimmed over a Contempo, two LifeStyles, and a Durex.

  She picked up the Durex, then the Prime sitting beside it.

  Suddenly, she flung the condom back onto the table and buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know,” she cried. “It was dark . . . and I was . . . I was so scared . . . and . . .”

  Matt jerked his head toward Gillian, and Charlie quickly slid his arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay, honey. You just relax.”

  “But you wanted me to be able to pick it. For evidence.”

  “We have other evidence,” Matt said.

  Gilly sniffed loudly. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said. “This is just icing on the cake. Okay?”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  “You want to stop?”

  “No.” Gilly turned back to the counter, her hands clenched at her sides as if she could will herself to remember. “It was purple,” she said a minute later. “The package was purple.” When she smiled, it transformed her entire face. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “You bet,” Matt said, collecting the condom from her hand.

  Charlie walked her to the door and opened it. “Joe,” he said to the officer standing outside. “Would you be kind enough to walk Miss Duncan back to her father?”

  “Sure, Lieutenant.”

  Charlie watched Gillian walk away with the big patrolman, then went back inside to the county attorney. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “She picked the Trojan.”

  Matt nodded. “Unfortunately,” he said, “that wasn’t the brand you took from the house.”

  It made Jack look good.

  The unexpected thought hit Jordan like a punch to the belly, driving all the air from his lungs. To his absolute shock, there were things in the discovery he’d received from Matt Houlihan that evening that actually worked in his favor.

  Jordan blew a ring of cigar smoke in the direction of his bare feet, levered onto the railing of the porch. The police statement from Charlie Saxton lay open on his lap. Beside him on the wooden floor were the testimonies of the girls who had been eyewitnesses, and the surprising result of the condom lineup. The only missing piece of the discovery was the forensic scientist’s workup, which had been delayed for a week owing to lab overload.

  The past two weeks had not convinced Jordan of Jack St. Bride’s innocence—he was certain his client’s one-note performance of the I-wasn’t-there refrain was grounded in nothing more than wishful thinking. The Nelson Mandela tactics in jail were not a measure of a clear conscience as much as they were a nuisance. And the crazy story about decorations in the forest said less about the man’s credibility than the brand of whiskey he’d been drinking.

  But right now, staring over the county attorney’s discovery, Jordan wondered whether Jack St. Bride might not be the real thing.

  He slid open the door and padded down the hallway to his own bedroom, which he’d chivalrously given up to Selena. A pie slice of moonlight illuminated her, and for a moment the sight of this woman in his bed again took his breath away. He was not surprised when Selena sensed his presence and immediately woke, sliding her hand under the pillow.

  “You don’t sleep with a gun at my house,” Jordan murmured. “Which is a good thing for me, I imagine.”

  Selena rolled away. “Get out of my bedroom, Jordan,” she muffled into the covers.

  “It’s my bedroom.”

  “I still don’t want you in it. And that’s a clear invite to leave, unless you’ve been taking lessons from your client on social interaction with females.”

  “It’s about Jack. I need to talk to you.”

  Resigned, Selena flopped onto her back. “At three in the morning.”

  “Four, but who’s counting?” Jordan eased down onto the bed beside her. “Did you read the discovery?”

  “Some of it.”

  “Well . . . there are holes.”

  Selena shrugged. “There are always holes. Or so you tell me.”

  “But half the time I’m lying. In this case, it’s true.”

  “Such as?”

  “The scratch. Remember I told you about that? And the psych records. And the girls’ stories don’t match a hundred percent.”

  “What about the physical evidence?”

  “Hasn’t come back from the lab yet,” Jordan admitted.

  Selena read over the transcript, then looked at him. “But you’re thinking . . . ?”

  “Yeah,” Jordan said with surprise. “That it just might tell us what Jack’s been telling us all along.”

  In his nightmare, Matt was in court.

  He stared at the jury as if he had the power to mesmerize, because a rape case really came down to whom they believed the most. The judge called his name. “Mr. Houlihan!”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Excuse me.” He pulled at his collar, trying to keep from being strangled by his tie. “The state calls Gillian Duncan to the stand.”

  There were camera flashes and rustles of movement as the entire gallery strained to see the prosecution’s star witness make her way toward the front of the courtroom. But the doors did not open; the girl didn’t appear. Matt tried to ask the bailiff where his witness was but was stopped once again by the judge’s voice. “Counsel, now what’s the problem?”

  “My witness,” Matt said. “I can’t find her.”

  “She’s right here.” The judge pointed down at the stand.

  But Matt couldn’t see anything past the lip of the box. He walked toward the bench quickly, although his legs felt like pudding beneath him, and put his hand on the carved railing. “Please state your name for the record,” he said. When no answer came, he peered into the witness box.

  And saw his own baby lying at its base, smiling up at him as if she knew he’d be able to save her.

  There was some guilty pleasure that came from watching Jack appear with a correctional officer at the door of the small conference room, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Jordan,” he said, “it’s the middle of the night.”

  “Didn’t bother you before.” Jordan sat back, studying his client.

  “What?” Jack asked, looking down at his
jumpsuit as if there might be bloodstains or some other incriminating evidence on it. “Did I get convicted?”

  At that, Jordan almost smiled. “You would have been in the courtroom with me if you had.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Jordan rested his elbows on the table. “Because,” he said slowly, “I am having a spiritual moment of sorts.”

  Jack looked at him warily. “Good for you.”

  “And for you, actually.” Jordan pushed a manila envelope across the table to Jack. “I got the discovery from the county attorney today. Everything but the lab results, anyway.” As he watched Jack open the packet and scan the pages, Jordan cleared his throat uncomfortably. “This isn’t something I’ve said very often, and never directly to a client, so it’s a little hard for me. Christ.” He shook his head, a crimson flush rising up his neck. “Three little words, and I can’t even choke them out.”

  Jack glanced up, eyes guarded. “You’re not going to tell me you love me, are you?”

  “Hell, no,” Jordan said. “I believe you.”

  Then Jack managed to draw a breath into his burning lungs. “You what?”

  “I think the girl’s lying. And I don’t know where you were that night, but it wasn’t with her.”

  He watched Jack’s eyes darken with surprise. “I would have gotten you off no matter what,” Jordan said brazenly. “But now I actually want to.” He felt drunk, dizzy. As if something bound tight inside him had broken free, making him able to move mountains, to bring down giants.

  Stunned, Jack turned away. “I don’t believe this.”

  Jordan laughed. “Jack,” he said. “You’re not the only one.”

  1989

  New York City

  The girl had to be drunk, that was the first rule.

  If she wasn’t on the verge of passing out, she usually freaked and spoiled it right in the middle of the fun. Every now and then one had gotten her bearings and gone all skittish, but it hadn’t taken much more than another beer to convince her to stay. After all, this was why she’d come in the first place.