Since last semester, though—last May, to be exact, one Friday night in May, to be horribly exact—her apartment had been all about allowing her to be apart: an apart-ment. She wished she could be apart from everything.
An e-mail pinged her attention. Professor Ruth Tully. Again wanting her to come to the summer semester’s final Music Theory 301 classes in person, not rely on notes and online lectures. All the classes had video hookups for those who were disabled, or sick, or for when the winter weather was so miserable that attendance would be difficult for commuting students. The college-by-video thing was Isabel’s lifesaver now. If Isabel didn’t have to go outside—not set one foot outside, not ever, not ever again …
She pursed her lips, focused on the sunlight fracturing through the faceted crystal she’d hung from a thin wire over her kitchen window. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet … silently she named the colors. The world was still beautiful, she needed to remember.
“Sorry, Professor,” she typed. “I’ll do video. Thanks.”
Send. Done. With only a twinge of regret. Professor Tully was very sweet to care about her so much. Isabel wondered if she suspected something. Professor Morgan, too, sometimes inquired, wondering why Isabel was no longer attending her gatherings.
Obviously when a once-proficient classical music student vanishes from class, something is going on. But her professors, even well-meaning ones, could pry only so far.
Someday she’d be able to go outside again. She’d tried it already, several times. But when she stepped out into the hallway, or smelled the—anyway. It became surprisingly easy to keep to herself. Friends faded away, most of them. She ordered food from the delivery place, got books online, and sent assignments via e-mail. She had her music. She listened to her operas. She practiced her pieces. She could manage better in another reality. In someone else’s story.
She would have transferred out of Adams Bay instantly, after the “event.” But she’d have lost her tuition. And credits.
“You’re fine. You’ll be fine.” She could hear her mother’s voice. How could she know about “fine”? But then her mother, long-distance from St. Louis, had closed the door. And locked it. “We cannot afford it, not anymore. And we cannot tell your brother. It would kill him.”
And there it was, the hierarchy, the family relationships in one little pronouncement. Who mattered, and who didn’t.
Here at “home” she didn’t have to touch anyone else. Or smell anyone. Or look into anyone’s eyes.
Nothing had happened to “him,” of course. She’d never say his name again. Never even think it. Never poison her mind with it. She’d make him a no one, a nobody, exactly as he’d done to her.
She looked up, glanced around as if someone could be watching. It always felt as if someone were, which was ridic. But Dame Callas’s darkly disapproving eyes seemed to stare right at her, and Mirella’s sweet expression had turned to pity. Isabel blinked, dismissing her fantasy. They’re only posters. She looked at her watch. 6:30. Gormay on the Way would arrive in an hour.
She had time.
She clicked into Facebook, hit the bookmark for his profile. Smiling, smiling, smiling. It was like this every day. Why did she keep looking? She went to Instagram, checked his IG photos. She’d watched as his friend list grew, saw him amass endless “likes” with his stupid sports and silly pop concert tickets and dumb jokes. He’d gotten a new car, she saw, scanning the newest photos. Another new girlfriend. She was smiling, too, even kind of seemed familiar. She clicked away from the heart-twisting, stomach-turning site. Enough.
Her next stop was always the “help” sites. Somehow, not being alone in her grief was reassuring. Even though it should have been chilling. But she had to look, once a day, every day.
Sexually assaulted on campus? We want to hear your story.
The headline on the Facebook “WE CAN HELP” home page was so shocking, so surprising, so unexpected, she blinked at it, willing her eyes to go back into focus. The postage-stamp-sized icon was of a scale of justice. “Maybe you can prevent this from happening to someone else,” the article began. “Make a difference,” it said. “Take back the power.”
“Click here,” it said.
She looked up again. It really felt as if someone was watching. The back of her neck prickled, and she could hear the silence.
Click? She could not do it. Why should she? All these hours she’d spent, making this place her refuge. Give that up with a click? No. She’d created a tiny bit of peace out of her shambles of a life. No way would she ever relive or talk about it again.
Click?
But how could it hurt just to see? “Prevent this from happening to someone else,” it said. She’d never wish her burden on anyone. Could she help instead? She touched her forefinger to the silver mouse. And pushed.
She steeled herself, waiting, not sure what to expect. Could they trace this? Know who she was? Should she close the computer, forget about it, fade to black? Maybe this was the biggest mistake she’d ever made.
She leaned her head back against the top rail of her kitchen chair, crossed her arms, felt the warmth of her bare skin. Briefly closed her eyes. No. The biggest mistake she’d ever made was going to that party. She shook her head, wondering. It was an odd relief, maybe, to understand that nothing worse could ever happen to her. Maybe that was her power.
Isabel paused, fingers poised over her keyboard. Thinking about the phone number now on the screen. Should she call? The atmosphere of the room changed—a flicker of shadow through the maple tree outside, then a single shaft of light glinted a rainbow on her keyboard, the spectrum of colors changing, dancing, playing across her fingers. Smiling in spite of herself, she looked up to see her little window crystal twisting in the resolute sunshine.
7
JANE RYLAND
“Your phone’s ringing.”
If Fiola was going to announce every phone call, Jane would not last long sharing this two-desk office with her.
“Yes, indeed,” Jane said, forcing a smile, trying not to be dismissive. It was so late that the six o’clock news was already into the final sports segment. She and Fiola had handled a challenging day. The most recent challenge, the phone call from ADA Frank McCusker, followed by Fiola’s “that means he saw you, too” remark, had engendered a troubling series of possibilities. More than a few times, Jane played back the hit-and-run episode in her head, trying to remember if she’d noticed the driver looking at her. Had he seen her? If he had, he might—might—have recognized her from her on-the-air days. Would that matter?
The phone rang a second time. Jane grabbed it before Fiola could say anything.
“Jane Ryland,” she said.
Silence. Again. Was this McCusker? Playing psychological games? Making her wait to prove he was in charge?
“Hello?” She tried not to sound annoyed at the silence. Maybe it wasn’t the DA’s office. Anyway, it wasn’t this caller’s fault that she was feeling pressured, and unsettled, and, she had to admit, battling a few qualms after this first day on the new assignment with her new “partner.”
“I’m calling about the … thing? On Facebook,” the voice replied.
A woman. Responding to their campus assault inquiry. Jane sat up, bolt straight. Might even have made a tiny sound in reaction.
“What?” Fiola swiveled in her chair, scooted closer to Jane’s desk. “Who?”
“I’m so glad,” Jane began. She needed to sound reassuring, low pressure, and avoid spooking the caller into hanging up. This could be their first big get on the documentary. The caller could also be a nothing, a nut job, a phony, someone who’d misunderstood, or was curious, someone searching for attention or notoriety or airtime. Or, the worst possible scenario, someone from a rival station snooping on their investigation.
Open-ended questions, now, were the way to go. This might be a wacko, but it also might be a young woman who had suffered terribly. And had, in this one moment, decided to share he
r story. Jane was a good listener. She would listen.
“Thanks so much, I’m glad you saw that,” she went on, keeping her voice level and gently supportive. “My name is Jane. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about what happened? And why you decided to call?”
Fiola was scrawling on a yellow pad with a red marker. She brandished her note at Jane. “Put her on speaker,” it said.
Jane grimaced, shaking her head. Held up a palm. Hang on. I’ll handle it. And now she’d almost missed what the girl was saying.
JAKE BROGAN
“What good does an alarm system do if it’s off?” Jake and D initially exchanged a thumbs-up after they did the prelim canvass of the Morgan House. Good news: They’d discovered the notebook-sized alarm system touchscreen on the right-side nightstand in the master bedroom. Bad news: They had to wait for the search warrant before they did any serious digging. They’d asked Judge Gallagher for it, out of an abundance of caution, in case someone else might be living here, someone whose defense attorney would object to whatever was discovered in a warrantless search.
D, as always, argued they could cite “exigent circumstances” and go for it.
“Search now, get the warrant later, ya know? Makes me cray-cray,” D complained as they checked through the obviously empty house. They’d found a wire mesh dog crate in a pantry off the kitchen. Popcorn curled up with her yellow ball the moment after she skittered inside, then closed her eyes and zonked out. They’d have to do something with her, at some point. But first, the suspect.
“What’s more exigent than this?” D, waving his arms in the direction of everything, was in full argument mode as they left the dog behind. “What if the bad guy’s hiding in the bathroom? Ready to leap out and nail us? And we’re like, wait, don’t shoot, we’re getting a warrant.”
They could legally check through the house, arguing their suspect might be hiding there. But fearing the fruit of the poisonous tree, they’d stick with a legally unassailable search.
So plain sight it was, starting in the master bedroom, the epicenter, Jake knew, of many crimes. D slouched in the doorway, still pouting, as Jake scoped it out. Window overlooking the backyard, pool. Looking down, he could see Kat standing over Avery Morgan’s body. Two EMTs had arrived, ready to transport.
Without touching the windowsill, Jake peered outside. Left, forward, right, back to the left. Could any neighbors see inside this bedroom? Maybe with, say, a telescope, or binoculars from a line-of-sight upstairs room? Avery Morgan’s windows were wide open, no screens, and the last of the afternoon’s breeze, such as it was, whispered against the filmy curtains.
He shook his head, answering his own silent question. No. No one could see in, not through the lofty trees in full summer leaf, not past the architectural angles. The only house in direct eyeshot was that tan brownstone across the backyard. Jake took out his phone again, clicked off a close-up shot to show the proximity. Then a wider shot to show the context. Whoever lived in the brownstone would be able to look down and see into the Morgan backyard, he bet. They’d go there next. See if anyone was home. Maybe that’s who’d called 911?
He heard the click of a phone keyboard. Turned. D was texting. Now?
“D? You with me here? Anything wrong? Anything I can do to help?”
“Knock yourself out,” D said. “I don’t wanna touch anything—you know, screw up our case. I’m good.”
“What’s with you?” Jake asked.
“What what?” D said.
“Whatever.” D, still focused on his cell phone, would tell him whatever it was when and if he was ready. No time for that now. Flowered rug, antique-looking dresser, a colorful quilt thrown over a rumpled king-sized bed. Was that indication of a struggle? Or simply someone who didn’t make the bed? Maybe the bed had nothing to do with anything. That was unlikely, Jake had to admit. Sex was always a key motive. Having it. Or not. Wanting it. Or not.
One nightstand, not both, was stacked with books. That suggested only one person lived here permanently. Behind the books, the controls of what Jake recognized as a hard-wired alarm system. That meant oversight, records, and, potentially, video. Their last case had been solved by surveillance video. Maybe that could happen again.
Jake eyed the glowing keypad. He could hear D texting, so he touched the alarm’s green rectangle marked “Security.” Up came the familiar numbers, arranged like a telephone dial, ready to take the occupant’s secret code. Jake didn’t need a secret code to understand that the system wasn’t on.
“Ready to arm,” Jake muttered. Now, of course, D was looking at him.
“How much she pay for that?” DeLuca pointed to the keypad, shaking his head. His other hand still held his cell phone. “Though if she’s home, I guess, no reason for it to be on. And Pereira didn’t mention an alarm going off when he arrived. Even though the bad guy must have come in over the fence.”
True about the alarm. But the fence?
“How do you know that?” Jake did another survey of the room, just in case, snapping off more cell phone photos for himself. Crime Scene would get the formal ones, the ones they’d enter into evidence if there was ever a trial, but Jake always felt grounded by taking his own.
“How else?” DeLuca shrugged. “The fence is the only way in, except for the front door. Telling you, Harvard, I know who did it.”
“Great.” Jake pulled at the already-open closet door, putting the hem of his black T-shirt between his fingerprints and the polished brass doorknob. Maybe it was exigent. Maybe a killer was hiding in the closet. Wouldn’t be the first time. “Then let’s call the new supe. Who’d have thought this police thing would be so easy? Who’re you pegging for this?”
“Husband, ex-husband, boyfriend, ex-boyfriend,” DeLuca said. He’d pulled a white handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans and was using it to open the top dresser drawer. “Drawer sticks.”
“D,” Jake said.
“You touched the alarm thing. You opened the closet,” D said.
“It was already open.”
“So was the drawer.”
It wasn’t. “You okay?”
“Why do you keep asking me that?” D was texting again.
Back to the closet. The door of which had, indeed, been open. Clothes, a rainbow of colors, hanging in no particular order, but not disturbed. What had Avery Morgan been wearing before that bathing suit? And where were those clothes? Hard to put a bathing suit on a wet person, Kat had said. Maybe she’d been swimming, and had a seizure. Or heart attack. Maybe it was an accident, not a homicide.
Or maybe someone had held her under. Figured it would look like an accident.
D was probably right about the boyfriend/husband thing. They’d tell you that in every homicide squad on the planet. Probably even other planets.
They walked through the house, careful about their own footprints on the carpet, watching for indications of a break-in, or a scuffle, or something not quite right, but nothing. Bathroom, nothing. Tub seemed dry, walls of the shower stall room temperature. Maybe it’d matter. Maybe not. Spare bedroom, nothing plain-sight. The house looked grander from the outside than it did inside—only two bedrooms, one bath upstairs. Careful not to touch the polished wood banister, they’d gone back downstairs one more time, looking for … well, they didn’t know. Jake couldn’t help but price the place, knew Jane would have been doing the same thing. Seven hundred thou? Eight? He shook his head. Real estate. This was theoretically a great location, The Reserve. Now someone had died in the pool. Which was hell on property values.
“See anything?” Jake asked as they scouted the living room. Textbooks, stacked on the coffee table. History of La Scala. Puccini Librettos. “She’s either studying music or teaching it,” Jake said.
“Was,” DeLuca said.
“Nothing looks stolen, you think?”
D shrugged. “Nothing in plain sight, Harvard. But—”
“So there wasn’t a struggle. She wasn’t afraid.” Jake took a last
—for now—look around Avery Morgan’s house. He and D had only four unsolved murders on their history. The impossible ones. A drive-by shooting, a clammed-up neighborhood, two innocents in the wrong place at the wrong time. If this was a homicide, it wasn’t that.
“This is not a random,” Jake went on. “An affluent woman, seems like, in a fancy house. There’s a reason for it, and where there’s a good reason, there’s a good solution.”
“You’re profound,” D said.
“You’re an asshole.”
“As you often say,” D said. “But you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”
8
EDWARD TARRANT
Edward Tarrant savored this part of the day, the edge of twilight, when he could be alone. He watched his newest student assistant close the inner office door as she left—she was here only for the summer, another silly cipher who worked in the Adams Bay dean of students’ office as a way to offset her tuition. As if a soon-to-be junior—from Connecticut, was she?—could provide any actual help beyond getting lunch and coffee and making sure he wasn’t disturbed unnecessarily. Manderley, her ridiculous name was, could barely make a decision about which calls to put through to him, let alone suspect what some of them were about. So his life worked. As indeed, he felt, it should.
The mahogany door latched itself behind her. Finally he was by himself, his office humming with the purr of his computer and the low rumble of the air conditioner. The plush carpeting that he’d installed last year had stayed pristine, the carved dark wood bookshelves were polished, the leather covers of the books they held were dusted and more than presentable. None had been read recently. He was more of an Internet fan these days.
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