Manderley. She’d be gone in two weeks anyway, when the fall semester started and the new recruits arrived. Fine, he thought, clicking closed the online issue of Campus Security. It was preferable to have someone who skated through the job without asking any questions. Someone who was two steps smarter might be a problem. Manderley had no idea about anything. Edward had a crew of others who did. But that was all information coming in, not going out.
And now it was quiet, his e-mails answered, the day’s fires extinguished, including the visit from those two television women, Jane Ryland and the other one. Unavoidable. It was clearly more prudent to agree to an interview than to protest. He was savvy enough not to be labeled (and ridiculed) as one of those “refused to be interviewed” chumps. He’d handled it. In the end, sadly, oh so sadly, he’d declined, for privacy reasons, to go on camera. Then ushered the two zealots out the door. They’d tried to pretend they were objective, even sympathetic. Bosh. He’d never met—never even heard of—a reporter he could trust. He’d handled them.
Just like he’d handled yammering students complaining about their unfair and life-ruining Cs. Or about the roommate who was too dumb or stoned or noisy or quiet or rich or poor or whatever. These were college kids, for God’s sake. They had to learn that life wasn’t fair. Unless their parents were ready to join the endowment list. Then lives could be made a little more fair.
Today he’d had a triumph. He licked his lip, took a last sip of coffee from his ceramic mug. “Adams Bay College ABC,” its decal read. With a predictable-looking school crest and the motto Cras principes committitur hodie. “Tomorrow’s leaders start today.” He’d secretly decided it meant “Crass principles.”
Anyway, the triumph. The parents of an obviously hyper-hormoned coed who were threatening to take their precious daughter’s tale to the “real police”—he stopped his recollections again, his memory tripping over the hated description. Real police. Please. He ran a tight ship, as his father used to say. And his helpers provided another layer of protection. Real police. Ha. They should have such connections.
But back to savoring the triumph. Yes, that was worth remembering.
It was always the girls blaming the boys and the boys blaming the girls for their own drunken or drugged-up escapades. Everyone needed to take a little responsibility. He’d used his most convincing arguments this afternoon for Rochelle’s family.
Peer pressure, he gently reminded them. Advised them that Rochelle’s life would never be the same if word got out. That it might be in her best interests—he always put it very gently—to keep silent about what she alleged had happened. Otherwise they might face investigations, inquiries, questions. Trials.
He’d used the same words with parents so many times, but he always tried to make the ominous litany sound spontaneous. A gift of knowledgeable and heartfelt information from a person who only had the student’s best interests at heart.
When he questioned, he’d put a catch in his voice, a hesitation, as if he were taking a chance, risking embarrassment. Had your daughter been … drinking? Using drugs? What was she wearing? Maybe she’d be thought of as a liar. Those words, he’d whisper.
He waited through a thick parental silence this very afternoon, wanting to see how the family would respond. Sometimes there was a high-pitched refusal, a firebrand mother demanding justice or a swaggering father demanding revenge. Those, he sent right along to the “real police.” And whatever they did, they did. Adams Bay had a few of those unfortunate incidents. He shrugged. ABC had a … a typical record. It’d look strange if it were perfectly clean. If that was how the family wanted to work it, fine.
But often, after the silence, after some anguished consideration, sometimes after a hushed little heart-to-heart with the girl—today it was Rochelle—the families would agree.
You’re so wise, he’d assure them, to say no more about what may have happened between your daughter and the young man. I’ll take care of her. I’ll watch out for her. She can always come to me.
How can we thank you? they’d ask. Often, by this time, they were crying. However you like, he would say. He never needed to say more than that.
Almost before the phone had settled in its cradle today, he’d contacted young William’s family to make sure they understood the trouble their son might be in—if he, Edward Tarrrant, didn’t protect him. And, like so many others, he knew they would likely be so immensely grateful, they’d make it worthwhile. Again, not that he ever specifically asked for any reward. Of course not. But often, relieved and appreciative families could not resist making his life a little more pleasant. He looked at the shiny Italian leather of his new shoes. Nice. Appropriate for a man of his stature. He’d certainly earned them.
It was a bit of a—how would one put it?—a bit of a tightrope walk.
He smiled as he stepped to the window of his office and looked out over Kenmore Square. He could see one corner of the big Citgo sign, turned off this summer to save energy. Sixteen stories below, the bustle of the Fenway crowd and the swirl of students from Adams Bay and monolithic Boston University. He always raised a derisive eyebrow at BU, the megaschool next door. Adams Bay was in its shadow, architecturally, academically, geographically.
But Edward was a big fish in the Adams Bay pond. He liked it that way, he decided, looking out over his domain. If BU called him? He’d say no.
Cars battled across the three-pronged intersection, choosing the direction of Fenway Park, or Brookline, or The Reserve. He imagined a conversation, yet again, where he’d turn down BU. Cordial, polite, even magnanimous. “Happy to be considered,” he’d say. “But Adams Bay needs me. I’m their fireman. When there’s a public relations fire, I put it out.” He would chuckle, and they would agree, and with regret they’d hang up, knowing what they were missing. Knowing they should have chosen him in the first place. They’d had their chance.
His phone buzzed. He looked at his watch. Approaching seven. It wasn’t a lawyer, he reassured himself, taking the three steps across the carpet to his desk. Lawyers didn’t work this late. He swiveled into the leather chair, got to the receiver before the second ring.
“Yes?” He recognized the answering voice, pictured the young man, one of his “helpers,” as the young man delivered his news. Edward’s eyes blurred, his book-lined office going almost out of focus as he assessed what he was hearing.
WILLOW GALT
If only she’d been taking a nap. If only she’d been watching TV, Willow thought, or in the shower, or in a million other places, anyplace but her own bedroom looking out the window. But no. No matter how you tried to create your story, how you tried to smooth the center and tuck in the edges and square the corners, life always took its own messy turn. She paused on the second-floor landing, hearing the bing-bong of the doorbell again, followed, again, by the knocking. She took a few more reluctant steps down the carpeted stairway, and as she got closer to the entry hall, heard the voices, too.
“Boston Police,” one called out. Not Come out with your hands up. Or We have a warrant.
“Yes?” She stepped to the threshold, opening the front door only partway. Tried to make her body language say, Go away. Tried to think—Do I need a lawyer? But how did you ask that without making it sound as if you already knew the answer?
“Boston Police,” the taller one said. He was so tough-guy, with that leather jacket, all angles, way taller than the other one. Hair unruly over one eyebrow.
“I’m Detective Jake Brogan, ma’am,” the shorter one, the handsome one, said. He smiled, so she figured he must be the good cop. He wore a leather jacket, too, even in August. Probably a gun under it, she thought. She had done nothing wrong, though. She’d made the conscientious choice. She simply couldn’t talk much about anything other than that. Anything at all.
“We’re investigating an incident in the neighborhood,” he went on. “May we come in? We’d appreciate a few moments of your time.”
She felt the weight of his scrutiny, the
way he noticed her hair, and her neck and her fingernails, and her bare legs, her bare feet. He was trying to look over her shoulder, too, inside the house. Not doing a very good job of hiding his curiosity. Maybe on purpose?
“What happened?” Willow figured that’s what someone would ask, and it was true that she wondered. She knew the result of “what happened.” But not what led up to it. Not exactly.
“Maybe we could talk inside?” The detective looked back over his shoulder, and Willow saw two blue-and-gray police cars, looking blocky and alien, like uninvited visitors who’d blundered out of their territory. There were no lights anymore, no sirens. She and Dunc—Tom—had been assured The Reserve was private, with “neighborliness” essentially frowned upon. If you have to introduce yourself, they don’t want to know you, she’d been told. Someone—her heart lurched, remembering who—had teased her, saying that was The Reserve’s motto.
Now here were the police, asking to come in, and there was nothing she could do. Tom. She could feel her entire being call out to him. But he wouldn’t be home in time to rescue her, not today.
“Is everything okay? Is there danger?” She used her moment of looking over the officer’s shoulder to search for inquisitive neighbors, still strangers, already gossiping about why two police officers were at her door. The dominoes, Tom called them, and if the dominoes started falling … it might be a good thing their cardboard boxes weren’t all unpacked yet. She honestly yearned for answers. But these two, doing their job, could not be expected to give them. “Officers? Is there danger?”
“I’m sure there’s not, ma’am,” the tall one said. “And it’s ‘Detectives.’ I’m Paul DeLuca, this is Jake Brogan.”
“Homicide,” Brogan said. He stood on the brick front porch, next to the white ceramic pot of multicolored daisies. She’d planted them herself, insistently cheerful. A couple of green flies buzzed past. A door slammed somewhere.
Homicide?
“Homicide?” She said the word out loud. “Oh, I—of who?”
She saw the two exchange glances. Clearly they had some shorthand, and whatever they were communicating meant Willow had no more time to stall. She had to decide, right now, what she knew, and when, and why, and whether they knew she’d called 911, and there was no way to do that, there was no way to know what they knew, and no way to anticipate. There were too many silences, all hers, and she could not decide how an innocent person would behave, even though she hadn’t done anything wrong and it should be easy.
“Ma’am?” Detective DeLuca had taken a step closer.
She held her ground.
“Did you call nine-one-one?” Brogan asked.
“We’re willing to talk out here on the front steps,” DeLuca added.
“Though I’m sure the neighbors will be curious,” Brogan said.
“So did you call nine-one-one?” DeLuca asked it this time, and there was no way out of it now.
“And what’s your name, please?” Brogan said.
Willow had made her bed. And now she’d have to … whatever the rest of it was.
“I’m Willow Galt.” She felt their words pushing her, felt them closing in and the air closing in and the relentlessness of the outside world, and how you could never be in control, not at all. She’d thought she’d done a good thing.
“Come in,” she said. Now she’d have to handle it.
9
ISABEL RUSSO
Isabel gripped the phone’s receiver, stared at her bare feet on the kitchen’s linoleum floor, and wondered how it would feel to hang up. She watched Fish swim another lap in his fern-filled aquarium. A room in a room. And neither of them, not Fish, and not Isabel, could get out.
She curled her toes, then uncurled them, waiting. Should I talk to Jane? she asked Fish telepathically. Fish seemed to say yes, and Isabel had to agree. She’d worked up the nerve to call, she’d managed it, even though it was hard to breathe as she punched out the numbers, and she was so happy with herself for that. It was a real step. Isabel wasn’t used to talking with real people anymore, she realized, and that was silly.
“You saw our query?” Jane’s voice sounded nice enough, it did, and not pushy or aggressive. “Thanks so much, I appreciate it. Want to talk a bit now?”
“Yes,” Isabel said. Fish’s golden scales sparkled.
“Okay, great.” Jane’s voice seemed so kind. “How can I help you?”
This was the moment. The moment Isabel had not faced since … well, since she’d told her mother, and then Edward Tarrant, and then … no one else, like he’d instructed. Not ever, not ever. Ever ever. But this wasn’t telling, not exactly.
She chewed the inside of one cheek, acknowledging that tiny bit of pain. She wished she could see Jane. She was pretty sure Jane was the reporter she’d watched on the Boston Register’s video website maybe … a year ago? Brownish hair, TV-looking. Thirty-something. Like, famous. But she hadn’t been on the news recently, had she? Though Isabel had not paid much attention to the news over the past months. Real life was exactly what she longed to avoid.
“Yes, I saw the thing online. And it said—you won’t tell?” Isabel had to be sure the reporter’s query said “confidential.” If it wasn’t, she was hanging up, no matter what.
“Confidential, absolutely,” Jane said. And she explained who she was, and where she worked, and what they were doing.
Isabel listened. Balancing, deciding. Could she get through the story? Live through it again? That was a challenge. Because she couldn’t really remember, even though she’d tried to make herself do it, again and again, because she figured it must still be there in her brain somewhere. It happened, that she was sure of, and if she kept trying to remember, she’d eventually succeed. Wouldn’t that have to be true? Even if she had been drugged. Which she had to believe she was. Sometimes it felt like she remembered, but it was never more than a wisp, a fragrance, a sound—and then it would vanish.
But she was the victim. She was. And if she was ever going to heal, maybe now was the moment to begin. She had, what, eighty more years to live, maybe? Was she going to spend them all in fear, hiding? She wasn’t brave enough, or confident enough, to, like, carry a mattress to graduation in protest, like that girl in New York a few years ago. But sometimes there was a moment that changed your life.
Well, of course, Fish was saying. It’s already happened to you. But maybe this was another one, she retorted. Some part of her had died. But some of her hadn’t. She took a deep breath, turned away from Fish.
“Are you there?” Jane’s voice broke her reverie.
“I was at a party,” Isabel began. She’d tell the barest of facts. Just to see. Just to try it out. “There was a cute guy. Really cute, and nice. We talked about opera, we’re both in—anyway. And he offered me something to drink. Everyone was drinking, and I was, too, but that doesn’t mean…”
“Of course not,” Jane said. “Go on, okay?”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this.” Isabel heard the change in her own voice as she heard her story through Jane’s ears. “It sounds so…”
“It sounds true,” Jane told her.
“… abysmally typical,” Isabel finished her sentence.
“It sounds true,” Jane said again. “That’s exactly why you’re, forgive me, but so helpful. Because it’s so common.”
“So, okay. I drank it, not that fast, even, because I went to the bathroom in between drinking it. And he had a drink, too.” Should she say his name? No. “And then I … I don’t remember. And I woke up, in a dorm room, alone, his room, and the sheets were all … and I was all…”
She felt her voice trail off again. Felt her brain trail off, too. Saw the light change in the room. It seemed to dim, and go smoky-sweet, and close and dark, and smell like—and her skin was all like, it was all …
“Are you okay?”
“Give me a minute,” she said. She looked at the almost-invisible pale hair on her bare arms. Sticking straight up. She could feel each
one. Every single hair.
“I know it’s difficult,” Jane said. “You’re very brave. I’m here. Long as you want.”
Isabel saw a glint out of the corner of her eye. Fish, her one solitary goldfish, swimming around and around. I’m like you, Fish, she thought. Trapped. And swimming, swimming, swimming. Swimming to nowhere.
“No one believed me, I guess,” she told the reporter. “Because no one did anything about it. That I know of, that is. And the guy who…”
She paused. Watched Fish, watched the water, watched her crystal in the window. Closed her eyes, briefly. And started again.
“The guy who,” she said, “well, he’s, he’s in class, and in school. He gets new cars, and girlfriends, and ‘likes’ all over the place. Mr. Cool. Mr. Leading Man. He’s all happy, and nothing happened to him, and the school knows, I know they do, because I told them, and they all know and everyone knows and it’s not fair, it’s just not fair.”
And it should be all about fair. Isabel, frowning, almost getting a headache now, had never thought about it any other way. She knew she was right. This wasn’t fair. There were consequences, and there should be, but why should all of them come crashing down on her? She’d been turned into the haunted one, the terrified one, the little hiding rabbit whose life and career had been ruined.
“You’re so articulate,” Jane was saying. “I promise you all of this is confidential, absolutely, until you give the okay. But we’d love—very much—to tell your story. I hear in your voice that you’re—”
“Concerned,” Isabel said.
“Concerned,” Jane repeated. “And—”
“Angry,” Isabel said.
“Angry,” Jane said. “And I know you’re also concerned and angry for your sister students who may have been, or may yet be, in the same situation. You know…”
Isabel felt the muscles in her hand clutching her cell phone, its smooth plastic case pressing against her face. Jane’s silence felt like the reporter was deciding whether to say something. Relax, Isabel told herself.
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