Say No More

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  The damn video put the whole thing at stake. Certainly, if it got out, if the media latched onto it, it’d go viral in a sickening instant. College kids drinking—drunk—and semi-carousing with their now-dead professor was not the content you wanted in the headlines. That, though, he could possibly handle. Address, diffuse, dismiss. Let schools without sin cast the first stone, he’d say. And point to Adams Bay’s stellar record of conduct.

  Trey Welliver was never shown, though anyone who’d been there could place him—with that whiny Isabel girl—at the party. That he could handle.

  Edward wasn’t shown either. But there was the land mine. The students could simply reveal he’d been there. As well as how “friendly” he and Avery were. That would not be so easy to address or dismiss.

  He pressed the metal button at the parking lot entrance gate, waited as a striped barrier arm lifted to let him in.

  But hell. They were kids. Drunken kids. Maybe that was an ironic plus. Who’d believe them?

  He trolled for a parking place, arguing with himself. Brinn, for one, would believe them. And that would be plenty. That nugget of toxicity could not be glossed over, erased, redeemed, or Band-Aided. If his relationship went public, that would be disaster. Disaster in every way.

  He found a spot, noted the letter and number. Luckily no one could hear his thoughts, he realized. Someone would certainly wonder why he hadn’t been grieving Avery’s death, and focusing on how the hell she died. But reality was, she was dead, he hadn’t killed her, and now it was his own life he needed to protect.

  WILLOW GALT

  Stop, she ordered her frantic brain. You’re losing it, Willow. She used every cell of her resolve to pull it together.

  She huddled in the chair by the window, feet tucked underneath her and arms wrapped around herself. She’d paid in cash, gotten the room key to this no-brand hotel, some random place the cabdriver had brought her. Locked the door behind her. And tried to figure out what to do.

  One thing for sure. She had to keep Tom out of it.

  She closed her eyes, wishing she could sleep. Forever, maybe. But all she could think about was that man she’d bumped into this afternoon on the sidewalk in Kenmore Square. It was no accident he was there. Of that she was certain.

  He’d been waiting for her, again, as she left Java Jim’s. Waiting for her. Why else would he have been there?

  She’d run from him, not even glancing behind her. Leaped into a cab. I must look like a crazy person, she’d thought. I need to call Tom.

  She’d seen that man before. She had. But where? And in which of her lives? As actress Daniella Ladd? Or as housewife Willow Galt?

  She’d closed her eyes in the back of the cab, in fear and fatigue and terror, and tried to remember. She’d seen him. Recently. Where? She’d replayed her day.

  Putting the scrapbook in her tote bag, leaving with Tom, crossing the street to the library, inside the library, the shopping, the tea, and then busy Kenmore Square, crossing the street to the—Wait!

  Yes. On the way to the library. At the zebra-striped crosswalk. He’d gestured her to go first, pretending not to give her the eye. She’d ignored him then, because she was used to being looked at, even as Willow, and besides, she’d been on a mission. But maybe it wasn’t random that he was there. Maybe he’d been sent by Roger Hayden. Sent to follow her.

  Later she’d bumped into him—or him into her?—outside Java Jim’s. And then she’d seen him again five minutes later. He’d asked where she was headed.

  They knew who she was. They knew who Tom was. And they’d never leave them alone.

  The killer had made a horrifying error. Certainly—more than certainly—the victim was meant to be her, Willow. Maybe to punish Tom for his whistle-blowing? So that meant she—inadvertently, but just as certainly as if she had done it herself—had caused the death of Avery Morgan.

  She’d asked Olive, flat out—no need to hide her fears, “Do you think they killed Avery by mistake? Thinking it was me?”

  Willow would never forget that pause, that moment when her handler clearly considered it.

  “I don’t … think so,” she’d replied.

  “Is Roger Hayden still in custody?” Willow had asked that, too. “Or did he tell all to the US Attorney? Like we did?”

  What if he was in witness protection, too? If he was, she’d never recognize him!

  Her mind flew back to the man she’d seen three times today. Could that have been Roger? No, she assured herself. No way. The man was taller, older, broader. She’d gotten a good look at him, though, and if she ever saw him again, she’d know.

  She burrowed down into the pillows of the chair. Neon glowed outside, the hotel sign making hot slashes on her bare legs. Olive had bought plane tickets for her, but Willow was hiding instead of flying. She couldn’t just run away. Couldn’t leave Tom.

  If she told him about this? He’d say she was silly, and ignore her warning. Then, soon, it would be too late, and it wouldn’t matter that she was right. Because they’d both be dead.

  Because of her, their new life was ruined. They’d arrived here scarcely three months ago, to start their new life. He’d become Tom and she Willow and so they forever would be. Now forever was over. She’d have Olive contact him, and they’d have to start again—again. All because she’d called the police when Avery drowned.

  But what else could she do?

  She slid the anti-anxiety meds from her pocket. Looked at them, two pale yellow dots raised on her open palm. She tossed them into her mouth, swallowed a shoot of water from her plastic bottle. Maybe another one? Yes. She swallowed again. She still had time before Tom would worry about her. She would relax, maybe nap. And then she, somehow, would figure out what to do.

  She closed her eyes. And thought of something else.

  A sound escaped her throat, a tiny note of fear. Her eyes flew open.

  Maybe Roger Hayden wasn’t the problem.

  Maybe Tom was not in danger.

  Maybe Avery’s killer had hit the correct target. But noticed Willow watching, witnessing through her bedroom window. And realized she’d seen. Whatever she’d seen.

  What if the man in the crosswalk, the one outside the library, was someone Avery’s killer sent to shut her up?

  That had to be true. That’s what made sense.

  Which meant her new identity was no protection.

  The one in danger was Willow Galt.

  33

  JAKE BROGAN

  “Getting confirmation now.” DeLuca was reading from the screen of his cell phone as Jake steered around the last corner, almost on two wheels. They’d made it up Huntington, past the Pru, past the projects, through the South End in record time. “Female, Caucasian, mid-forties. Cause of death, unknown. Time of death—crap.”

  “What?” Jake said. It was pushing 7:30 now, but still almost daylight in Boston’s waning summer. Violet Sholto was dead. A cleaning person, some maid, according to dispatch, called to report the body. The maid was still there, living room, dispatch warned them, freaking out. Next of kin, husband Clooney Sholto, out of town somewhere. But why hadn’t Grady told them about this? Maybe their informant hadn’t known. Possible.

  “They don’t know time of death either,” D said. “ME’s on the way.”

  “How nice for you,” Jake said. “Give you two something to talk about.”

  “We don’t talk much,” DeLuca said, leering. “She’s too busy being—” He pointed. “There it is. That house. Guess how I know.”

  A ribbon of yellow crime scene tape already stretched across the manicured front lawn, draped over a row of carefully sculpted shrubs, drawn taut across the flagstone walkway and attached to a white-painted lamppost. A uniformed cop stood sentry next to one of the fluted—and too-big—white columns bracketing the broad front porch.

  Not one person on the street. No onlookers. No curious neighbors. Out of respect? Or fear? No press. Matter of time, though.

  Jake banged the cruiser
up onto the sidewalk, flipping off the siren as he jounced the front wheels over the curb. He and DeLuca had their doors open almost before the engine stopped. Boston’s Jamaica Plain neighborhood—JP, they called it—had a surprise around every corner. A block away was the Caribbean quarter, a strip of exotic shops and restaurants that the neighborhood’s other residents, hip lawyers and do-gooders, had recently discovered. Some of JP became a gentrifying haven for millennials. Other parts were enclaves of longtime locals who barricaded shoveled-out parking spaces every winter with laundry bins and folding chairs, who ordered “coffee regular” from Dunkin’s, and who hoped their sons would be cops and their daughters married. One sliver on the west edge was the territory of Clooney Sholto and family.

  On paper, apparently not believing in cliché, the Sholtos ran a plumbing supply company. Every cop knew what the Sholtos really did. Stopping them, though, was a question of making a case against them. So far, the cops, as well as the administrations of two separate district attorneys, had failed. If Violet Sholto was the dead body discovered on the second floor, Jake would not be surprised if it was murder. With any number of possible suspects and motives.

  Retaliation? Revenge? A rival-gang thing? Maybe her past. Every cop understood the Sholto-O’Baron family rivalry still seethed, even with the supposedly peacemaking marriage. Anything was possible. If Sholto and his pals decided to fight back, eye for an eye, against whoever killed Clooney’s dearly departed wife, Boston would have a problem on its hands. Or could be Clooney killed her himself. Or she might be dead of natural causes, in which case they could all go home. They’d figure it out.

  But why hadn’t Grady called them?

  “Fancy schmancy.” DeLuca eyed the Sholto home as they neared the door.

  “Lotsa money in plumbing,” Jake said. He had a thought. Stopped, turned to DeLuca. “She didn’t drown, though, did she?”

  JANE RYLAND

  The immutable laws of the universe were changing. That was the only explanation. This day seemed as if it would have way more than twenty-four hours. Jane felt like she was dragging herself along Beacon Street to their new destination. She and Fiola had wrapped up their meeting with the SAFE women—that was a success, at least—and plans were in the works for tomorrow’s party. Well and good. And worthwhile. But still, she’d longed to go home, see Jake, and participate in any accompanying etceteras.

  “So near and yet so far,” she muttered.

  “Huh?” Fiola was checking addresses on brownstones. “Fab. Right across the street,” she said. “This’ll be great. I cannot believe Tosca called you, that she actually wants to talk—right now, yet.”

  “Yeah.” Jane had to admit she was intrigued. “Wonder what happened.”

  “Who cares?” Fiola pushed 1584, a tiny black button in the center row of a massive silver-louvered array of intercom connections. The heavy glass and metal door clicked, its heavy steel lock vibrating and buzzing.

  Jane had already pulled the door open. “It wasn’t locked,” Jane said. “At least we’re announced.”

  If Jane had tried to imagine Tosca—and she guessed she had as they rode a gray-walled elevator up fifteen floors—she would have been an eccentric misfit, vulnerable and lost. Or an unsophisticated, small-town girl—Jane laughed at the cliché, because she herself had grown up in semirural Illinois—plopped fish-out-of-water into the urban bustle of metropolitan Boston.

  But real-life Tosca, meeting them at her apartment’s front door, was a rock star. Maybe a nascent diva, Jane thought, scouting the opera posters on the wall. Shorter than Jane. Petite, dark, with elegant cheekbones. Somehow a presence, even in a black tank top and cutoffs. What Jane had predicted correctly was the sorrow and suspicion in her eyes, the dark circles, her pale legs and arms, the silence of this little apartment.

  A goldfish, just one, swam circles in a bowl. Window to the balcony, open, striped curtains barely moving in the evening breeze. Fall is on the way, the atmosphere was saying. Change.

  “Thanks for coming,” Tosca said. “I don’t like to … go outside.”

  “Oh, no problem. We were pleased to get your call,” Jane said. She “didn’t like” to go outside?

  “We were already here, in the neighborhood, luckily,” Fiola said, “so it was easy to—”

  “Because of what happened?” Tosca interrupted, then gestured them into the room, waved them to the couch. “Sorry,” she said, picking up some books, closing and stacking them. “It’s usually only me. But the death. In The Reserve. It’s all over Facebook. About Avery. Is that why you were here? Covering that or something?”

  “Is there any news about it?” Jane didn’t need to tell Tosca why they were nearby. And seeing her now, Jane knew Tosca hadn’t been at the SAFE meeting.

  The girl perched on the edge of a spindly side chair, wrapped one leg around the other, crossed her arms. Making herself as small as she could. “Well, no. I mean, yes, they’re saying it’s Avery Morgan, I mean, Professor Morgan, and I—” She paused, scratched one bare forearm so hard Jane could see red welts. She stopped, looked at the red, blew out a breath. “Sorry. It’s upsetting. No one is safe, though. No one, not ever. Not anywhere.”

  Jane and Fee exchanged glances. If this girl—a potential diva maybe, but emotionally raw—knew something about the death, they couldn’t ignore it simply because it wasn’t “their” story. Every story was their story. They were journalists. According to the six o’clock news Jane read online, the school wasn’t confirming anything or giving a statement yet. But this girl was corroborating for Jane what Jake had told her: The victim’s name was Avery Morgan. Professor Morgan.

  “I’m so sorry for your—the loss,” Jane began. This was a tough one. Tosca had called them about their campus assault story, but still. “Did you know her?”

  “Of course!” Tosca’s eyes, deepest brown, flew open. She un-pretzeled herself, leaned forward. “We all knew her. I’m a theater major.” She waved at the colorful opera posters. “Opera, you know? And Professor Morgan had rehearsals at her home and…”

  Her voice trailed off, and she stared at the icy blue wall across from her, as if remembering. A tear welled in one eye, and she brushed it away, still looking at the wall. “Little shows, and practices, by the pool. We’d all sing, and—and it was in that very pool where she was…”

  “She drowned?” Fiola almost whispered.

  Jane shifted on the couch. The cause-of-death info hadn’t been released. This was potentially a big deal. A possible homicide. And they were TV, and TV needed pictures. If this girl had a photo of the victim, that’d be newscast gold. Jane tried to evaluate the always-difficult news-need versus personal-intrusion calculus.

  All Tosca could do was say no. And throw them out. And never speak to them again. And their documentary would be ruined. And Jane would be out of a job again. But maybe not.

  “Ah, um, Tosca?” Jane said. “I was wondering…”

  34

  ISABEL RUSSO

  Jane was nice, Isabel thought. With a nice voice, Isabel always noticed that. And a thoughtful manner, kind of welcoming, like a friend. Not like that other one, the bossy one, acting like a second-rate alto who always wanted center stage. Jane was clearly, like, sincere. Somehow you could tell. And successful, and engaged in her profession. Isabel felt it, the connection, soon as the two older women entered her apartment.

  After that scary phone call with the Tosca music, Isabel had first decided not to say another word. Not about anything. But then, she’d regrouped. First of all, it was probably a dumb coincidence. Who knew what they used for “hold music” these days.

  “My whole life is not a melodrama, Fish.” She had said that out loud. “Why am I making it one?” She wouldn’t mention the mysterious call to Jane and Fiola, because really, what could anyone do? So she’d screwed her courage to the sticking point, like they said in drama class. And, with her newfound resolve, she wasn’t waiting until tomorrow to call. Still, she was surprised these w
omen had been able to come so instantly. Maybe it was fate, or whatever controlled the universe.

  “O Fortuna,” she’d sung the portentous notes of the Orff, holding out her arms dramatically, head high. She missed performing, so much. But it was too—she blew out a breath. One step at a time.

  She didn’t want Jane and Fiola to be here at the same time as Grady, so she’d stalled her dinner for a while. Grady might not be the delivery person tonight, anyway. She could never predict. O Fortuna.

  Now Jane was asking her something. About Professor Morgan. Isabel stared at the wall, envisioning the last time she’d seen her professor.

  “Yes? Wondering what?” She blinked away the memory and turned to Jane. She loved Jane’s hair, the way it naturally curled under, wondered if that chestnutty color was real. Good makeup, too, not too stagy or TV. When was the last time she’d entertained at her apartment? Not that this was “entertaining.” This was revenge. Or … justice.

  “By any chance,” Jane said, “do you have any pictures of Professor Morgan? I mean, there’s probably one on the website, we haven’t looked, but now that we’re here … maybe a video?”

  Isabel tried to read the expressions on Jane’s and Fiola’s faces. Video? Did they know? Jane didn’t know. She couldn’t know. They were reporters. Reporters always asked for photos and video.

  “I’m sorry, Tosca.” Jane smiled. At the nickname, Isabel guessed. Or maybe mistaking her hesitancy for reluctance. Or criticism.

  “Part of the job, unfortunately, to ask,” Jane went on. “If you don’t have any photos or videos, you don’t. It’s fine.”

  “Let me think,” Isabel said. Stalling. If they wanted to see only Avery, they wouldn’t have to watch the whole thing, of course. She’d downloaded the clip from YouTube the day after the party, thank goodness, because it wasn’t online anymore. Amazing that he’d posted it in the first place! She’d figured—hoped!—the police would want it at some point, because even though it wasn’t exactly evidence, it was certainly proof. Of, of … lots of stuff. Should she show it?