Say No More

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Her brain struggled to untangle it all. Maybe the call meant something good was happening? Hard to believe, but maybe? Maybe the authorities were looking into her complaint, what she’d told Edward Tarrant? And now, finally finally finally, the school was catching up with Trey?

  Oh. She’d said his name. To herself, but still. She never would again.

  But maybe that’s why he’d called? To warn her not to say anything? Not to testify against him? Should she tell Tarrant? Yes, yes, definitely she should. She’d report it instantly.

  She stood, feeling electric, feeling powerful, feeling … in control. My turn, she thought.

  “Here you go.” Jane handed her a green glass, wrapped in a strip of paper towel. “I didn’t want to look through your drawers for a napkin.”

  Isabel took a grateful sip. “Thanks,” she said. She put the glass on the kitchen table, slowly, deliberately, because as soon as that was done, she’d have to say something. Either way, her life would change. She looked at Fish for guidance, for advice. But Fish just continued swimming his circles.

  “So, yes,” Isabel had to begin. “Yes. That was the night. And yes, he was there.” She cleared her throat. “And yes, I’ll tell you about him and the video. If you swear to keep it secret.”

  She watched Jane and Fiola process this, almost as if she could see the gears in their brains at work. They had to be thinking they were about to be told the name of a criminal. And being asked not to talk about the crime. Could a reporter, even one who seemed sympathetic and reliable, agree to do that?

  Isabel got up and closed the laptop screen. If they wouldn’t keep it secret, or couldn’t, she wouldn’t tell them. Easy enough.

  “Isabel,” Jane said. “And I think Fiola will agree with me. I—we—don’t want to know his name. It puts us in an impossible position.”

  Fiola nodded. “Jane’s right. We don’t want to be called to testify in court, we don’t want to be asked to give evidence to the police. If you tell us, all it does is make things more complicated.”

  “So…” Isabel tried to understand this.

  “The power of the truth,” Fiola went on. “That’s what our documentary is about. Your particular case, what happens with it, that remains in your hands.”

  “We’d love to go after him, track him down, look up his records—of course we would.” Jane went back to the couch, motioned Isabel to follow. “But we can’t name him simply because you say so. We’d need to get his side of the story.”

  “But…” Isabel frowned. His side? There was no other side.

  “There’s always another side,” Jane said, as if reading her thoughts. “And as journalists, Fiola and I need to explore them. But we can’t initiate an investigation at Adams Bay. That has to be done by you. If we reported it to Edward Tarrant, or whoever, he’d—”

  “He’d throw us out.” Fiola sat in the side chair.

  “I told him already,” Isabel said.

  “You did?” Fiola looked at Jane.

  “And told him your attacker’s name?” Jane asked.

  “Yes,” Isabel said. But now her new idea was weaving through her consciousness, taking hold. Maybe she had misjudged. Maybe there was an investigation, had been all along, and she just didn’t know about it. How could they not investigate? She’d asked them to. Maybe soon, they’d come to her, and she’d tell what she knew—as much as she knew, which wasn’t everything, but maybe it was enough, and then it would be over.

  Yes, she had her “Someday” file. And someday, she could use it. Maybe. But maybe she wouldn’t have to.

  She turned to Jane. “Yes, I told him. And so far, nothing’s happened. But maybe these things take time.”

  “Possible.” Jane seemed to agree.

  “So maybe I won’t say anything.” Much safer, Isabel decided. Go by the book. Wait for Tarrant. Don’t make waves. She knew these two would be disappointed, but she had to do what was best for her. For herself. For her brand-new in-control self. “I’m so sorry. But I think I’ll wait for the investigation.”

  Fiola stood, looking unhappy. “But you already—”

  “You know what? Fiola, sorry to interrupt,” Jane said. “But I just had a thought. Isabel? If you could go back to that night, would you do anything differently? Or, knowing what you know now, would you have any advice for other young women?”

  “That’s what our doc is about, exactly,” Fiola said. “Not about the investigation of your case, but allowing you to help other people. Are you interested in that?”

  Was she? All her newfound resolve deflated, reversed, and changed direction. Could she use her power for good? If she could help someone else, even one person, would that make up for her horrible horrible imprisonment in this apartment, all those days, all those crossed-off days on her calendar … might they mean something if she spoke up? But then her story would be out there.

  “But wouldn’t it be out of my control, then?” Control, Isabel realized, was what had kept her sane all these months. Inside, where she knew what was where and what would happen. She could control herself, and where she went and what she said.

  “Control?” Jane had a funny look on her face, like she was considering something.

  “Yes. That’s why I don’t … like to go outside. To keep control. And even if I’m in silhouette, my story will be out there. Then I’m not in control of it anymore.”

  “I have an idea,” Jane said. “Of what you might do to keep control. You have to be brave, Isabel. But you are brave. Or we wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  36

  JANE RYLAND

  Jane opened her condo’s front door as Jake’s key clicked through the dead bolt. Watch-cat Coda had padded into the foyer before Jane heard anything, sensing the arrival of someone who wasn’t completely enthusiastic about her species.

  Jane had followed, eager to give Jake the full view of her new ensemble. More of a camisole and sweatpants girl, Jane could never quite relate to dressing up in a lacy something to entice a guy. It seemed so unspontaneous. “Lingerie” was a word from the fifties, and clothing hyped as “seductive” always turned out to be uncomfortable. Or cold. But this was going to be hilarious.

  “What do you think? How do I look?” Jane posed, cover-girl hand on hip, attempting to convey wide-eyed innocence. Which lasted about half a second.

  Jake stood, slack-jawed, in the open doorway. Then burst out laughing. Coda tried to make a run for it, but he scooped her up, not taking his eyes off Jane. And continued to laugh.

  “Laughter? Laughter?” she pretend-criticized. She adored his laugh—so carefree, his eyes crinkling. After this long, ridiculous day, his dear face was such a treat, and she couldn’t wait to kick back with him. Forget everything. He always made it easy. “That’s all you got? Laughter?”

  “No, no, you always look great.” Jake leaned in, kissed her on the cheek, then stood back, arm’s length, giving her a head-to-toe once-over. He frowned. “Um. It’s … kind of a new look for you. I’m not used to all the … legs.”

  “Do I look like a college girl?” Jane twirled, then paused so he could get the full view from the back. Facing him again, she extended one pointed toe. “See? Really short skirt, little boots, tank top?”

  Silence.

  Now it was Jane’s turn to laugh.

  “I wish you could see your face, poor thing.” Jane stood like herself again. “But seriously. It’s a disguise. A college-girl disguise. Okay, I know, I’m thirty-four. But like, in the dark? And maybe I went back to school, after I toured Europe?”

  “Long trip,” Jake said. “But, sure. No question. It’s certainly possible, honey. Can I come in? I got you a cat.”

  He held out the writhing Coda and closed the door behind them, the cat skittering away down the hall. After a while they untangled from a proper greeting, Jane’s knees as always going to jelly and the cares and stresses of the day disappearing, then stayed arm in arm as they headed for the kitchen. She needed to tell him about her c
ourt appearance, the non-identification, then thinking she was off the hook, then being told she wasn’t.

  First things first. Food.

  “The usual?” she asked. “Have you had dinner? I haven’t—which is a situation, food-wise. We could call Gormay?” Which reminded her of court again, so maybe not. “Unless you’re up for peanut butter toast with your beer.”

  “Perfect,” Jake said. “Goes with wine, too. Want some? You okay with PB toast?”

  “Sure. You know I love to cook.” She did, actually, only she never had time. Jane took out bread, made sure it wasn’t green. Jake’s head was in the fridge, his voice muffled.

  “Want to tell me about that outfit? Being a trained professional, I have cleverly determined that you’re not trying to seduce me. That having been well accomplished.” He poured her Shiraz, twisted open his IPA.

  “I seduced you?” She turned, pointing the peanut butter knife at him. “I don’t think so, buster. I seem to clearly remember—”

  “Whatever,” he interrupted. “So—the skirt? The legs?”

  “It’s such a good idea,” she began. She pushed down the toaster thing, turned the dial to “medium,” and continued, “For our story. Fee and I interviewed this Adams Bay girl—she’s a senior, actually, so a woman. Anyway, it’s complicated. I’ll tell you the whole thing someday.”

  The toast popped up. Jane checked it, pushed it down again.

  “I hate toasters. They never toast. So. The student. We’re going with her, and some other Adams Bay women, to a college party. Tomorrow night. Great, huh? I’m wearing this so I don’t stick out like a … well, whatever. Maybe I’ll work on it a little.”

  Jake made a sound.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. You were saying. About not sticking out.”

  “You’re just freaked out about being with such a hot younger woman.” She gave a little wiggle, but Jake simply laughed again.

  “Fine. Maybe I’ll wear glasses or something. A-ny-way. It’s in a public place, not like a sorority house, so I’ll take a little Quik-Shot, hide it in my purse. Fiola, too. We’ll get authentic atmosphere. The talking, the drinking, the hookups.” Jane took a sip of her wine. “Yum. Thank you.”

  “And the drugs, no doubt.” Jake had stopped laughing, and was twisting his beer bottle on the kitchen counter. “At Adams Bay.”

  The toast popped up again.

  “Come on,” Jane said. But she wasn’t really annoyed at the toast. She should never have told Jake, not until this was a fait accompli. He was always unhappy when she went undercover. Nervous. He’d been trained to do it, he always argued, she hadn’t. Now, from the look on his face, he was obviously about to try to talk her out of it.

  “Honey? Listen, okay? We don’t know what’s going on at Adams Bay. The death in The Reserve.” He stopped. Pursed his lips.

  She loved his lips.

  “You trying to remember how much you’ve told me?” She pulled up a wicker stool, sat, then scooted her bare knees up to his. “Better get used to it, bub. To make this easier, it was last night. You said the victim’s name, Avery Morgan. And I also know she’s a—was a—visiting professor, found in her swimming pool.” She didn’t have to tell him how she knew that part.

  “I’m not even gonna ask,” he said, draining the last of the beer. “But say that’s right. Now you’re going to put yourself in the middle of who-knows-what over there?”

  Jane shook her head, quickly retrieved the browned toast between two fingers, put it on a blue-rimmed plate, and pushed down two more pieces, sucking her forefinger to prevent the burn. He was being protective of her, and she shouldn’t dismiss his concern. Even though she felt like it. This clinched it. No way would she tell him about the “SAY NO MORE” note. He’d go ballistic. For no reason. Well, probably for no reason.

  “Hon?” She looked him in the eyes to prove she was open to him. “You truly think there’s any danger? I honestly don’t. I mean, there’s dozens of murders a year in Boston. It doesn’t keep us all hiding inside. And I’m perfectly capable of—”

  A knock on the door. They both turned, surprised. How’d someone get into the building without buzzing?

  “Expecting someone?” Jake asked.

  “Nope,” she said. The toast popped again, but Jane headed for the door, Jake right behind her. She felt more secure, she had to admit, not being here alone. The residual unease from this afternoon’s hearing still clung to her—even the stupid note, she had to admit—coloring everything in worrisome emotional gray. I need food and sleep, she thought. And Jake.

  She peered through the peephole, Coda hovering at her feet, and Jake, now carrying the peanut butter jar, at her shoulder.

  “Hey, Neen,” she said, opening the door.

  The building super, in her usual yoga pants and toting year-old baby Sam tucked into a Snugli, held out a sheaf of papers.

  “Brought your mail,” Neena said. “From the box and the lobby table. And floor. You always forget it, and somehow Sam goes to sleep better if I walk up and down the stairs.”

  “Seems like that ought to make you tired, not him,” Jake said. He scooped up the escaping Coda again. “Hey, Neena. Want a cat?”

  “Thanks, Neen, come in,” Jane said. “It’s always junk and The New Yorker, so getting the mail only makes me feel guilty about all that paper.”

  Jane tossed the newly arrived stuff on the dining room table with the rest of her piles.

  “That table’s an archeological dig,” Jake said.

  “Happy to have you clean it up,” Jane said. “Feel free.”

  “So: Halloween, I’m guessing?” Neena bounced baby Sam as she examined Jane’s outfit. “It’s two months away. Are you going as Sorority Barbie?”

  “See?” Jane said, pointing to Jake. “It works. I look like college.”

  Neena eyed Jake. Then took a step backward, dramatically shielding baby Sam’s eyes. “Or—are you two role-playing? Yeesh, sorry. Yeah, I see the peanut butter.”

  “Good idea,” Jake said. “Jane’ll be the schoolgirl, I’ll be G.I. Joe.”

  “No, come on, it’s for work,” Jane said. “Really.”

  “I’ll leave you guys alone.” Neena opened the door. “To ‘work.’”

  “Bye, Neena,” Jane said, giving baby Sam a quick kiss. It was pretty funny, she thought, playing the student and the macho guy roles. But then again, was it?

  She turned to Jake, clearing her thoughts as they went back to the kitchen. The place smelled like beer and toast and peanut butter, which, right now, was comforting and safe and divine. She was happy, and lucky, and she shouldn’t forget that.

  Jake had twisted open another beer—two was his limit on school nights—and tossed the cap into the wastebasket.

  “Where were we?” she asked. “Oh, yeah, so, seriously. I’ll be fine. We’re going in a group.”

  Jane slathered peanut butter on a now-lukewarm piece of toast, the overcooked edges crumbling. She hated toasters. “And listen. The college girls? They’ve got a—”

  Wait. Should she tell Jake about the creep list? Maybe not.

  “They’ve got a group of women who go places together,” she papered over the end of her sentence. “Watch out for each other. I’ll be with them. Really, it’ll be fine.” She broke her toast in half, took a test bite.

  Jake kept his whole and ate it in three chomps.

  “I’ll say my name is June.” She paused, took a sip of wine. “Hi!” she said, as perky as she could manage with a mouthful of peanut butter. “I’m … June. June Runion from—”

  “Don’t stay out too late, June.” Jake stood, wrapped one arm over her shoulders. “I think you’ll have ‘homework’ waiting for you here.”

  “I love homework, G.I. Joe,” she purred, tucking herself into the curve of his arm. “And you’ll be here when I get back tomorrow night, right?”

  She felt his body tense, felt his breathing change. She’d known him for what, just over a year? She’d m
ade peace with his imperious mother, played tennis with his father, shared her hopes and fears and loves with his Gramma Brogan. She knew how he twitched when he was dreaming, recognized the faraway expression that meant he was mentally working a case. And right now, she could tell from his layered silence that something was up.

  “Jake?” She was almost afraid to move, but she did, turning to face him. He smelled of peanut butter. She must, too.

  “Yeah.” Jake closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them, the twinkle was gone. “Situation. I might have to go out of town.”

  37

  EDWARD TARRANT

  Almost fricking midnight. Edward Tarrant tried to look welcoming, tried to look loving, tried to look like the affectionate husband of a weary-but-devoted spouse and the son-in-law of a conscientious college president who’d cut their vacation short to handle an emergency. Not only had said relatives’ flight been ridiculously late, but they’d clearly been the last to deplane. His ass hurt from the plastic airport seats. If he never saw another cup of coffee again it’d be too soon, and he’d gotten fifty thousand texts from Sasha Vogelby.

  We need to talk, she’d written. And then: When can we talk?

  Who the hell would text someone at this time of night?

  Another text pinged. Are you ignoring me? Do not ignore me! With an exclamation mark, like a schoolgirl.

  Certainly he was ignoring her. And her badgering texts. He’d call her—no, show up at her office so he could read her face—tomorrow. He didn’t give a shit what she wanted. Only the attention-hungry Sasha Vogelby could use someone else’s death—unconnected to her, and none of her business—to grab the spotlight for herself.

  The good news? She’d leave him the hell alone as soon as Brinn was back in town. More good news: no cops had called him. And no reporters. The eleven o’clock TV shows, headlined and bursting with stories about a Red Sox win, had come and gone without a mention of Avery Morgan. He’d watched it all from the corner stool of the Take-Off Bar, having bribed the bartender with a five to turn up the volume.