Say No More

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Roger Hayden,” Willow whispered. “I told you, from the beginning.…”

  Tom nodded. “I know. I know. I started thinking, though. He’s the only person who could know that she was here and we were here. And God knows what he might have said or concocted or lied about. I mean, you and I had been here for a month before she arrived. What if there was more to it? Maybe Hayden had arranged it. Then sent Avery himself! To threaten us! And when he ratted us out, the police would put two and two together and might blame me for Avery’s death, figure that I was trying to keep her quiet.”

  Willow frowned, remembering. It couldn’t have been Tom she’d seen at the pool that morning. “But—”

  “Let me finish. That’s why I never wanted to ‘meet’ Avery. What if she recognized me? You insisted you hadn’t seen anyone at the pool, so you couldn’t say it wasn’t me. I’d been walking on the Common, so I had no great alibi. Once the police suspected me, questioned me, our life would be over. For real, this time. Last night Olive told me you were running, and part of me was … relieved. But I had to go to the police, because what if they discovered you were missing? And I hadn’t reported it? When you finally came home last night, I truly believed you were Hayden. I was ready for him.”

  Tom, her dear strong Tom, was more paranoid than she was—and she’d ridiculously decided the crosswalk man was a blue-blazered assassin. She almost laughed, but nothing was funny. Tom was in anguish. Exactly as she had been. “But you didn’t do it! They’d never have convicted you.”

  “Of course I didn’t. But convict an innocent man? It’s happened. Way too often.”

  Willow saw her husband sigh, then he stood, putting his hands on her bare shoulders. “I was terrified,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t want you to say anything. If you had told me the truth, from the beginning, about what you saw, we could have—”

  “But I couldn’t! I was worried about you!” She leaned into his soft, strong chest, her words muffled in his still-pristine new white T-shirt. “What would happen if I told, and they found out who we were?”

  “I was worried about you,” Tom said. “If they accused me, and I couldn’t prove it wasn’t me, what would happen to you, and—”

  “Shhhh,” Willow whispered. The scrapbook was safely hidden but still accessible to them, just like their pasts. “We’ll tell the truth, and go on with our lives, and never keep anything from each other again.”

  53

  EDWARD TARRANT

  Eight-thirty now, Adams Bay would be coming to life. Certainly the press would arrive on news of Trey, and the spinning that came so naturally to Edward Tarrant would be under way. He’d manage, with eloquent sorrow and oh-so-deeply-felt regret. Avery’s murder was “solved,” thanks to Sasha’s quick thinking, and as she’d explained, in the after-hours conversation that bound her to him forever, it wasn’t really murder.

  So now there was nothing but smooth sailing ahead. Trey was out of the picture one way or the other, Brinn would never know about Avery, he and Sasha were protected by mutually assured destruction, and all was right with the world.

  What Sasha Vogelby wanted with him—some “future”—that was yet to wrangle. But he could keep her quiet, too. No matter what he had to do.

  Edward swirled the last of the amber oolong in the delicate china cup, the scrolled handle almost too small for his hands, but he used it almost as a tribute. Part of a gift from a grateful family, a bequest, given in gratitude for his compassionate advice about the delicate situation in which their daughter had entangled herself. It had come with a check, made out to “Cash.” Which it soon had become. Off the books.

  “You make your own bed,” Edward said out loud, to no one, taking the last exotic sip, the comforting morning silence of his office, his second home, surrounding him. He’d come in early, putting off the clingy and questioning Brinn, pleading the complicated “firefighting” that was certain to come. Those cops, reliably morons, had arrested Trey Welliver. Had to admit, Sasha’s idea was delightfully clever. Trey was guilty of rape, of that Tarrant was certain—the idiot boy had bragged about it. If Tarrant had turned him over to authorities for that last May, his punishment would not have been much less harsh than it would be now. Trey was guilty, so who cared guilty of precisely what?

  He heard the door to the outer office open. Must be Manderley, here early for once. She’d be gone when the fall semester started next week, and he’d hardly miss her. She probably would want a recommendation. Pretty enough girl, but no commitment. No spark. Pity.

  His intercom buzzed. “Mr. Tarrant?”

  Who else would it have been? “Yes?”

  “May I speak with you, briefly?”

  “Come,” he said. The recommendation, no doubt.

  Edward stood, went to his casement window, the double tall panes sliding open to the summer morning. He let the air conditioner continue to hum, a waste, he supposed, but the school could afford it, and there was nothing like the glorious hubbub of Kenmore Square waking up, the sunshine on his face, this window, higher than some of the treetops, the scurrying colors of the pedestrians below.

  The office door opened. Manderley. And—he narrowed his eyes—another student, a girl. And another one. Elaine something, maybe.

  “Mr. Tarrant,” Manderley began.

  “Ah. Do you all have an appointment?” Tarrant was certain they didn’t. There were, what, four of them now? Girls, Manderley fronting a trio of others, Elaine, that was right, then a skinny black girl in a Yale sweatshirt, and a wacko with pink hair. He remembered her now, too, Rochelle, or Michelle. Rochelle.

  “We don’t exactly,” Manderley was saying. She’d stepped into his office, the others following her, and they stood, in a row, facing him.

  What was this?

  “Do you remember me?” Rochelle.

  She better not have decided to go public with her “case,” he thought. Her parents had been particularly kind.

  “To what do I owe the—”

  “I said—do you remember me?”

  “Or me?” This one was Elaine, he was fairly certain.

  “Please take a seat,” Tarrant said, stalling. If he went behind his desk it would give him more of the power position, but it didn’t seem appropriate to move. It might seem weak, as if he were barricading himself from them. An edge of floor-length linen curtain caught in a sudden breeze, nudged him, and he stepped away from the window.

  “You’re…” He tried to look sheepish. Held out his hands, so apologetic. “Forgive me, so many students want—”

  “We’ve come to chat with you,” Manderley actually interrupted him. “About what you’re doing to us.”

  “To the women who relied on you. Who trusted you.”

  “We came to you.” Elaine. Right. “When we were raped.”

  He gasped at the word. It sounded so harsh.

  “Raped,” Yale sweatshirt repeated. “I was eighteen years old. I will never, ever, ever be the same. And you—”

  “Covered it the hell up.” Rochelle again.

  “And we are going to tell.” Manderley took a step closer to him, and he backed up a bit, had to. His phone was on his desk, but no need to call security, what could these silly girls do? Let them talk it out. He could handle it.

  “Moreover, we know about the others.” Manderley pulled out a notebook, flipped it open. “I listened to every one of your phone conversations this summer. Every one,” she said. “And Sarah—you remember Sarah? Your last semester’s assistant. She listened, too. Starting in May. When Trey Welliver bragged to you what he’d done to poor Isabel Russo. We know she told you, too. But what did you do? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”

  “Listened to my conversations?” Edward tried to process this, remember what he’d said. And to whom. Although he knew full well, knew every parent and every student, every word. Every result. Not only assaults, but how many harassments, drug deals, illicit pill sales, shopliftings, and dorm thefts had he smoothed over this year? Seven?
Eight? More? Still. The audacity. “How dare you!”

  With one swift motion, he’d done it: grabbed the notebook out of Manderley’s hand and flung it, with one wide sweep of his arm, out the window. The girls pushed forward, watched the pages of the spiral notebook flap and flutter, sixteen stories down, to the sidewalk below.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tarrant.” Manderley had not moved. She stood, hands on hips, smiling.

  Smiling?

  “Because, Mr. Tarrant, that one action proves you are guilty, proves you are complicit, proves you—”

  “Are the biggest asshole in the history of the planet,” Elaine said.

  “And, Mr. Tarrant,” Manderley said. “First of all, that’s not the real notebook. Don’t you watch TV?”

  Tarrant’s guts were beginning to churn. His face … he could feel it reddening with a rush of blood and fear and the struggle to stay calm, stay in control. Fight this fire.

  “Sit down, ladies.” Tarrant gestured them to his chairs, his beautiful chairs, and wondered how this would all end. He’d handled more difficult things. Maybe.

  “Screw you,” pink-haired Rochelle said. “You’re going to come clean. You’re going to call the police. You’re going to tell them all you know. We are not victims. Our friends aren’t either. Not anymore.”

  “Agreed,” he said. Okay, this could work, he would manage this. It was a negotiation. He’d negotiate. He felt his muscles relax a bit. There was light at the end. They’d never want their stories to go public. He’d use that. Use their fear of having to tell their pitiful stories to the entire world, to reporters, in open court. Use their secret fears of being branded damaged goods. That’s why his plan had worked in the first place. Such humiliation would be unbearable. “Please, have a seat, and we’ll talk like civilized people. Talk about what’s best for you.”

  The girls did not sit. Did not move.

  “And to be clear, Mr. Tarrant.” Manderley was not as pretty as he’d once thought. “I mean I have listened to all your phone calls. I know about Avery Morgan. What you did, the two of you. Where you were. Where your wife thought you were. Where your father-in-law thought you were.”

  “Tell the rest, Man,” Yale said.

  “And of course the…” Manderley gestured at the room, her motion taking in the rug, and the china, the books, his pen, his shoes. His sport coat carefully hanging on its molded mahogany rack. “The money. The gifts. From grateful parents.”

  “Like mine.”

  “Like mine.”

  “Like mine.”

  Each voice, a bullet.

  “Does your father-in-law know about that?” Manderley asked. “He’s our next visit, by the way.”

  “No,” Tarrant said. “Stop. Don’t do that.”

  “No? Stop?” Manderley laughed. “Oh, please.”

  “You mean it, don’t you? Because when you say no, the other person is supposed to stop, aren’t they?” Rochelle’s smile was a sneer. “But sometimes, guess what. They fricking don’t.”

  “Unless…” Elaine held up a cell phone, as if offering it to him to make a call. “Unless you can come up with a better solution.”

  These bitches. These little fucking bitches were not going to ruin his—no. It didn’t matter. He could handle them. He could deal with this. They were teenagers. Students. He was the dean of goddamned students. And they’d better get out of his office.

  “After that, we have an appointment with your wife.” Manderley again. “Trey Welliver wasn’t the only one taking photos at Professor Morgan’s party.”

  “You little—” He took a step forward. He could take them all. His fists clenched. “If you don’t—”

  “Oh dear.”

  Manderley actually laughed. Laughed at him!

  “More violence on campus.” She turned to the others. “Interesting reaction, don’t you think? Did you get that, Elaine?”

  She held up her cell phone again. “Rolling and recording,” Elaine said. “I got it all. When he told us ‘No,’ and ‘Stop,’ that was my favorite part. So far.”

  “Or maybe we should just call your wife from here?” Manderley said. “I have her private number. Should we do that?”

  His head throbbed, and his arm throbbed, and maybe he was having a heart attack? But no such luck—it would have made everything so much easier—but no, he was enraged, and furious, and fuming, but alive, and backed against the wall. There was no way out. Brinn, and his father-in-law, and the humiliation, and the headlines, and the wrath of the entire …

  He blinked, looking at the finally silent line of attacking girls, thinking about what they knew, and what they planned, and what was inevitable. But he could still fix it.

  “Will you give me until this afternoon?” he said. “Say, three? And then … I’ll be in touch.”

  The four exchanged glances. A raised eyebrow. A shrug.

  “Whatever,” Elaine said.

  “Sure,” Manderley said. “And, Mr. Tarrant? I have my video with me. And there are copies.”

  The door closed behind them.

  Tarrant was alone. Alone.

  He turned, and without a look back and without another word, his decision was made and done and there was no other way. He felt the brush of the filmy curtain and the grit of the wrought-iron balcony railing, looked down, down, down, and saw Manderley’s spiral notebook, its pages flapped by the unseen hand of a curious breeze. He felt the humid morning air and the last of the summer sun, and height, and space, and a touch of wind.

  54

  JANE RYLAND

  “It could be a false alarm.” Jane kept her voice low. Out in the corridor, bells and alarms still clanged.

  “One two three. One two three.” The robo-voice broadcast repeated the meaningless words in its unnervingly neutral tone. “One two three.”

  Isabel crouched beside her in the narrow dark confines of what seemed a linen closet. The tiny room smelled of bleach and lemon soap. Folds of terry cloth and cotton pressed against Jane’s bare arms. The lights were off, but the door wouldn’t lock.

  “One two three,” was all she heard on the hospital’s loudspeakers, some sort of code, obviously, but Jane had no idea what it meant. Certainly something not good—that she knew from Jake’s drawn weapon and his barked command for the two of them to hide. She knew it, too, from the anguish on his face.

  “Really, this stuff happens all the time,” she lied. Might as well try to reassure Isabel. Poor thing. “I’m in news, you know? It’s hardly ever anything.”

  “Can you see out?” Isabel whispered. “Is anyone there?”

  Jane inched up, flattening herself against the pitted metal of the door until she could peer through the tiny window. She felt around inside her tote bag for her cell phone. If she couldn’t see out, maybe someone on the outside could tell them what was going on. Plus, whatever the outcome, as a reporter she had to call the assignment desk. Let them know something was up at BCH. She tried to envision herself reporting the story, whatever it was, not someone else reporting her and Isabel as tragic victims of it.

  But the sliver of glass in the door was frustratingly narrow. She thought she could see white coats racing by, but when she tried to follow the action, the blur of whatever it was continued out of range. She had an inch, that was all, and all she could see was nothing.

  She blew out a breath, sank to the floor again. Hit speed dial. “Nothing,” she said, as the phone rang on the other end. “We’ll be fine, though, I’m sure.” She smiled, trying to convince herself as well as Isabel. “Probably a mistake, or some sort of drill.” She gestured in the almost-darkness. “And I have almonds in my purse. So we won’t die.”

  As long as it’s not anthrax or a bomb, or terrorists, she didn’t say. The Channel 2 assignment desk phone was still ringing. Why didn’t someone answer? The morning news was certainly on the air. But the desk coverage was notorious—the chatty desk assistants always went for coffee at the same time.

  “Jane?” Isabel’s voi
ce fell even softer, barely audible.

  “Hang on, I’m calling the station.” Jane put a confident smile in her voice, all intrepid reporter. “They’ll know more than we do.”

  “I guess,” Isabel whispered.

  “News 2.” At last.

  “It’s Ryland. Jane. Who’s this? You got anything going at BCH?” She draped one arm across Isabel’s shoulder, both of them sitting on the floor, knees to chest, backs against a metal shelf of folded linens. Hot in here now, stifling, but the least of her worries.

  “It’s Wu, noon producer,” the voice said. “Going on? Like what?”

  Jane bullet-pointed the whole thing: alarm, code, running white coats, closet. Wu was a veteran, thank goodness. He’d figure it out. At least they’d know where she was. Fiola would freak, but she’d get over it.

  “Wanna go live?” Wu asked. “You’re breaking news, and exclusive. Awesome. We’ll patch your call through to the control room, do the whole thing as a live news phoner.”

  Go live? From the closet? In the dark? With no information on an unknown incident that could turn out to be nothing? Hardly “awesome.” But Jane heard the news-lust in Wu’s voice. Welcome to local TV.

  “Can you find out what’s going on first?” Jane asked. “We—” She stopped. No need to mention she was with an Adams Bay student. “I can’t see anything. I don’t know anything. That wouldn’t be much of a story. Right?”

  “Don’t hang up,” Wu ordered. “I’ll get Marsh. He’ll decide. We got BCH PR on the line, and she’s talking. We’re sending a crew, but it’s gonna take twenty to get there. Probably longer. If it’s something, you’re all we got. Hang on. Don’t move.”

  “But—” Don’t move? She shifted in a vain attempt to keep her already-prickling legs from falling asleep. As if.