But then Eden opened the door and gasped.
From in the doorway, Hannah saw something wrapped in a towel, inside a plastic laundry basket. It was on fire. She heard a baby shrieking. For a few horrible seconds, she stood there paralyzed. She felt the heat on her face.
Eden dropped her laundry bag and ran to grab the small fire extinguisher bracketed to the wall by the Coke machine.
The room filled with smoke and the smell of burning plastic. The flames went out of control. A flower-patterned sheet on a nearby clothesline caught fire. The alarm went off with a deafening blare. It drowned out the baby’s cries.
Hannah rushed to the basket to try to smother the flames. But the searing heat was too much, and she couldn’t see past the thickening black smoke.
Eden struggled with the fire extinguisher and finally got it off the wall. But she obviously didn’t know how to operate it.
Choking on the fumes, Hannah kept thinking the baby would be dead before either one of them got to it.
Eden finally figured out how to use the extinguisher, which emitted a blast of dense white spray. She aimed it at the fiery sheet and then at the charred bundle inside the laundry basket. A grayish cloud billowed over half the laundry room, dousing the flames. Ember-like bits of burnt cloth flew around the room.
Covering her mouth, Hannah ran toward the burnt, partially melted plastic basket. She held her breath as her hands reached out for the scorched, small object swaddled in the towel. But then she saw that the blistered, blackened thing was just a doll.
Still, she had to touch it—just to make certain. The intense heat must have destroyed the mechanical crying device. The singed doll didn’t let out a peep as Hannah nudged it. But the plastic was still hot, and she burned her fingers.
“It’s a doll!” she cried, backing away toward the door. “It’s just a stupid doll!” She gagged and started to cough.
Eden tossed aside the fire extinguisher. It landed on the floor with a clank. Through the dissipating noxious smoke, her half-sister moved toward her. “Are you okay?” she yelled over the piercing alarm. Then Eden pulled her through the doorway.
Outside, Hannah finally caught her breath—at least for a few moments.
The alarm had brought at least a dozen girls out of their bungalows. They gathered near the pathway outside the laundry room. A few of them were in their robes or sweats. Hannah spotted Rachel and Alden coming up the road.
“Hannah? Eden? Is that you?” Rachel screamed over all of the noise. She started running toward them. Alden chased after her.
Still in shock, Hannah felt Rachel embrace her.
“Are you okay?” Rachel asked. “Are you both okay? What happened?”
“We’re all right,” Eden answered for the two of them.
Hannah began to cough again. She let Rachel and Alden lead her farther away from the smoky bungalow. She was still shaking. For a couple of minutes, she’d been certain that someone had set a baby on fire.
She noticed the janitor, Lance, had shown up. He ventured inside the laundry bungalow and shut off the alarm.
Hannah’s ears still rang from the blaring.
A campus security vehicle pulled up to the curb. A husky, forty-something, uniformed woman climbed out of the car. She was mumbling into a device clipped to her shoulder. But Hannah couldn’t hear what she said.
Meanwhile, several more girls had gathered around to see what all the commotion was about. A few of them were taking photos or videos with their smartphones.
Hannah could catch only snippets of what Eden said as she explained to Lance and the woman from campus security what had happened: “Someone set a doll on fire in a laundry basket...” That much Hannah heard.
Lance ducked back into the laundry room, and a few moments later, he emerged holding out the baby doll by its singed little arm.
A couple of the onlookers screamed. But a few others laughed.
Lance coughed. “Somebody’s idea of a joke,” he announced. He cleared his throat again. “The same thing happened here exactly fifty years ago tonight, same damn thing—only with a real baby. Sick, sick joke.”
Hannah felt Rachel squeeze her shoulder.
She heard a siren in the distance. She glanced toward the entrance to St. Agnes Village.
She couldn’t see the fire truck yet, but its swirling red strobe seemed to light up the horizon.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Friday, September 11, 3:33 P.M.
Ellie was in a lousy mood.
It didn’t help that the girl in line in front of her at Campus Grounds had waved her boyfriend to come join her. He butted in front of Ellie without so much as a glance at her, and then he ordered some concoction that took the barista forever to fix. Now he had his credit card out to pay for it. His girlfriend had already paid for her coffee and found a table. Ellie was just itching to tell the guy that the “we’re together” excuse some couples used so that one of them could butt in line was bullshit—and totally unacceptable when the couple paid separately.
Jerks.
Ellie tried to remember if she’d ever pulled that “we’re a couple” entitlement routine on people when she was married to Mark. Probably. But she couldn’t imagine she’d been this rude about it.
She wasn’t really upset at the couple. They’d merely added to her frustration today.
Her two o’clock Introduction to Journalism class hadn’t gone quite the way she’d wanted it to.
She knew in her gut that Nicholas Jensen hadn’t enrolled in the class to sharpen his writing skills—as he’d claimed. But she still couldn’t figure out what his angle was. She’d examined over three hundred mug shots, photos, and police sketches, and couldn’t come up with anyone who had even a passing resemblance to Nicholas Jensen. She’d googled him again and still didn’t find anything that might shed some light on who he really was.
She’d gone back to the bursar’s office in Emory Hall and made a copy of Nicholas Jensen’s registration record. His emergency contact was listed as Sarah Jensen (sister) with a local 847 area code. Ellie had called the number five times in the past twenty-four hours, and it had just rung and rung. No answer. No machine had picked up.
He’d sat in the back row again today, wearing a vintage-looking Hawaiian shirt with pineapples on it. On anyone else, she might have thought it looked kitschy-cute, but on him, it looked tacky. He was the second student she called on. Ellie noticed when she’d said his name—first, Mr. Jensen, and then, Nicholas—he failed to react right away. Either Nicholas Jensen wasn’t his real name or his hearing was atrocious.
For the homework assignment, he’d brought in a news article about a proposed levy for the local public schools. She had him read the first three paragraphs and then describe why he’d chosen it as an example of good reporting.
From his seat in the back row, he read the beginning of the piece, and then added, “I thought the writing was clear and concise, and very informative.”
“So ordinarily, you wouldn’t be interested in local politics?” Ellie asked.
“Not even remotely,” he replied. “I figured that was the point to the assignment—to pick a well-written article I wouldn’t ordinarily find interesting.”
“So local politics isn’t your thing. Have you lived here on the North Shore for long?”
He hesitated before answering, “A couple of years.”
“And what kind of work do you do?”
“I’m self-employed.”
“Doing what?”
He gave a cryptic smile. “Well, it has nothing to do with local schools or local politics. But after reading this article, I felt I knew something about the proposed levy. So I think the woman who wrote this piece did an excellent job of reporting.”
He’d cleverly evaded her question. Still, it was obvious he didn’t want to talk about his job—if he had one.
Eden O’Rourke was blessedly quiet and non-confrontational during the class. Ellie made it a point not to call on her.
As the hour ended, Jensen got to his feet and made a beeline toward the door. That was just fine with Ellie. She wanted to talk to Hannah—without him hanging around again. She wanted to apologize for letting it slip about Hannah’s and Eden’s scholarships coming courtesy of Rachel Bonner. Also, she’d heard Hannah and Eden had put out a fire in one of the bungalows in St. Agnes Village, and she was curious about that.
Hannah must have wanted to talk to her, too, because as the others filed out of the classroom, she approached Ellie’s desk.
But just then, another student, Alicia, stepped in front of Hannah and proceeded to explain to Ellie in excruciating detail why she hadn’t been able to do the homework assignment.
Behind her, Hannah waited patiently, but then she started drifting toward the door.
“Excuse me, Alicia,” Ellie said. She glanced over at Hannah. “Hannah, did you want to see me?”
She seemed to work up a smile. “It’s okay. It can wait. Have a nice weekend!” She hurried out of the classroom.
Alicia went on for another five minutes before she finally left.
Then Ellie had gathered her things and come here to Campus Grounds for her afternoon iced latte pick-me-up.
She was really sorry to have missed talking with Hannah. She cared about her. Hannah’s ambition to become an entertainment reporter might have seemed a bit shallow. But Ellie could tell she had a good heart. She just needed some more confidence—and someone to guide her. She’d been through some awful things that became very public. For someone unwillingly thrust into the limelight, she seemed refreshingly normal—and vulnerable.
In many ways, Hannah reminded her of Diana, someone in need of a big sister. Ellie wondered if this was going to become a yearly thing for her—picking out a student to befriend and help. But was she really trying to help the kid—or just trying to feel better about herself?
Ellie got her iced latte to go and headed for the exit.
“Ms. Goodwin?”
She stopped and turned to see the guy who had butted in front of her in line, sitting with his girlfriend. He stood up. “You probably don’t remember me, but my name’s Jeff Coughlin. I was in your business communications class last year, and—well, you were like one of the best teachers I’ve ever had. I learned so much from you about writing and how to communicate—in texts, emails, and letters. It’s been so helpful to me. Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you.”
Stunned, Ellie stared at him. “Well, thank you, Jeff. I—I really like hearing that. Thanks. It was nice to see you again.”
He gave a shy little wave. “Have a good weekend, Ms. Goodwin,” he said. Then he sat down with his girlfriend again.
Ellie hurried to the door. For some reason, she just wanted to cry. She should have been flattered the young man had paid her a compliment. But she kept thinking about how resentful she’d been at him and his girlfriend just a minute ago. Had they really been that rude? Or did they simply make her angry because they were a happy, young couple—and she was alone?
Ellie hadn’t realized just how bitter she still was over the way things had turned out.
She’d been riding high two years ago with her movie deal and all those awards for her arson series. Of course, it was unnerving to receive the hate mail, but that was at the newspaper, and it somehow felt separate from her personal life. Plus, she shared the emails and letters with her coworkers, so she didn’t feel so alone or scared.
She had her husband, Mark, at home about sixty percent of the time. He was a sports recruiter for Northwestern University and traveled a lot. But she always felt safe alone in their apartment in Evanston. She felt secure in their relationship, too. They’d been married for six years. Mark was a former jock, starting to get paunchy and losing his hair. When not on the road, he was happy to stay home with her and do nothing. She never felt like she had to worry about him. He seemed so devoted to her.
The buyout at the newspaper was like a gift. Ellie decided to freelance and focus on starting a family. They’d been putting it off for a while. Ellie felt it was finally time. Mark didn’t agree. He wanted to wait. He pointed out that, with his frequent traveling, he’d end up being a part-time dad—and that wouldn’t be fair to her or a baby.
Yet he had no plans to quit his job. So how long did he expect her to wait?
For the first time in their marriage, Ellie was genuinely disillusioned with him. And it lasted weeks and weeks—until she quite unintentionally got pregnant.
Mark did a shabby job covering his disappointment. He kept saying things like, “We’ll make the best of this” and “This is a new chapter in our lives,” which to Ellie sounded like lame bromides for coping with a tragedy. When she finally got fed up with his clichés and they had it out, Mark admitted that he felt betrayed. He kept throwing in her face the one percent odds of her getting pregnant with her IUD. He refused to believe she hadn’t tricked him somehow.
Even though he apologized later, everything he’d said was seared in her memory. Between his accusations and her morning sickness, Ellie was miserable.
After a couple of months, Mark seemed to come around. He even went out and bought a little yellow sweater for the baby—yellow, since they didn’t know the sex yet. Ellie kept thinking, His buying the baby sweater is a baby step.
Then one Wednesday, in the middle of the deli section at Mariano’s in Skokie, she started bleeding. She was grateful the employee restroom was clean. One of the cashiers was so sweet, helping her through the whole ordeal until Mark came. He drove her to the hospital at Northwestern.
He didn’t say anything, but Ellie knew he was secretly relieved about the miscarriage. At least, that was her impression. Then again, maybe she was just depressed, a little crazy, and looking for someone to be mad at. But Mark didn’t suggest they try to have another baby. It didn’t even come up as an option.
It was about a month after the miscarriage that he suggested they get “gussied up” and go out to a nice restaurant. She grudgingly gave Mark points for trying to make her happier and put some romance back into the marriage.
He’d gotten them a lovely, candlelit corner-table at Found Kitchen and Social House, an upscale eatery in Evanston with a bohemian-chic decor and a menu that included three different kinds of caviar.
The menu also had a small selection for kids. But it seemed unconscionable for anyone to bring a bratty, screaming preschooler to such an elegant place at nine o’clock on a Thursday night. But, apparently, the single mom seated on the other side of the restaurant thought it was perfectly okay. Mark had his back to the child and the mother—a vain-looking brunette in her late twenties. Ellie watched her, sipping red wine and checking her smartphone while her pajama-clad child ran amok, shrieking, laughing, and almost barreling into the waiters and waitresses. Ellie was annoyed, but also sort of amused by the whole thing.
Mark was just annoyed. Every time the little girl ran past their table, Mark would drop his fork on his plate and try to look over his shoulder at her. “Are you sure it’s just one kid back there?” he asked Ellie, exasperated. “Because it sounds like three kids—all high on Red Bull. I’m sorry, but this whole dinner is ruined. If I hear that brat scream one more time, I’m saying something to the manager. Where the hell is the mother anyway?”
“She’s been on her phone for the last twenty minutes.” Ellie took another gulp of wine.
She couldn’t help thinking that Mark wouldn’t have been a very patient father. Of course, it was always different with one’s own kid. And he’d made such a big deal out of this dinner tonight, wanting it to be perfect. Small wonder he was furious. He wasn’t the only one either; nearly everyone else in the restaurant looked perturbed.
“Do you still want to have a kid?” he asked pointedly as he cut into his pork chop.
Ellie frowned at him. “Yes, just not that model. Besides, I don’t think we’d be the type of parents who wouldn’t care if everyone hated our child.”
The little girl almo
st collided with a waiter carrying a tray of drinks. He managed to sidestep her without any spillage. But she let out a shriek anyway.
“Jesus Christ!” Mark hissed, finally getting to his feet and swiveling around.
“Honey, don’t make a fuss,” Ellie whispered. She glanced over at the mother across the restaurant. She was staring at them.
“Daddy!” the youngster suddenly cried. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”
Mark seemed to freeze. He just stood there with his hand on the back of the chair while the little girl ran toward him, her arms open. She hugged his leg.
Bewildered, Ellie glanced again at the brunette seated on the other side of the room.
Even from that distance, Ellie could see the tiny smirk on her face.
Her name was Ashley, and she was twenty-nine. She lived in a two-bedroom apartment near Lincoln Square with her four-year-old, Chloe.
It turned out Mark didn’t mind being a part-time father after all. For years, he’d been visiting Ashley and his daughter. He’d spent the night with them at least four or five times a month—when Ellie had thought he’d been out of town on business. Sometimes he’d stayed with his mistress and his daughter for an entire weekend, like they were a regular family.
Apparently, Ashley had had enough of the skulking around. Mark had mistakenly mentioned to her that he was taking Ellie to Found. So Ashley had shown up with their rambunctious child, knowing Chloe would eventually spot her daddy.
It was a gamble that paid off for Ashley and Chloe—and even for Mark. He moved in with them, hired some ruthless shark of a divorce lawyer, and actually ended up with a big chunk of Ellie’s movie money. She’d been stupid enough to put it in their joint account.
By the time the movie deal had fizzled and Ellie took refuge in the teaching job at Our Lady of the Cove, her ex-husband and Ashley were married. And soon after that, Ashley announced on social media that she was pregnant.
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