The Last Good Girl

by Allison Leotta

  He looked uncomfortable. “That would be about eight weeks ago. At my birthday dinner. We had a—a bit of a falling-out.”

  “About what?”

  “I told her that Kristen and I are getting married. Suffice it to say, Emily didn’t approve.”

  Kristen looked down demurely, but before she did, Anna saw triumph flash across her pierced brow.

  “And you haven’t spoken to your daughter since then?”

  “Correct.”

  Angry footsteps clicked down the marble foyer. An elegant woman in her midfifties strode into the room. She wore tasteful beige pants, an ivory blouse, and a well-coiffed salt-and-pepper bob. Anna recognized her from the pictures: Beatrice Shapiro. Emily’s mother. Barney’s wife—or ex-wife, depending on what stage their lawyers were in.

  Anna and Sam stood to greet her, but Beatrice ignored them. She stood directly in front of her husband, who also stood. They did not touch.

  “Barney.” Her voice was low and carefully controlled.

  “Beatrice.” His tone matched hers. “I told you, you didn’t need to come.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You have no idea what I need. Or what Emily needs.”

  “Look, you don’t need to fly in here just because Emily took a little frolic and detour. Did you check around your Buddhist retreat? Maybe she’s just off ‘finding herself’ too.”

  Beatrice shook her head. “You are the world’s biggest asshole.”

  Kristen stood and whispered something in Barney’s ear. He nodded and spoke to Beatrice. “How did you get into this house?”

  “Aspiring Trophy Wife might’ve changed the locks,” Beatrice said, “but she didn’t check with the courts. This is still my house; my name is still on the papers. I had a locksmith make me an extra key last time I was in town.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “Beatrice, for the hundredth time, I’m sorry to have hurt you. But this is going to be Kristen’s home soon. I bought you out of your half of the estate. You’re going to have to give us some privacy so we can all move on with our lives.”

  “You think you can just throw money at me and make it all go away.” Beatrice’s voice rose. “It’s not about money. It’s about lies and broken promises. It’s—”

  Anna held up her hands, one palm pointed at each parent. “Excuse me. If you don’t mind, could you please discuss your separation later? We need to focus on Emily now.”

  Beatrice blinked, then nodded. “Of course. That’s why I came here despite my husband’s suggestion that I was not needed.” She introduced herself to Anna and Sam, then sat in an armchair across from the couch. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

  Anna summarized what they knew.

  “Her purse in the Pit!” Beatrice glared at her husband. “This is not some ‘frolic and detour,’ Barney. For an intelligent man, you can be such a moron.”

  Sam held her hands up. “Please, let’s try to stay civil. For the sake of your daughter. Take ten deep breaths.”

  Beatrice did as she was told, closing her eyes and putting her hand on her chest as she breathed. It seemed to help. “Thank you,” she said, opening her eyes.

  “You don’t happen to know the password on her phone, do you?” Anna asked. Both parents shook their heads.

  “If you give us permission to unlock the phone, we’ll have a much easier time convincing Apple to let us in.”

  “Of course,” Barney said.

  Anna handed him a consent form. He skimmed it then signed, as calmly as signing a credit card charge at the supermarket. Anna took the form and handed it to Beatrice, so the warring spouses wouldn’t have to touch each other.

  Beatrice signed it then asked, “Do you know who the boy in the videos is?”

  “His name is Dylan Highsmith.”

  Finally, Barney reacted. He flinched. “As in Robert Highsmith’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  His Adam’s apple pulsed up and down the length of his throat. Interesting that this was the first time Barney had shown any fear involving his daughter’s disappearance.

  “I should have known,” Beatrice said.

  “What do you mean?” Anna asked.

  “That boy is a menace.” Beatrice pulled her own phone out of her purse. She moved to sit next to Anna on the couch. She went to her videos, then swiped until she found the one she was looking for. The date on the video was September 2, 2014, at 6:48 A.M. About six months ago. The frame was frozen on Emily’s face, blurry and obscured with the triangular play button. “After we separated,” Beatrice said, “I went to California. I had to get away from Barney and his midlife crisis. But Emily and I would Skype at least once a week. She called me god-awful early on her second day as a freshman. Apparently, she’d gone to some party the night before and had just stumbled home. She was so distraught, I recorded the Skype call.”

  Beatrice pressed play. On-screen, Emily’s face became animated, red, and sobbing. She was sitting at a desk in a dorm room. Behind her was a stone fireplace. The windows were pale gray, suffused with early morning light.

  “Emily, my poor baby,” said Beatrice’s voice on the video. “Try to calm down enough to talk. I can’t understand what you’re saying. First wipe your nose.”

  Emily snuffled and reached for something offscreen. Her hand came back with a tissue. She blew her nose into it.

  “There you go,” said Beatrice. “Now tell me what’s going on.”

  Emily took a deep breath. “I went to a party last night.”

  “Okay.”

  “I think—I think—something terrible happened.”

  “Honey, what?”

  “Oh God.” She started crying again. “I don’t want to be that girl.”

  “What girl?”

  “The girl who got raped!”

  “Emily! Oh my goodness. What happened?”

  On-screen, Emily lowered her face to the desk and cried even harder. Only the top of her head was visible, brown hair shaking in tempo with her sobs. Beatrice let her daughter cry for several minutes, until her sobbing quieted and she raised her head. Her eyes were so puffy, they were just slits.

  “I danced with him,” Emily whispered. “I thought he was cute. I thought he liked me. Shit, I’m so stupid.”

  “Em, I need you to back up. Where were you?”

  “A party. My first college party! What a joke.”

  “Okay, so you’re dancing, at a party. And then what?”

  “He gives me a drink. The Killer Heart Throb, he calls it. Red and fruity, really sweet. He asks if I want to see his fish tank. I say sure. I’m going up the stairs one minute—and the next thing—I wake up. I’m in his bed. And he’s there on top of me—inside me.”

  “Wait, honey. Are you saying he was having sex with you?”

  “Yes!”

  “Did you—well, did you want to?”

  “No! I didn’t want to have sex with anyone! It was my first night out! I opened my eyes and this kid is on top of me, his face is a few inches from mine and he’s pumping away. I said no. No! I pushed his chest. He shoved his tongue in my mouth. I blacked out again.”

  “Oh, my poor baby. How much had you had to drink?”

  “Some. But the way I just suddenly blacked out—I’m thinking—he drugged me? Bill Cosby style.”

  “Oh my God.”

  Emily started to cry again. Anna glanced up at the girl’s father, who was listening to his daughter describe being raped. His face was contorted. Anna wondered if this was the first time he’d seen this video. Kristen massaged his arm and whispered something in his ear. He shook his head.

  On-screen, Beatrice asked, “How did you get out of there?”

  “I woke up, trapped,” Emily said between sobs. “He was sleeping with his arm draped over me, like we were some happy couple. Right next to the bed there was a big fish tank full of these little sharks. They swam around in circles, looking at me like I was something to eat. I climbed out from under his arm, threw on my clothes, and ran out
of there.”

  “Good,” Beatrice said. “Do you know the boy’s name?”

  “Dylan.”

  “Dylan what?”

  Emily looked away from the camera, bit her lip, then looked back again. “Highsmith.”

  “Oh,” Beatrice said. “I see.”

  “What does that mean?” Emily’s voice was louder.

  “Nothing, honey.”

  “I know who he is, Mom.”

  “Okay. Where did it happen?”

  “At a fraternity house.” Emily paused. She whispered, “Beta Psi.”

  Beatrice gasped. “Your father’s house.”

  “It’s not about him,” Emily said wearily.

  “You have to report this.”

  “I’m not sure I want to.”

  “Why in the world not?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I just started here. Beta Psi is, like, the best frat on campus. They can make or break me. If I report this, everyone will know me as ‘the girl who cried rape.’ People will point and whisper and I’ll spend the next four years eating alone.”

  “Your father’s fraternity can’t get away with this.”

  “This is not about my father.”

  “It is about him. It’s about his college’s failed policies.”

  “Mom—”

  “It’s about his administration’s medieval view of women.”

  “Mom—”

  “It’s about his—”

  “Mom! Stop! This is not about Dad. Can you please put your hate on hold for just a minute and try to listen to what I’m saying?”

  “Honey, I totally hear what you’re saying. You’re saying your father’s college failed you. And I’m saying he needs to be held accountable.”

  “I’m not reporting this just to hurt Dad.”

  “Why should we shield him? He deserves to be punished for every bit of misery he’s caused.”

  “I don’t know why I even told you this. I just wish I hadn’t. Good-bye.”

  Emily’s hand reached toward the screen, and the recording went black. Anna’s heart went out to the girl, who had probably cried offscreen for quite some time after the recording ended.

  “Can we get a copy of that?” Sam asked Beatrice.

  “Of course. I’m glad to help.” Beatrice looked at her husband furiously. “Someone around here needs to do something.”

  “How did you record the Skype call?” Anna asked. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

  “There’s an app,” Beatrice said. “With everything going on with my divorce, I thought I should be prepared.”

  This woman was organized, tech-savvy, and consumed with fury. Anna thought her own family was messed up—but whatever her own mother’s limitations, she’d always known that her mother had her best interests at heart. There were perfectly good reasons to report the rape—Anna would have encouraged Emily to do it. But Emily clearly thought her mother was motivated by revenge.

  Anna said, “This happened six months ago, last September. Did Emily end up filing a complaint against Dylan with the university?”

  “I think so,” said Beatrice, “but she stopped talking to me about it. Her father would know, it’s his university. Barney?”

  “I’m so sorry.” Barney shook his head. “But I can’t talk about that. Any complaints made through the Disciplinary Committee are strictly confidential. I’m not at liberty to disclose them.”

  “I understand that would normally be the case,” Anna said. “But . . . a girl is missing. Your daughter.”

  “In some sense, that makes it even more important for me to follow standard procedure. I can’t give a case special treatment just because my family member is involved.”

  A shriek rang out as a streak of tasteful beige flew across the room. Beatrice Shapiro grabbed the crystal vase from the coffee table, raised it above her head, and brought it down on her husband’s skull.

  VLOG

  RECORDED 9.4.14

  I can’t believe I’m the statistic.

  One in five.

  It’s like—we all knew it. It’s in half the videos they make you watch online before school starts. They say it over and over in orientation. One in five girls will be raped in college.

  We joked about it as we were getting ready, putting on lipstick, trying on outfits, giggling. Which one of us will it be? Ha ha ha! Hilarious.

  And here I am. A few days ago, I was raped. Oh my God, did I just say that? It’s insane. I can’t get used to the words.

  I was raped?

  I’m a rape victim?

  This is not who I want to be.

  And I kind of wonder if I can not be it by just . . . not being it. If a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it, does it make a sound? If a girl is raped but no one knows, is she really a victim?

  I could just pretend it never happened.

  I’m sorry, wait, did I just say that? Ugh. I rolled my eyes at those girls in the video, the ones who didn’t report for months after being assaulted. Because they were “torn” or “ashamed” or thought it was their fault. Get it together. If you’re mugged, you don’t worry about whether you were “asking for” a mugging. Report it, be strong, move on.

  But here I am.

  Not sure I can bring charges.

  Not sure I can pretend it didn’t happen either.

  Because I keep thinking about it. Flashing back to that moment. Waking up, with Dylan on top of me. Freaking out—and not being able to do anything about it. Trying to get up—and slipping back down into darkness. It’s like that nightmare where you’re running and running from some monster, but your feet don’t move. I knew I needed to get out of there, and I just passed out again. Thinking about it makes my heart pound, makes my stomach clench. But I can’t stop thinking about it.

  In class, I’m supposed to be taking notes, but I’m feeling Dylan’s weight on my hips. I’m choking on his tongue. I’m seeing those sharks, circling. I’m smelling his beer breath.

  I can’t even imagine going to a party. I can’t imagine taking a drink from a boy, ever again. The idea of it makes me sick. This is supposed to be the best time of my life, and all I’m doing is trying not to throw up.

  Mom wants me to go to the police. Not because it’ll help me. Because it’ll hurt Dad. His college is so messed up, CNN will say, the president can’t even protect his own daughter. She’d watch all the cable news shows, cackling.

  I can’t trust Mom’s advice at all. It’s so sad. She didn’t used to be this way. She used to be a good mom. But last year changed her. All she cares about now is getting even, getting back at Dad for ruining her life. Everything is about that now. Every piece of advice she gives me is really a strategy either to get information about Dad or hurt him. I see Preya talking to her mom, getting feedback without a hidden agenda, and I’m so jealous. I so wish I had a mom like that.

  I feel so alone.

  And Dad. What a cliché—falling for a woman almost young enough to be his daughter, a woman who works for him. Lying about it for months before Mom caught him. No question, he was a terrible husband. But he’s not a terrible dad. I still love him, and I don’t want to hurt him. I definitely don’t want to tell him about my sex life.

  What am I even doing, talking about my family on the vlog? This is supposed to be an assignment, not therapy. Whatever. I’m obviously not posting this anywhere. But it helps, actually, to talk about it. Even just to myself. Because I’m the only one who can figure this thing out.

  So.

  What the hell am I gonna do?

  7

  Water, flowers, and shards of crystal exploded across the living room. Blood spurted from a gash in Barney’s hairline, spattering the ivory walls with crimson. The president slumped sideways on the couch. A red stain spread on the white cushions under his head. Beatrice cradled her hand as blood poured from her palm, where the broken vase had sliced. Her expression was one of shocked uncertainty, as if wondering whether to apologize or hit him again. Samantha gr
abbed Beatrice, pulled her arms behind her back, and pushed her chest first against a wall.

  “Oh my God! Barney!” Kristen clambered to kneel over her fiancé. She cradled his head in her hands, which were instantly soaked crimson. “He’s dead. You killed him! You crazy bitch!”

  “My daughter is missing and he won’t help the police!” Beatrice tried to lunge at Kristen. Sam held her tight against the wall.

  Anna herded Kristen to the opposite side of the room, near the kitchen, so that she and Beatrice wouldn’t tangle. “Stay right here,” Anna said. “Call 911.” Kristen didn’t answer. “Can you do that, Kristen?” Anna raised her voice. “I need your help. Kristen, can you stand right here and call 911?” Kristen blinked, then nodded and took out her phone. Anna strode back to the couch, carefully wending her way through the broken crystal, scattered flowers, and water. She knelt next to Barney. His face was slack and pale, almost as white as the sofa had been a few moments before. Blood continued to spread across the cushions, the only movement on the couch. The president himself was still as stone.

  Anna cursed under her breath. She’d handled hundreds of domestic violence cases. She knew that every tense domestic situation presented danger. She just hadn’t expected to find it here in this beautifully appointed academic home. But it was a lesson she often repeated: domestic violence wasn’t just a problem for the poor and uneducated. It could happen to anyone, anywhere. All the Arhaus furniture and philosophy textbooks in the world couldn’t guarantee against primeval rage.

  Anna held her breath as she picked up Barney’s arm and put a finger on his clammy wrist. She felt nothing. Oh God, was he dead? Could a man be killed with a single blow from a crystal vase? Anna once had a case where a man had been killed with a hamster cage. She supposed anything was possible. Still holding her breath, she moved her fingers a centimeter over on his wrist. There was his pulse: strong, even, and fast as a bird’s. She finally exhaled. “He’s not dead,” Anna called to Sam. Her relief was mirrored on the agent’s face.

  Kristen was giving the address to the 911 operator. Anna said, “Tell them to send an ambulance.”

  Anna plucked several tissues from a box and held the wad firmly to Barney’s head wound to stanch the flow of blood. Crimson quickly soaked through the Kleenex to her fingers. She kept the pressure firm and steady. Her hands were already covered with his blood. At some point tonight, she’d have to find time to go to a hospital and get hepatitis meds.