by Sara Shepard
I wrench away from his grasp. “On what grounds?” Ollie’s body on mine sets off all kinds of triggers—I feel as powerless and as trapped as I did all those years ago in that dark, dingy room. The horror of it undulates inside me, bringing fresh sobs to my throat.
My muscles contract. Even though I’m exhausted and terrified, I manage to get an arm out from under Ollie’s body. I use it to sock him in the balls. He leaps back in a yowl of pain. I roll out from under him, jump to my feet, kick him in the stomach. Ollie wails, then lunges at me murderously. I feel white-hot pain as he connects with my shoulder blade. I’m on my back in seconds, my lungs screaming for air.
Through blurred vision, I catch sight of Ollie towering over me.
“Are you trying to shut me up?” I croak. “Because I know what I know about you?”
He rolls his eyes. “What do you know?”
“I know that baby isn’t yours. I know about your wife and Greg Strasser. I know everything. And now you want to silence me so no one else finds out.”
The color drains from Ollie’s face, and his mouth forms an O. Is it possible he had no idea I knew this? Did he truly think I was only pawing through his office to save myself?
He crouches down until he’s next to me, and then, quick as a wink, he smacks me across the face. Stars flash before my eyes. I taste blood in my mouth. I clutch my vibrating cheek, then feel the tears dripping down my face.
“Don’t you ever, ever say that again,” he growls, his eyes wild.
I wipe away my tears. “I’m not afraid of you. And you can’t keep me quiet. No one is going to keep me quiet again.”
“Shut up,” Ollie roars.
A door bursts open. “What the hell?” a deep voice growls. And suddenly, the hallway is filled with officers—and all of them have their guns drawn.
Ollie turns to them. “She’s our hacker! She was rifling through my office, trying to get rid of the evidence I had on her! And she gave me a full confession, and then she attacked me!”
Boots squeak as the officers approach me, and someone yanks me to stand. “Please,” I beg. “He killed Greg Strasser! That’s why I was in his office! I was looking for proof!”
Ollie glares. A muscle in his jaw twitches.
“Ask him about his motive!” I plead, staring at the line of cops in their starched uniforms. “Does he have an alibi for the night Strasser was killed?” I lift the coffee mug from my bag. “Test this for his DNA!”
Ollie faces the officers, drawing to his full height. “I have no idea what she’s talking about. But I have all the data that she initiated the hack. And she’s got motive, too—a rape at an Aldrich frat, years ago. She never reported it, but clearly never got over it, either. We’ve got her.”
“It’s not what it looks like,” I plead. “I didn’t do what you’re accusing me of. But he has motive to kill Greg Strasser. His wife had an affair with another man! His baby isn’t—”
Two officers hurriedly surround me and snap cuffs on my wrists. I struggle at first, but then I realize that resisting only causes the cuffs to dig in further. My shoulder blades ache. This is all wrong.
The crowd parts, and Reardon, the lead investigator in Greg’s murder, presses through the mob of cops. Unlike the others in their crisp blue uniforms, he looks almost rumpled, his button-down wrinkled, his cuffs sloppily rolled to his elbows. I expect him to head for me—maybe he also was part of the hack committee—but instead, he turns to Ollie. “My office. Now.”
Ollie’s shoulders stiffen. “Why?”
“Downstairs,” he says.
The detective’s back is to me, so I can’t see his face, but Ollie lets out an incredulous snort. “You believe her?” He points at me. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Reardon almost looks like he wants to roll his eyes. “We heard you, Mr. Apatrea. We heard everything you said just now. And . . .” He glances at my face, which I’m guessing has already reddened with a bruise. “Not exactly protocol, Sergeant. So downstairs. Now.”
The blood drains from Ollie’s face. “I can’t fucking believe this.”
For a moment, Ollie seems paralyzed, but an officer behind him nudges his back, and he staggers forward. The rest of the department doesn’t move a muscle until the two disappear, but then everyone disperses at once. That’s when I realize—it isn’t just the police witnessing what happened. A few more figures besides the cops who were restraining me remain. The first is my father, his mouth a slack O. The second two are Kit’s daughters, the blood drained from their faces. Finally, I see Kit, her hand pressed over her mouth.
But that doesn’t make sense. Shouldn’t Kit still be in the holding pen? Still in court with the magistrate? She isn’t even handcuffed.
“Kit?” My voice is hoarse. “You’re . . . okay?”
“I was set free,” Kit admits. She looks intensely distressed.
“B-Because of Ollie?”
She doesn’t answer. She seems uninterested in that, actually. But she’s staring at me with intensity, the amazement and disbelief evident. And then it hits me: Kit witnessed Ollie’s claims—that I hacked the school. That I had motive. They heard why, too.
I turn to our father, and Aurora and Sienna, who lurk behind him. By the shock on their faces, obviously they heard, too. They watch me as if I’m an animal they no longer trust.
“Willa,” my father croaks sadly. “Did you . . . the hack . . . ?”
I shake my head, hating how this is being misconstrued. “No,” I blurt. “Or, not exactly, anyway.”
The two officers grip me tightly. “Okay, Ms. Manning. You need to come downstairs, too.”
But then a strange gurgling noise echoes through the hall, and when I turn, I see my father’s knees buckling. “I . . . I have to . . .” he ekes out.
“Dad?” Kit turns to him in panic. “Dad, what is it?”
“Grandpa?” Aurora looks terrified.
“I have to . . .” Alfred Manning points at his chest. His skin has rapidly turned an alarming shade of gray. “I’m . . .” he tries again, but then his neck snaps back, and he crumples to the floor.
44
KIT
SATURDAY, MAY 6, 2017
Just past 8:00 P.M., an ER nurse bangs into the tray by the bed, and I jolt awake.
I blink, disoriented. I’m curled in a chair, bone-cold under a thin, hospital-issued blanket. My body aches, and my head throbs. My wrists still hurt from where I’d been handcuffed hours before.
“Oops!” the nurse cries as she scuttles about. It’s a woman I recognize—Wendy somebody. I think she used to be in the cardiology department, assisting on Greg’s surgeries. I may have even seen her at Greg’s funeral. I wonder if she was one of the women whispering about me.
I stretch, wishing I could have stolen a few more moments of sleep, then immediately feel guilty for that wish. I glance at the immobile shape at the head of the bed. “How is he?” A single, dim light shines on my father’s cheek. I can’t tell if he’s breathing.
Wendy checks his monitor. “I just came on shift, but he seems stable.”
“When is someone going to tell us what’s going on?”
She smiles tightly. “I’ll check.” She clicks something on the computer monitor that stands near the door and is gone.
I turn to my daughters. Sienna looks awake, though perhaps it’s from all the coffee she’s drunk. She’s tapping on her phone. “Who are you talking to?” I ask.
Sienna looks guilty. “Raina. She was worried about Grandpa . . . and you.”
I feel a pinch of irritation, now knowing all of Raina’s secrets. But maybe, in the grand scheme of things, Raina is the least of my worries. Then again, what’s the most of my worries? Dad? Willa? Patrick? I suck in my stomach, thinking of Patrick’s surprising wrath. My heart feels flattened. How could I have been so stupid again?
> “I’m going to go down to the cafeteria for more coffee,” Sienna adds. “Want some?”
I’m about to say no, but then I shrug. I might as well stay awake in case a doctor comes in to explain what the hell is happening with my father. As Sienna leaves, I call out, “Honey, wait.”
Sienna turns. I want to say something to her about the e-mail scheme she concocted—I haven’t forgotten, and we haven’t had a proper talk about it. Yet Sienna looks so guilty right now, almost like she’s readying herself for a blow. Maybe now isn’t the time.
I sigh. “Grab me two stevia packets, okay?”
She nods and disappears. Then I turn to Aurora in the corner. I expect her to be asleep, but her eyes are open and haunted, unblinking. I shift closer to her. “Hey. It’ll be okay.”
Aurora nods like she’s trying to convince herself. But she’s chewing hard on her lip. Her knee is jiggling crazily. Her gaze shifts to her grandfather, then back to her lap again. “I just . . . there’s no chance of you going back to jail, right?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure?”
When I heard about the murder weapon being found in our garage, hidden behind some drop cloths, I thought, Well, maybe I did do it. Maybe it wasn’t Patrick . . . or Ollie . . . or anyone else.
I sat in the filthy holding cell, awaiting my time in front of the magistrate, and decided to come to terms with what I’d done. Crazier things had happened than a woman stabbing her unfaithful husband in the kitchen, right? Maybe Greg had gotten violent with me, or maybe he’d snapped in the same way Patrick did in the woods. I’d felt such revulsion for Patrick, and shame in myself for trusting him implicitly. Coupled with disappointment because I was supposed to be a smart, careful, protective person, and there I was, believing in the wrong person once more. Those feelings were startlingly similar to how I’d felt about Greg when I’d been made aware of those e-mails. Maybe violence isn’t so difficult to imagine.
But then, just as I was beginning to take ownership over my rage, a female officer rapped on the bars. “Your bail hearing has been canceled.”
The officer unlocked the cell door and gestured for me to walk toward her. “Turn of events.” Her expression gave nothing away. “Forensics found a print on the murder weapon—but it’s not yours.”
Ollie’s, I’d presumed—especially after Willa told me what she’d figured out. I should probably be more emotional about the fact that my husband fathered a child with another woman . . . but, well, it’s all too much on top of everything else. I feel like nothing in my world, nothing, is in the place where I left it. I wouldn’t be surprised if I opened up my wallet and found another name on my driver’s license. If I opened my eyes and saw a different man than my father lying in the bed.
An hour ago, another strange turn of events: Detective Reardon called to say that, yes, there was a print on the knife, and yes, it wasn’t mine. But it wasn’t Ollie’s, either. It was a print that isn’t in the system at all. I had them check on Patrick, who’d been fingerprinted for his job—nope. So whose, then?
There’s a murmuring sound from the bed. My dad shifts on the mattress, his eyelids fluttering, his lips making small, fleshy, popping sounds.
“Dad?” I rush over to him. “Dad?”
He squinches up his eyes, smacks his lips, but then drops back into sleep.
I glance at Aurora, who flew to his bedside, too. She looks so shattered. “It’ll be okay,” I say softly, patting her arm. I need to be the strong one for once, even though I’m reeling.
I study my father’s eerily gray skin, the white stubble on his chin, and the tubes running into his veins and nostrils. I’ve barely seen him sick, but hours ago, he’d collapsed to the floor as though made of glass. The paramedics worried he was having a heart incident. They gave him a sedative to bring his heart rate to normal levels. His body gave out because of what Willa did, I’m guessing. Because she’d ruined his school. Or maybe it broke because of what happened to her.
“Kit?”
I whirl around, and my heart flip-flops. And lo and behold, here is Willa in the flesh. She’s wearing the blue sweatshirt and joggers she had on from when she rescued me from Patrick. Her eyes are bloodshot. That ugly mark from where Ollie hit her looks like a lightning bolt across her cheek. But she’s here, unhandcuffed, staring at the group with deep, tortured remorse.
“Hey,” Willa says tentatively. “Can I come in?”
45
WILLA
SATURDAY, MAY 6, 2017
My father’s machines and monitors hiss like snakes, and the mattress seems to swallow him. His eyelids are blue and paper-thin. As I look at him, nausea rises in my gut. Hospitals have always sickened me. The last time I’d been in one was after my mother’s accident, and she’d already been pronounced dead.
I look at Kit. “How is he?”
Kit’s gaze is glued on our father’s monitors, which blink a bunch of unintelligible numbers. “Well, it’s not a problem with his heart. That’s about all I know. But no real doctor has come in with an update yet.”
I nod, uneasy at the distance in her voice. She’s mad. Maybe I deserve it. No matter how you slice it, I’m culpable for the hack. I got the wheels turning. I should have never arranged for Blue to dig into a private university. I wanted information. Maybe even revenge. But I didn’t want to ruin anyone’s life.
Greg’s. Kit’s. Maybe even my father’s.
I sit down in an orange plastic chair two seats away from Kit. The fake fluorescent light buzzes above us. “Look,” I say, my voice cracking.
“Willa,” Kit says at the same time. I gesture for Kit to speak first. Kit glances at me, then heaves a sigh. “So. You’re out of jail.”
I nod. “I was released without being charged. It doesn’t mean I won’t be charged—I’ve already called a lawyer—but not now.” I turn my hands over, staring into the lines of my palms as though hoping they might give me a prophecy. They don’t. “I did something, Kit. But not what Ollie was accusing me of.”
An expression of disappointment flashes across Kit’s face, and I feel yet another zing of shame. “Greg’s dead because of me. The hack affected your job, affected students, teachers—it’s awful. It’s been weighing on me since this all happened. I understand if you don’t want to speak to me ever again.”
Kit stares at the brown squares on the linoleum floor, looking disgusted. Defensiveness rises in me. Yeah, but I’m damaged, too, I want to snap at her.
As though sensing this, Kit clears her throat. “I wish you would have said something. About . . . you know. What happened to you. I think that’s what hurts the most.” Her eyes quickly flick to Aurora and Sienna, who’s standing in the doorway, cups of coffee in her hands. I wonder how much she’s told them. “Why did you think you couldn’t come to me about this?” she asks, her voice breaking.
“I didn’t come to anyone about it.”
“Why?”
I scoff. “Because it’s not exactly flattering.”
She looks stunned. “Who cares? It’s not your fault! You could have prosecuted! You could have taken those kids down!”
“But I didn’t see their faces. I couldn’t have accused the whole fraternity.”
Kit mutters something I can’t hear under her breath. Next to her, Aurora and Sienna shift uneasily. I can’t even look at them. All my life, I’ve wanted them to admire me, but I’m a failure. Certainly no role model. I hate that they’re growing up in this world.
Out the window, the early evening sky is a soft navy blue. I linger on it a moment, trying to put myself in another place, another time. On the other hand, maybe it’s important that I’m here, finally explaining all of this. And maybe it’s good that Kit’s daughters are here to listen. Maybe they won’t make the same mistakes I did.
I take a breath. “I didn’t tell anyone bec
ause for a long time, I blamed myself. I felt so stupid. Like, How did I get myself into this mess? And, Is this my fault?”
“Jesus,” Kit spits. “No.”
“I’ve come around since then, though. I know I did nothing to deserve what happened. I’ve gotten in touch with other women who went through the same thing. I heard all kinds of stories. Most of the women were at other schools. But I met a few who were at Aldrich. The very same frat house where it happened to me.”
Kit stares at me, her eyes wide. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.” My head drops. I can smell my unwashed skin and oily hair. I can feel the makeup caked under my eyes and the swollen bruise on my cheek. Almost as palpably, I can feel that guy’s hands on me, pressing me down, making me his. It’s incredible how that sensation has stayed with me all these years, no matter how much I’ve tried to suppress it.
“When that sort of thing happens to you, it’s like they steal your identity,” I murmur into my chest. “You don’t know who you are anymore. You don’t react the same way to things. It just . . . lives with you. So for a long time, I buried it. It was my only way to get through. I moved away from here, I came back as little as I could, and I just . . . changed my whole life. I know it’s not healthy, but it’s what I did.” I take a breath. “But then, after enough time, I got angry. Especially when I found out that this happened to other women at Aldrich. And some of them actually reported it.”
Kit looks stunned. “To whom?”
“To Marilyn, actually.”
Kit’s eyes boggle. “Dad’s assistant?”
“Yep. And she said she’d pass it up the ladder—to Dad. But then things got muddled. The story shifted. Instead, she reached out to the victims again. Had private meetings. Cut deals. I don’t know why she was trying to handle it herself—maybe she thought Dad was too busy? Maybe she thought he’d make the wrong choice, make too much out of it?”