by Megan Goldin
“What did Scott mean by ‘add her to the list’?”
“He meant that I should add her name to the list of girls we’d slept with that month on the whiteboard on our refrigerator. We had two columns. One for me and one for him. I was ahead by three girls. Once I added her to Scott’s list, I was winning by two.”
Alkins asked Dwaine if he recalled seeing a photograph of Scott Blair with a half-naked girl, which Scott had briefly posted to his social media account that night before quickly deleting it. Dwaine said he’d seen the photo. “Scott made a smartass comment in the caption. Can’t remember exactly what he said. And then he rated the girl as—I think it was a C or C plus.”
“Can you tell the court about the system you and the defendant used to rate girls you’d slept with?” Alkins asked, delving into their sleazy rating system. He questioned Dwaine Richards along these lines until all the jurors had the same disgusted expression on their faces.
When they did, he told the judge that he had no more questions and abruptly sat down. Scott Blair had sat through his former roommate’s testimony stone-faced, occasionally whispering to his lawyer as if to imply that Dwaine Richards had said something untrue. Rachel noticed that the tips of Scott Blair’s ears were bright red by the time that Alkins was done.
Rachel took Hannah’s latest letter from her purse as Judge Shaw conferred with his clerical staff about an administrative matter. To the sound of squeaking chairs and hushed voices talking, Rachel smoothed out the pages of Hannah’s letter and reread it. She finished reading as Dale Quinn began his cross-examination.
Quinn started slowly with a few softball questions. Within minutes, Dwaine was visibly sweating when Quinn asked him whether he’d wanted to get revenge after Scott had unceremoniously kicked him out of the apartment due to his “unpaid rent and disgusting lifestyle” a few weeks after the incident with Kelly Moore.
“Isn’t it true that after you were evicted, you threatened my client, Scott? You said you were going to take him down.”
“I was angry when he kicked me out even though I was only a few days late on the rent. I didn’t mean anything by it,” said Dwaine, looking down at his shoes as he spoke.
“I have here copies of your text messages to Scott. You used very, shall we say, colorful language, and some quite specific threats,” said Quinn. “How about you read out your texts and we let the jury decide whether you meant them or not,” he added, handing Dwaine a wad of stapled sheets.
Rachel left court to the sound of Dwaine Richards reading out his angry texts. She had something more important to do. Rachel had found a possible lead in Hannah’s letter, and she was anxious to follow it up. She didn’t mind missing the rest of Dwaine Richards’s testimony to do so. If truth be told, she couldn’t stomach hearing another word from him.
* * *
Rachel ran all the way uphill to the City Hall building at the top of the boulevard, her arm aching from the weight of her laptop bag digging into her shoulder.
The social services office was on the third floor. It had a sitting area of chairs next to a table piled with old magazines. The reception desk was unsupervised. From behind a stretch of plaster wall that separated the reception area from the offices came the hum of people talking on phones and typing on keyboards.
Rachel pressed a button on the desk to summon the receptionist. A young woman dressed in a long patterned skirt and button-down shirt came out of the back offices, holding a mug of coffee and finishing off a last bite of food. Rachel had clearly interrupted her lunch.
“I’d like to speak with Mrs. Mason. She was a social worker who handled welfare cases in the early nineties,” Rachel explained.
“I haven’t heard that name before,” said the woman. “I’ll ask my colleagues. Maybe someone knows. I’m still quite new here.”
She left Rachel to pace around the waiting area as she disappeared back into the offices. Rachel checked her phone. Pete had sent her a text message to let her know that his friend, a white-hat hacker, hadn’t been able to restore the original emails that Hannah had sent months earlier, which had been deleted by the intern. Rachel was disappointed. She’d really hoped they’d be able to retrieve the original emails despite the passage of time. It was another dead end.
“I understand you’re looking for Barb Mason?”
Rachel whirled around to see a woman with a narrow chin and fine features. Her short dark hair was flecked with gray.
“Yes, I am.”
“Barb retired years ago. Last I heard, she lives in Canada with her daughter’s family. Is there something I can help with? I worked with Barb for a long time.”
“I sure hope so,” sighed Rachel. “I’m looking for a girl who was put into care here in the early nineties. Her name is Hannah Stills. I believe she was fostered out when she was around nine or ten. After her mother and sister died.”
“The records would be sealed,” said the woman, careful not to divulge any information. A flicker of recognition in her eyes suggested that she remembered the case.
“I understand,” said Rachel, disappointed but not entirely surprised the woman was strictly sticking to the rules. She wrote down her first name and her cell phone number on a blank piece of paper along with all the details she knew about Hannah. “Please ask Hannah’s foster mom, Kitty, to contact me. It’s urgent,” she said, as she held out the note.
“I’ll pass it on. I can’t promise you’ll hear back. It’s entirely up to her if she calls,” said the woman, taking the paper and disappearing back into her office.
Rachel arrived back in court during the testimony of a nurse from Neapolis General who’d done Kelly Moore’s rape kit. Rachel scooted into an empty seat near the back row. The nurse’s name was Tracey Rice. She was taller than average, slim, with shoulder-length light brown hair. She spoke confidently, clearly experienced at testifying in court. Rachel’s phone vibrated shortly after she sat down. The call was from a phone number that she didn’t recognize. She ducked out of court to answer it.
“Neapolis Social Services gave me your number,” said the voice of an obviously older woman. “My name is Kitty McLean. The woman from Social Services said that you want to speak to me urgently about Hannah. What do you want with Hannah? She’s not in trouble again, is she?”
“Not that I know of,” said Rachel, keeping her voice low. The hall echoed loudly. She didn’t want her conversation broadcast to everyone within earshot. “I’m trying to get hold of Hannah. I’m a reporter. I do a podcast and Hannah—”
“A pod-what, dear?” Kitty interrupted. “Speak up; I can’t hear very well.”
“It’s like a radio program on crime.” Rachel raised her voice. “Hannah wrote to ask for my help in looking into her sister’s murder. I’m trying to get in touch with her, as I have some questions.”
“Hannah’s sister wasn’t murdered, dear. She died in an accident.”
“What sort of accident?” Rachel asked carefully.
“Her sister went swimming at night. She drowned. Terrible tragedy, of course, but definitely not murder. I don’t know why Hannah says such things.”
Rachel asked Kitty for Hannah’s contact information. Kitty left her waiting on the phone line while she looked for her address book. It took a couple of minutes until Kitty’s frail voice was back on the line as she slowly recited Hannah’s phone number.
“I doubt she’ll answer you,” said Kitty. “She hasn’t answered any of my messages. In fact, I haven’t been able to get hold of Hannah for weeks.”
“You must be worried?”
“Not at all. Hannah’s a grown woman. It’s her way to disappear every now and again. Sometimes for weeks. Sometimes for months. The last time she disappeared, she went to India. Spent three months at a yoga retreat. Wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone the entire time. A vow of total silence. She came back a vegetarian. That didn’t last. Maybe she went back again. Always said she would if she had the chance.”
“I don’t think she
went back there,” said Rachel. “I think she’s in Neapolis.”
“Neapolis?” said Kitty, her shock obvious even over the phone line. “Why on earth would Hannah go there? I’ve never heard her say a good word about the place.”
“I think it’s to do with her sister’s death.”
“Well, now that you mentioned it, the anniversary is coming up. Twenty-five years. Hannah does get into a mood at this time of the year,” said Kitty, weighing the possibility. “But she always swore she’d never set foot in that town again. I’m sure she’s in India at one of those places she likes. An ash-something. What are they called?”
“An ashram?” suggested Rachel.
“That’s right. One of those. I have your contact details, dear. I’ll ask Hannah to call you when she’s in touch. Bear in mind that it could take months. It’s how Hannah is.”
Rachel finished the call, but the guard outside the courtroom wouldn’t let her back inside. He told her that she’d have to wait for a recess. Rachel was disappointed. She’d been hoping to use the nurse’s testimony on rape kits for her next episode. She texted Pete and asked him to contact the hospital to arrange an interview with Nurse Rice.
Rachel sat on a bench in the hall outside the courtroom and rang the phone number that Kitty had given her. It went straight through to an automated voice mail. Rachel tried several times with the same result. Eventually she left a voicemail: “Hannah, this is Rachel Krall. I’d really like to talk to you. Please call me.” Rachel recited her phone number before disconnecting the call.
A loud bang from the courtroom made her look up. The doors had swung open and people were streaming out noisily for a restroom break. Rachel grabbed her bag and headed to the courtroom. As she waited by the doors for the crowds to clear, someone tapped her on the shoulder. Rachel swung around to see the guard holding out a large brown envelope.
“Ma’am, you dropped this,” he said, handing her the envelope.
28
Hannah
I was waiting outside the courtroom the other day. It was the day when kids from Lexi’s party testified that Lexi told Scott Blair that Kelly was “easy” after she kicked Kelly out of her party. On the wall above my head was an air conditioner. It rattled something awful. A drop splashed on the old courtroom bench right next to me, and then another. It made me remember something else.
It was the hottest summer for years. The heat was so bad that we had to use our old air conditioner even though it had sprung a leak. It rattled noisily when it worked, dripping water into a steel soup pot we’d left on the floor, until one afternoon the motor spluttered to a grinding halt.
After that, sleep was impossible in our tiny bedroom. Jenny and I took our mattresses to the porch and slept outside. There was a cool breeze that came in at night. Mom managed with a rickety fan in her room, which we turned into a crude air conditioner by hanging a damp towel over the wire cage.
One afternoon, a few days into the heat wave, Jenny and I were lying in the living room watching a TV show and sucking ice cubes when we heard Mom scream our names from the garden.
We rushed in a panic to the backyard, thinking that something terrible had happened. When we reached the rear porch, Mom was standing on the grass in a cotton sundress, translucent from sunbeams behind her. Her arms were outstretched. Her face lifted to the sky. Rain trickled down her sunken cheeks and neck all the way down to her bare feet.
“It’s a sun-shower.” Mom laughed.
We joined her in the rain, not caring that our tank tops and shorts were soaked through. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. Rather than go inside to change clothes, the three of us sat in the garden on upturned plastic crates and watched the garden puddles dry up along with the clothes on our bodies.
“Why aren’t you both at the beach?” Mom asked, as if suddenly realizing that we’d been home with her for days.
“We’d rather stay with you,” said Jenny, examining her mud-covered toes.
“There’s nothing to do at home. Besides, I’m feeling much better,” Mom said. “Tomorrow, go back to the beach. It’s the best place to be in this weather.”
Mom washed the mud off our feet with the garden hose before ushering us back into the house. That night, Jenny said that she still had a cold and needed to stay in bed the next day. I knew that it was an excuse to get out of going to the beach.
“What you need, Jenny, honey, is sun. The sun heals everything,” Mom said. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask why it hadn’t healed her.
“I’d rather spend the day at home,” Jenny mumbled. Mom looked at her in surprise. Jenny loved the sea. She was at the beach the moment the weather was warm enough to get into the water, and she’d keep going long after summer ended. Jenny’s reluctance to go to the beach on a perfect swimming day troubled Mom into a heavy silence that night over dinner. Eventually, Jenny relented. She didn’t want to worry our mom.
The next morning, I raced ahead with my towel slung over my shoulders. Jenny straggled behind me. She wore an oversized T-shirt and loose pants instead of her favorite sundress with the crisscrossed back.
Jenny didn’t stop at our usual spot when we reached the beach. She headed toward another beach beyond the jetty. That beach had strong currents that made swimming dangerous. Nobody went there, not even the surfers.
“Hey, Jenny.”
It was a boy from Jenny’s high school. He was athletic, with dark hair and a tanned chest. Around his neck he wore a leather necklace. He and Jenny had hung out together at the beach the previous summer, but I hadn’t seen him that summer at all. Jenny had mentioned something about how he had a job at a record store downtown. She never told me outright, but somehow I knew that she liked him.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To that beach,” she answered, flushing slightly as she pointed farther along the coast at the deserted beach beyond the jetty. “My sister wants to collect shells.”
I opened my mouth to say that I wanted to do no such thing, but Jenny swung around and glared at me to shut up.
“Don’t waste your time. It’s covered in seaweed and there’re sand flies,” he told us. “Throw your stuff down and come for a swim.”
Jenny joined him for a swim while I laid out our towels near where he and his friends had left their bags. Later that afternoon, while I was lying on my stomach reading a book and Jenny was relaxing on her towel next to the dark-haired boy, I saw those boys again. The ones who’d given me a ride home in their pickup truck and taken Jenny away until late in the night. They were sitting on the dunes talking and smoking. I saw Bobby there, too, with his uncut hair and gray eyes. A cigarette hung out of his mouth. He sat a little away from the main group and seemed embarrassed to see me. I’d last seen him when he jumped out of the truck at the bridge after arguing with the driver the day they gave us a ride.
One of the boys caught me staring. I remembered that he’d sat in the front passenger seat right next to the door. He waved at me in a weird way that made me uncomfortable. I looked away. Jenny glanced up to see what I’d been looking at. When she saw those boys she went white and immediately averted her gaze. She trembled. I could almost see the wave of cold dread wash through her.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the boy who’d driven the truck that day wander over to a group of teenage boys from Jenny’s year at school who were drying off on their beach towels near the dunes. He told them something with an amused expression. I didn’t know what he said, but I saw them laugh out loud when he was done talking and then swivel around to stare at us. Jenny pretended not to be bothered. I could smell her fear. Her body shrank into itself.
“Let’s go home, Hannah,” Jenny said hoarsely. She shoved my buckets and hats and the rest of our lunch into the bag without trying to shake off the sand.
“It’s too hot to walk home now. There’s not a strip of shade.”
Her eyes darted around, trying to find a way to flee. They filled with resignation when
she saw there was no escape. One of the boys from Jenny’s year at school stood up and went over to sit with another group of teenagers sitting near them on the beach. He whispered something to a couple of the boys. The same thing happened: Laughter followed. Heads turned. Eyes pierced into our backs. Jenny froze.
The pattern repeated itself until the whispers raced across the beach. It was the same each time. The laughter was the worst. It cut like a knife.
Jenny turned pale as people’s heads whirled around toward her. Her hands trembled. She gripped her towel until her knuckles were white. The gossip was coming closer and closer, like an approaching tidal wave. Jenny looked desperate. She said something to the boy with the dark hair. He nodded. They both went down to the jetty and dived together into the water as the hum of gossip reached my spot on the beach.
“She did what?”
“I didn’t know that she was the type.”
“Of course she is. She’s a Stills, isn’t she!”
I was nine. I had no idea what they were talking about. I knew it was about my sister and I knew it wasn’t very nice. Beyond that, I knew nothing. Jenny stayed in the sea, treading water as the dark-haired boy returned to the beach, where he picked up his towel and left with his friends.
I watched him walk up the sand dunes with his friends. I could see them tell him something. When they reached the top of the dunes, he stopped and turned around to look in Jenny’s direction. There was something different about the way he appraised her.
When Jenny emerged from the water long after he’d gone, she was pink from sunburn and her hands were wrinkled from being in the water for too long. We walked home in silence. Just after the gas station, Jenny took a shortcut through the brush, even though she’d told me never to go that way on account of the copperheads.
29
Rachel
The waiting room outside the ER was half-full with people slumped on plastic bucket seats, looking clammy and ill. Rachel, who’d been sitting in the back row typing up notes from her day in court, moved away from the waiting area to answer a call from Pete.