by Andrea Bartz
But watching her sleep on this hospital bed, I realized that again, her peaceful face had changed. Overnight, perhaps, or else I hadn’t been paying attention, hadn’t looked at her hard enough. Her skin was still smooth and perfect, but she wasn’t the teenage-ish little sister I’d been projecting onto her.
I couldn’t help it—I smoothed a hand along her hairline, and she stirred.
“I’m so glad you’re awake!”
She looked at me blankly, then around the room, and I listened as the beeping on a monitor ticked up in tempo with her heart.
“It’s okay, Katie. It’s okay.” I patted her shin. “You had a concussion and some frostbite, but you’re okay.”
“You’re okay?”
I smiled. “You saved my life.” She frowned and shook her head in confusion, then gasped and reached for her head. “Ooh, you’ve got a massive contusion there,” I said, for some reason echoing the doctor’s words. “It’s where you were hit.”
“By Mikki.”
“That’s right.”
“Where is she?”
“In a holding cell. She was arrested.” I lifted my shirt to show her the bandage below my bra. “After she gave me this.”
“I thought you were dead.”
“Oh, sweetie.” I grabbed her hand. “You were hit on the head, hard, and passed out—they think for at least twenty minutes. And for most of that you were outside without a coat, so your core body temperature was dropping. They said it’s totally normal for you to be confused today.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “But you were in the ambulance.”
“I was.” I took a breath. “I went back to Mikki’s apartment to ask her about something. She told me you’d already left, but in reality you were just passed out and she’d pushed you onto the fire escape—presumably until she could get rid of me.” I brought my other hand to hers, clutched it between my palms. There were bandages on her fingertips where the cold had seeped inside. “But you came to and you got help. It’s incredible, I don’t know how you made it down without killing yourself. But when the neighbors called the ambulance, you made them call the police too. For Mikki.” I shook my head. “If they’d arrived even a few minutes later, I don’t know what would’ve happened. I’d just confronted Mikki and she—she got out—”
“The X-Acto knife! Not a scalpel!”
“Exactly!” We nodded at each other.
Tears welled and I looked away, pretended I was telling someone else’s story. “She just missed puncturing my lung, apparently, and had taken a few steps back like she was trying to figure out what to do now, when the cops arrived. They banged on the door right behind me and I started yelling for help and trying to undo the locks and let them in. The good news is: A woman screaming for help is probable cause to enter a home.”
I was trying to sound cheerful and it of course fell flat. Katie looked horrified. “Why did Mikki do that?”
“There’s a lot we don’t know. But it sounds like she made a full confession. For killing Eleanor.”
She thought about this, then nodded. “How long have we been here?”
“Well, it’s almost seven, so … a while.” I tugged at a curl and looked away. “Mom’s on her way here now. She’s supposed to land around noon.”
“Okay.” She creased her brow. “So it’s Christmas?”
“That’s right. Merry Christmas, Katie.”
“Why did you …” The heart-rate monitor hit the gas again, beep! beep! beep! “Why did you go back to Mikki’s?”
I told her about the cease-and-desist Daniel had uncovered—how Mikki had explained it away, swearing she knew nothing about Cameron, and sent me off into the night still convinced of her innocence. And then I told her about the cell-phone video, which I now knew was from a random dude who worked at a start-up across the street; he’d begun taping the drum line, same as us, and then noticed the lineup of women across from him. He’d had no idea what he’d captured until Eleanor’s death became public earlier this week. (And, with true entrepreneurial initiative, he’d sold the clip to the highest bidder instead of handing it over to the police.)
“It was clear she knew Eleanor’s body was on the roof, so I wanted to know why she was covering for him,” I said. “And she told me she’d gone over to the Herd and helped him hide the body. It was when I told her Cameron was alive and in custody that she snapped.” I sighed. “I didn’t mention that he was unconscious and at death’s door. She must’ve taken that to mean he was going to start talking—the jig was up. She had the blade in her hand—told the cops it was a reflex.”
“How is Cameron?”
“He’s doing well—he’s fully conscious and cooperating with authorities,” I said. “Ratliff called a little while ago and said he’d given a full confession with the hope of a lighter sentence.” It was now obvious that everything Mikki had told me last night—the desperate scramble to hide a body and clean up the evidence—was true. The critical difference, which Ratliff expected cell-phone records to corroborate, was that it’d been Mikki who’d been alone with Eleanor in her last moments, and Cameron who’d swooped in to help.
I smiled and gave Katie’s hair a little pat. “Anyway, you saved my life. You’re the reason they got me in an ambulance in time.”
“I thought I was gonna die,” she replied.
A knock on the doorframe—I stood and greeted Ratliff and Herrera.
“Sorry for—er, thanks for coming on Christmas,” I said. Not apologizing for things that weren’t my fault: an early New Year’s resolution.
“I’m Jewish, so.” Ratliff’s lips flickered in and out of a smile. She turned to Katie. “How are you feeling?”
“Merry and bright,” she deadpanned.
Ratliff clasped her hands together. “Well, we’re glad you’re safe and grateful for your bravery.”
Katie pulled herself up into a sitting position, then yelped; I hadn’t mentioned the bruised tailbone. “I want to know what’s going on with Mikki.”
“Ms. Danziger is in a holding cell in the station. We’ll be interviewing her later today.”
“Did Mikki say anything?” Katie asked.
Ratliff shifted her weight. “She did some talking last night. She’ll have a court-appointed lawyer this afternoon. But we have a pretty complete picture from Mr. Corrigan already. He’s been moved to a hospital in Cambridge.”
“Cameron, right?” Katie broke in.
Ratliff assented, and I added: “Ted’s fine. He’s still at his parents’. Gary and Karen talked to him this morning.”
“That’s good.” Katie swallowed.
Herrera turned to me suddenly. “Hana, can we talk to you in the hall?”
I glanced at Katie, whose eyes flashed in alarm, but I smiled soothingly. “We’ll be right back.”
In the cold, blue-white hallway, we formed a triangle. I gazed at them calmly as my heart thwacked in my chest. My heartbeat was a drum in my ears, pulsing over what was about to come out of their mouths: the blackmail, Jinny’s mom. Jinny’s cold, slight body. The tangled cover on the Walshes’ pool. The Walshes themselves, watching stone-eyed as we’d backed out of their driveway with a secret the size of a hurricane in our chests.
“We’ll be reopening a cold case on account of something Ms. Danziger told us,” Ratliff said. “From May 2010.”
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Eye muscles relaxed, shoulders down.
“She indicated that she and Ms. Walsh had been involved in the incidental death of a young woman in the Boston area. A missing-persons case.”
What had Cameron told them? And Daniel—the blackmail note he never should have seen? I pursed my brows. “From 2010. When we were at Harvard?”
“That’s right.” She stared at me, then leaned forward. “A young woman went missing in the Boston area. Virginia Hurst. Did you know anything about that?”
I angled my head. “That sounds familiar. It was all over the news, and obviously it’s scary when a young woman goe
s missing in your area. But I haven’t thought about it in … gosh, almost ten years.”
My pulse was louder now, an ocean, miniature hearts beating in my neck and feet and fingertips.
Her gaze softened. “I’m so sorry to tell you this, and of course we’ll have to investigate the claims. But Mikki told us that this young woman died in a drowning accident at Ms. Walsh’s home that night.”
I took a step back, brought my hand to my heart. This was good—now the panic could seep out as shock. “No. No way.”
“We’ve contacted the original detectives on the case. They’re pulling the files. It’s not—we’re not sure about it yet, but it seems to fit. I wanted you to know before we release any information. If it checks out, obviously we’ll be informing the family.”
The family—Celia Hurst, the Tennessee-bound mom, broken with grief and dropping blackmail letters in the post. Would Ratliff mention the blackmail? Did she still not know about it? Surely the sender wouldn’t mention it: her extortion, her grand payouts.
“I can’t believe this. A drowning accident?” My thumb found my lips. “That was … senior year. Eleanor had a little apartment on Mass Ave. How did somebody drown?”
“At her family home,” Herrera broke in. “In Beverly.”
My eyebrows shot up. “In Beverly? Where we just were?” They have a pool, I almost spit out, then stopped myself. “Did she say what happened?” Lying to cops—this was a battle with my instincts, with everything I’d picked up as I’d moved through the world. Eyes down, voice calm, be respectful, tell the truth. Hands where we can see ’em.
“We’ll know more soon. It seems there was an accidental drowning and then Mr. Corrigan helped dispose of the body.”
Cameron? This time the astonishment on my face was real. The lie buzzed in my mind like the Operation game, burrrrhhh: Nine years ago, Gary and Karen had sent us on our way, Karen’s head bowed, Gary’s chin lifted, and taken care of the body themselves. Why lie? What had Cameron told them? More important, why was Mikki protecting me? Suddenly tears coated my eyes and I let the big feeling, relief and horror and guilt and panic, shoot out in ugly sobs.
Herrera took a step back, but Ratliff placed her fingers on my forearm. “This must be difficult to hear. We know you three were very close,” she said. “Now we’re asking you, informally—is there anything you want to tell us?”
I kept crying in lieu of answering. A nurse pushed a new mom in a wheelchair past. I glanced down in time to see the newborn huddled against her chest, its cheek a flash of shiny pink.
Finally I shook my head. “Thanks for telling me.”
“All right.” Ratliff planted her hands on her hips. “We’ll be in touch about having you come in for formal statements. You can go back to your sister now.” A soft smile. “She needs you.”
The second I stepped into Katie’s hospital room and pressed the door closed behind me, I began to shake, huge full-body tremors as if my body temp were plummeting.
“What is it?” Katie called, trying to sit up again.
I crossed to her bed and perched on the edge. Took her hand again, pressed it between both palms. In a whisper: “Mikki told them about Jinny.”
“No. Oh my God. No. I can’t lose y—”
I shushed her. “She didn’t mention me. Or Gary and Karen. She’s taking the entire fall.” I swallowed hard, felt my hands still quivering around Katie’s. “Except Cameron. She brought him into it. I don’t know why.”
She leaned forward and murmured, “But won’t he tell the truth?”
I sighed. “I don’t know. We all loved Gary and Karen. Maybe they had a pact—protect the Walshes above all else.” I dabbed my sleeve against my tears. “They’ve been through enough—and they’re about to have their dead daughter’s name raked through the mud. They protected us. Why send them to jail now?”
“But what about Cameron?”
“It’s his choice.”
She thought about it. “Won’t they know from the blackmail payouts?”
“Mikki didn’t mention that either. If Daniel doesn’t tell them about the one letter he saw, then … I don’t think anyone will know.” I swallowed. “I mean, if Jinny finally gets justice, I think that’ll be the end of it. I don’t see why her mother would keep blackmailing us.”
She gazed at me for a moment, then looked away.
“Katie?”
“Uh-huh?”
My voice was so quiet it wafted like candle smoke: “You can’t tell anyone about Jinny.”
She stared out the window, at the naked branch bowing in the wind. Finally she turned to me. “Who’s Jinny?”
CHAPTER 28
Katie
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 31, 6 P.M.
The press had a field day, of course, but Hana handled it all with aplomb; it was the week between Christmas and New Year’s, that dark week when no one’s paying much attention to the news anyway, so it all blew over surprisingly quickly. The Herd was set to reopen January 21, after Martin Luther King Jr. Day, with Stephanie (finally back from Goa) as acting CEO and a search underway for a new leadership team. And the Fort Greene construction and Titan acquisition were soldiering on, on delayed schedules; Hana mentioned that a conference room in the Fort Greene Herd would be named after Eleanor, which, ’kay.
After rehearsing her speech with Mom and me, Hana told Stephanie she’d stay through February to help with the reopening, and then she’d drop the Herd as a client—but she’d remain a member, she kept saying, and she was happy to help them find new representation. Stephanie, Hana reported afterward, said supportive things and seemed unsurprised.
Stephanie also let me know that my application would be processed in time for the Herd’s reopening. I laughed when I saw the email—in all the drama, I’d almost forgotten that my membership was still pending. I thanked her but said I wouldn’t be joining. There were other coworking spaces, other networking opportunities, other places where passionate women and marginalized genders could come together, and if there weren’t, maybe someday we’d make one.
Hana got Mom an Airbnb in her building, and I think all three of us were surprised by how well it went; Hana and I felt lazy and heartsick and Mom filled the caretaker role, heating up canned soup and picking up supplies at a bodega, a word she never tired of saying aloud, in her Midwestern accent, bo-day-gah. I realized that, in all the years since we’d grown up, Hana and Mom had really only seen each other in Kalamazoo, in the high-stakes crucible of holiday dinners and the awful period when Mom was starting treatment. Mom still criticized Hana (“Don’t you ever clean inside here?” she’d hollered once, her head stuck inside Hana’s microwave, and for a split second Hana’s face revealed a desire to turn the appliance on), but my sister seemed much more eager to laugh, change the subject, and move on these days. As if she no longer needed Mom’s elusive approval. Here, with our own quarters to which to retreat, we all seemed okay.
Some nights I dreamed of the moment I lost consciousness just inside Mikki’s bedroom door. I couldn’t remember it, but in the dream I sensed a swirling Jacuzzi of searing pain and confusion, and then the light changing from blue-gray to yellow-white. From there, the dream always skated off somewhere that only made sense in REM logic: me naked in Chris’s bedroom and the ambulance making all that noise and light, or me wearing a snowsuit and playing with school-age Hana in the woods beyond our home in Kalamazoo, or me showing up for my interview at the Herd, my very first day, realizing at the last second that I was supposed to wear heels, only I’d forgotten and pulled on boots.
Other nights, I had stress dreams about officers in SWAT gear busting into Hana’s apartment, slipping handcuffs around her wrists and ushering her out into the night. I’d kept mum about the Jinny stuff, now pinned entirely on Eleanor, Mikki, and Cameron—but someone would crack, Cameron would talk while he awaited trial as a cooperating witness, right? Hana’s arrest felt nightmarishly inevitable. But she didn’t mention it or seem especially worried. Finally I as
ked her point-blank, and she insisted she was safe.
“But I hope they find Jinny,” she said seriously, smoothing my hair. “This has been hanging over me for so long and now that it’s over, I realize what an idiot I was for not dealing with it sooner.”
“Are you going to tell them about Gary and Karen?” I asked.
She held my gaze, then looked askance. “You don’t understand how important they are to me. And to Mikki. And to Cameron.”
I nodded and vowed to never ask about it again.
It seemed Mikki’s gamble had worked: She claimed that she had, rather improbably, committed involuntary manslaughter not once but twice, and that twice her buddy Cameron had made the whole thing go away. In lieu of Mikki’s mug shot, a beautiful headshot from the Herd’s website accompanied the story in newspapers, online, and on the nightly news. It was how she liked to think of herself looking: chin set, hair a wild blond mane, freckles blaring, sapphire eyes staring directly into the camera with a lioness’s intensity.
My literary agent, Erin, emailed when the news about Eleanor and Mikki broke and asked if we could talk sometime in the New Year. I’d figured out what I’d tell her and felt surprisingly Zen about the whole thing. Then Gary and Karen surprised me by emailing me their exclusive blessing to write Eleanor’s biography, or perhaps to write their story (“We don’t know how these things work but a woman from Hachette keeps leaving voicemails”), as long as they had final approval. Which meant, I presumed, no mention of Jinny or Mikki or maybe even Cameron.
Then, on New Year’s Eve, my phone rang. I don’t normally pick up calls from unknown numbers, but this was a local landline, and curiosity got the better of me.