by Andrea Bartz
A few minutes later, I hit gold: A dude with a police scanner had posted about the 911 call from her address (which, creepily, said user knew by heart); the “possible ten-fifty-seven” had led to much gleeful speculation that her sad, whipped husband probably skipped town to get away from her. Gavin K commented that maybe the bitch had seen the light and killed herself, and someone else—Ron A—replied that that was unlikely when she’d just announced she was going to make herself even richer: He’d linked an article about the Titan acquisition, which had gone up just a minute before.
I clicked on Ron’s name and scrolled through his most recent posts and comments; he hadn’t uploaded a profile photo, so it was pretty clear this guy had a secret account for his hate speech. (More Fakebook!) My heart seized up when I saw a photo he’d posted to the Antiherd a few weeks back: a faded shot of a female teenager…no, a child, maybe twelve or thirteen but struggling to look older in the awkward getup of circa-Y2K—flared jeans, platform sandals, budding boobs under a corseted crop top. The face was unmistakably Eleanor’s: pretty even then, but rounder, her eyebrows thinner, her skinny arms a deep tan. Above and below the photo were strips of diagonal grayish lines, zigzagging into short columns, and I realized they were the gluey backing of an old-school photo album; someone, somewhere, had cracked open a dusty old album and snapped this picture of a photo inside.
It was presented without comment, but other users had quickly jumped in: “Born a whore,” “A cock-teasing bitch even then,” “lol people probably hid from her on the playground.” How had anyone gotten their hands on this? The original photo—someone had snapped it, developed it, stuck it lovingly on a cardstock page and smoothed clear plastic on top. The only place where you could find similar pictures of Hana and me was in our mother’s living room, in the musty albums in our bookshelf. Maybe Eleanor’s parents kept something similar in their house. Who would’ve had access to it, what visitors or neighbors or…?
Neighbors. The kids next door. I looked at the fake username again. Ron was typically short for Ronald, of course, but could it also be the tail end of Cameron?
Goosebumps rose on my arms as I scraped back through everything I’d learned about him: Ted’s older brother, Eleanor’s boyfriend both of her senior years, high school and then college. I searched for his Facebook profile—the non-fake version—and clicked through his photos. He gave the vague impression of a once-hot guy who’d lost his mojo and then felt bewildered by his dwindling prospects. His profile photo was of him in a Patriots T-shirt, his face painted, making a tribal yell in front of the open back of an SUV, all set up for a tailgate.
Outside, the snow was like a silvery mist filling the empty space around fire hydrants, trees, grimacing pedestrians. The thought was as hazy as the light: What if Cameron did hate Eleanor? He lived in another state, of course, but he knew people here…and he might have friends in this disgusting online community. What if he’d found someone to help him, or vice versa? The bubble letters from my first day at the Herd flashed before me: UGLY CUNTS.
I was still reading through jabbering vitriol, none of it useful and all of it jabbing at my gag reflex, when Erin texted: “Call me now.” Another text from my roommate, and then, as I was unlocking my phone to read her entire message, ones from Mikki and Ted. The calls and messages came like the snow had this afternoon—a few errant flakes, then steadier, and then suddenly a storm.
With shaking hands, I opened the New York Times homepage, and there it was at the top: Eleanor Walsh, Lifestyle Guru and Feminist Entrepreneur, Dies at 30.
Isn’t she thirty-two? I thought numbly. Another text from Erin: “You’re going to kill me.”
CHAPTER 16
Hana
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21, 8:25 A.M.
I stared out the window as my cab sped toward Daniel and Eleanor’s apartment. Just Daniel’s now—the thought was a bubble of sadness. Trash levitated and spun in the wind before smacking back into the sidewalk. The streets were already emptying as people headed home for the holidays.
What could Daniel possibly have gotten his hands on? It’s about what happened in 2010, he’d said, his voice almost a shriek; and you don’t want police. The driver braked hard in front of the townhouse, and I pushed the car door open against the wind. My third visit this week—much more frequent than when Eleanor was alive. Something deflated in my chest as I looked at her home’s dark bay window, its empty stoop. On Tuesday night, I’d charged inside with the then-absurd notion that something had happened to her, something bad. On Wednesday, I’d come back to browse, fumbling around for some guidance, a clue. Some reassurance that our secret was still safe. Now Eleanor was dead and Daniel knew about 2010. For a shimmering second, I thought I would vomit.
I marched up the steps and rang the doorbell. A wreath was thawing out from the week’s deep freeze. The door swung open and a puff of warm air floated past me. Daniel looked awful: hair greasy and unwashed, skin sallow, eyes swollen. Both gaunt and puffy, somehow.
“Daniel, hey. I’m glad you called me.”
He closed the door behind me and I gave him a long hug. Before this week, I’d never seen him be anything other than cheerful and removed, a polite conversationalist at parties and events but what Mikki had called a tough nut to crack. Now misery wafted off of him in waves.
“I wasn’t sure what else to do,” he said. “I mean, your name was on it.”
“On what?” His eyes bugged, and I gave a brave little smile and gestured toward the living room. “Should we sit down?” We were still in the disorienting entryway of mirrors.
He gazed over, like he was working out what the words meant, then nodded. “I’ll go grab it.”
I pulled my coat off as I made my way into the living room. I had that rushing feeling, the sense that something irreversible was about to happen. Daniel clattered down from the second floor, his steps staccato, then presented me with a sheet of printer paper. It was creased in thirds, like it’d arrived in an envelope. I took it from him and blinked:
RE: MAY 7, 2010
DATE DUE: 12/31/19
JINNY HURST
ELEANOR WALSH
HANA BRADLEY
MIKKI DANZIGER
Then strings of numbers—a payment amount, network cost, and account number. I looked up at Daniel, frowning.
“It’s about ten thousand dollars,” he said. “In Bitcoin. I think it’s blackmail Eleanor was paying anonymously.”
I gasped. “Where did this come from?”
“It was in our mailbox.” He swept his hand toward the front door. “I hadn’t checked it in a week, with everything going on. But then I went back through our bank statements. There were withdrawals, odd numbers from our different accounts, adding up to about ten thousand dollars a quarter. Going back a year.”
“Jeez.” I frowned. “Did you look at the postmark?”
“Yeah, it was sent Wednesday. From Nashville, of all places.”
Wednesday—after she went missing. The sender believed Eleanor was still around and able to pay.
I held the paper aloft. “Could this be why Eleanor was trying to get away? If she couldn’t go to the police, I guess that’d be a reason to try and disappear. Although, I don’t know. Forty thousand dollars a year is a lot of money, but not something she couldn’t keep up with.”
“Hana, what’s this about?”
I ignored him, reread it again.
“My first instinct was to call the police. Have them dust for fingerprints, investigate the cryptocurrency account.” He swallowed. “But my second, stronger instinct was to talk to you first. Because I don’t know what this means.” He pointed at the sheet quavering in my hand. “I don’t know what Eleanor did.”
I took a deep breath. The image of her flashed in front of me: eyes closed, nose flour-white, a wide, black smear along her collar. A few sharp sobs juddered ou
t, and I sniffed. “I don’t understand either, Daniel,” I said. “Eleanor didn’t do anything.”
“Who’s Jinny Hurst?”
I shook my head, tears slipping from my eyes.
“I looked her up, Hana.” He was breathing deeply, as if fighting down the impulse to take a swing. “I know who she is. So what the fuck is her name doing on this list, with Eleanor? With you?”
“I don’t know her!” I wiped at my cheeks. “I only met her once. Right before she disappeared. We bought drugs from her one time—she was a dealer. I don’t even remember who had her number. I only saw her the one time.”
We sat together for a beat, the only sound the distant hum of traffic, car horns and rumbling trucks, their drivers barreling through today like any other day. Suddenly Daniel snatched the sheet from me. “Then what the fuck is this?”
“I don’t know! I have no idea.” My eyes filled with tears. “Here’s what happened: Right before graduation, the three of us were hanging out at Eleanor’s apartment one night. That Friday. The date on the sheet.” I flicked my chin toward the paper. “Eleanor had…she’d tried mushrooms at a party the weekend before, and Mikki and I admitted we’d never done it. It was just this stupid idea—safe space, a bonding moment or whatever. Eleanor had gotten this woman’s number at the party, so we had her pop over and we bought some stuff off her.” I sniffed, wiped my nose. “But she went missing that night. They never found her. We were pretty freaked out when we saw it on the news a couple days later, but of course we had no idea what happened to her…and we weren’t going to be like, ‘Hi, we met her while breaking the law.’ Nothing happened. I haven’t thought about it in years. But none of us had anything to do with that.”
Daniel kept shaking his head. “I can’t…why would somebody send this? And why would she pay it?”
“I don’t know. If you Googled Jinny, I’m sure you saw she’s from Tennessee, originally—where the postmark’s from. The only thing I can think is…Was there something else Eleanor never told us?”
Daniel’s lips shook like he was either trying to speak or trying not to cry. Probably both. “We should tell the police. Right? This has gotta be our best lead.”
“It sure seems like it. God, this is wild.” I took the sheet and reread it. “I just wanna make sure…” I hesitated and my eyes filled with tears again.
“What is it?”
A little laugh. “Ugh, always the PR girl. So, Eleanor’s a public figure. I don’t want to see her name dragged through the mud—for your sake, not to mention Karen and Gary. Oh God. She couldn’t have had anything to do with this woman’s disappearance, right?”
He just kept shaking his head. He let out a horsey noise and dropped his brow into his hands.
“Do you want me to talk to Mikki?” I said.
He stood and walked out of the room. For a confused second, I thought he was ending the conversation, but then I heard the rush of liquid against glass and he reappeared with two waters.
“Hana, I’d give anything to know who killed her. This could help.”
“I would too.” I grabbed a glass. “But you said this came after she disappeared, yes? I know it’s upsetting, but…that means whoever sent this has no idea Eleanor’s gone.”
He sat and looked away, his chin trembling. “I don’t know, Hana. I can’t think straight.”
“How about this: I’ll ask Mikki if this means anything to her—maybe she knows something I don’t.” I set my glass down and leaned forward. “We’ll get through this, Daniel. I know how much you love Eleanor, and you know I feel the same way.”
He balled his hands against his eyes and nodded. “If she did something…bad, I don’t wanna know. I don’t want to live out the rest of my life thinking that about her.”
“Okay. Okay. Let’s just…get through today. They’re gonna make an announcement soon, and I think the best thing to do is just batten down the hatches. Okay?” I sat up and spoke softly: “You know to just hang up if journalists get your number, right? And you should close all your curtains. They might set up out front.”
“I know. I’m not talking to anyone. I learned that a week ago when I basically had a gag order until they checked out my alibi.”
“So they did clear you.”
“Yeah, they talked to…the woman I was with. From Click. And I showed them the messages.” He looked away. “Talk about fucked-up timing.”
It popped out before I could think it through: “Well, unless Eleanor knew you were going to be gone that night.”
He rubbed his forehead. “And had chosen it as her night to fuck off to Mexico? Yeah, the cops mentioned that too. But the big announcement at Hielo. She seemed so excited. I don’t know.”
Your wife, I thought, was extremely skilled at keeping things from you. From all of us.
“Have the cops told you anything new?”
His eyes vaulted up and to the left. “Not a lot,” he admitted. “Last night they said it probably happened Monday night, based on what she was wearing.”
So after Mocktails. “At the Herd, then?”
“Yeah. They aren’t sure where in the building, though. There wasn’t enough…enough blood on the roof for it to have been there, so she was probably moved.” He cleared his throat, his voice shooting out in a loud clap. “If whoever did it couldn’t get her out, it was his best option because of the cold: no smell. The problem is that nobody knew the Herd was a crime scene—the entire office, I mean, the whole floor—so it’s all been compromised. The janitor’s been through a bunch of times since then, so finding clues or whatever is unlikely.”
“Shit.” I frowned. “Are they going to test for DNA?”
“I don’t know. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. They want to search here again.” His voice cracked.
Jesus. They could be over any minute.
“If you’re okay, I think I’ll get going.” I pulled my coat on. Daniel didn’t move, his jaw resting in his palm, his eyes staring into the distance. “Let me know if you need anything. Memorial service, dealing with journalists—you name it. And obviously, don’t talk to anyone.” I finished zipping my coat and paused. “Basically, don’t trust anyone.”
I blinked into the late-morning sun and descended the subway steps. As I rumbled home, my brain hazed in and out of coherence. I kept picturing the slash I’d seen on Eleanor’s throat, a casual diagonal, like a finger mindlessly dragged across a fogged-up window. The murder weapon—no one had said anything about the murder weapon. My mind kept returning to the little knife she kept in her office. The only sharp object I could think of when I mentally wandered through the Herd.
I cried for a bit, my chest seizing with a fresh wave of horror. The other people in the subway car, two teenagers and an elderly woman, averted their eyes. Then another break in the fog: Those freaking surveillance cameras. Useless thanks to the router reset. Could someone from the internet provider try to recover the data? No, it wasn’t a technician from the company who came—it was Ted.
Ted.
The subway squealed to a stop; the doors clanged open and people trotted in and out.
Ted, who watched his beautiful best friend, the literal girl next door, date his brother and then go on to fame and fortune while he continued splitting a house in Bay Ridge with three roommates.
Ted, one of a very few non-members who had easy access to the Herd. To Eleanor’s office, to the knife on her shelf. I pinched the bridge of my nose. I’d always thought of Ted as sort of uncomplicated and hapless, the one guy who’d do anything for Eleanor. His devotion to her had bordered on unnerving, but in a way, I’d almost envied it—wondered, privately, what it must be like to have a man worship you like that. No way he could’ve…?
At home, I checked my email and had only a few, which meant the news about Eleanor hadn’t hit the papers yet. Way out in India, Stephan
ie relayed that she was still trying to catch a flight back; the coming storm made rebookings a nightmare. I pictured her on the beach in Goa, coconut in hand, wondering if the Herd was hers for the taking when she got back. Aurelia had emailed to relay that, per the ongoing investigation, the Herd would be closed until further notice (“through the end of the year at minimum”) and could I please disseminate this news? Not even one day, one day, to mourn the loss of my best friend, her supervisor. The thought of writing a media alert, one carefully crafted and bristling with low-stakes bad news, made me want to sink to the floor and stay there until January.
In the living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows, snowflakes bopped in the breeze. The impending “snurricane.” Those who weren’t traveling for the holidays would be treated to a white Christmas. The rest of us were screwed.
I was still poking away at the press release, willing my brain to focus, when my video intercom shrieked. Two figures, standing shoulder to shoulder and towering over the sweet nameless doorman.
“Ms. Bradley, you have two…guests?”
“Who is it?”
A beat. “They say they’re detectives.”
I glanced around—the apartment was still a mess, my coat and umbrella slung on the floor, sheets and pillows on the sofa where I’d set up Katie for the night. My pulse picked up its tempo, but I couldn’t say no, couldn’t send them away without arousing suspicion.
“Send them up,” I replied.
“Ms. Bradley, how are you?” Ratliff called as I opened the door. Behind her Herrera was stout and tense, like a closed fist.
I shook their hands, then murmured, “Thank you for coming,” like a host at a dinner party. What?
