Influenced

by Eva Robinson

  “Daniel and I are just old friends. Honestly, I didn’t realize you were wound quite that tightly. I didn’t realize that any man you were interested in wasn’t allowed to talk to other women. It’s a little controlling, don’t you think?”

  Why was she talking so loudly? This was mortifying. Was she on something? Hannah shot a panicked look down at the garden, wondering if anyone else could hear. “Can we just forget it, Rowan?”

  “I’m just trying to help you come out of your shell, so you’re not permanently blending into the shadows. But if you like Daniel that much, just ask him out.”

  Frustration simmered, and Hannah took a step closer. “Can you lower your voice?”

  Rowan leaned against the rail, her dark curls caught in the wind. By her blithe expression, she didn’t even seem to realize that Hannah was angry. “What are you so worried about? Listen, Hannah. You need to free yourself from the judgment of society. Believe me, I know. Do you know I have a whole theory about people from Massachusetts never moving on from the Puritan era? Like we’re still the Putnam girls accusing Goody Brown of sending a ghost to tweak their nipples—”

  “What are you talking about?” There it was again—that ringing in Hannah’s ears, the anger rising like a tide.

  Rowan smiled, her eyes dancing. “Ooh, Hannah’s angry. You are coming out of your shell. That’s exciting. I needed to get your blood pumping a bit.”

  Only then did Hannah realize she’d grabbed Rowan’s arm, and that Rowan was leaning back away from her, arched over the bannister.

  Rowan’s lips curled in a sly smile. “What really happened on the bridge with Tom?”

  God, the noise in Hannah’s mind was so loud that she could hardly hear her own thoughts, and her body felt like it was vibrating. “Shut your mouth!” It came out like a snarl, and Hannah didn’t even recognize her own voice.

  “Don’t be mad,” said Rowan. “You just need to get things off your chest. I need to get things off my chest too. I have these secrets, Hannah.” She shifted forward, grabbing Hannah’s forearms. “And do you know what? I feel like they’re making me rot from the inside out. Secrets aren’t good for anyone.”

  Rowan’s eyes had a wild look in them, and now Hannah was sure she was high. She supposed that might explain all the weird behavior.

  “You should unleash your secrets,” added Rowan. “Tell the truth.”

  Hannah took a deep, shaking breath. “The truth was, I was in love with Tom, but that was a long time ago. And here’s what matters now. I never sleep anymore, Rowan. I never sleep more than a few hours at a time, and I’m losing my mind. I get weekends to myself when Luke takes Nora, but I still wake up at four. And I stare at my plain walls, and I wish I was somewhere else, and that I was someone else. And sometimes I wonder how things would be different if I didn’t have Nora. Would I be less lonely? I love her more than anything, but we only talk about applesauce and diaper changes, and it’s just me and the walls, and my clock ticking on. And when I have time away from her, I’m too tired to move off my sofa. And I’m invisible, and I always have been, and sometimes it feels like I’ve already died. I’m a ghost moving through life and time is just slipping on by. There you go. That’s the truth.”

  Rowan pulled her in for a hug. “You really should try to get more sleep, then.”

  Hannah inhaled, realizing that she had tears streaking down her cheeks. They would be making rivulets of black eye makeup. “Absolutely. I’ll start tonight.”

  There was no way she was going back down to the garden looking like a Kiss reject. She pulled away from the hug. “I’m going to head to bed early. I’ll talk to you later.”

  As Hannah turned to leave, Rowan grabbed her arm—hard—and jerked her backward. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

  Twenty-Three

  Rowan’s pulse echoed off her own skull. When she opened her eyes, the light went straight into her brain through her eyeballs.

  Something terrible happened last night, didn’t it? I did something terrible.

  A loud noise seemed to vibrate through the floor, through the walls, into her jaw.

  Anxiety was making her heart slam against her ribs. Get it together, Ro.

  Slowly, she pushed herself up, looking for her phone. But she wasn’t in her bed, and it wasn’t in its usual spot, next to her head. No, she’d slept on a pile of damp towels on her floor. Before falling asleep, she’d managed to pull a knitted blanket onto herself, but under the blanket, she was naked. That was… weird.

  How had she gotten back home?

  The whole loft smelled of vomit, and she closed her eyes, her mind hazy with the memory of throwing up in the kitchen sink.

  Only two things were really crystal-clear in her mind at this moment, and one was that she was too old for this crap. The other was a certainty that she’d done something horrible last night. A deep sense of shame spread between her ribs. Was it something to do with Hannah?

  Rowan wondered if someone else had been in her apartment with her—maybe that was why she was naked. But she didn’t think so. Surely she’d remember that?

  Something terrible was still happening. Something loud, a ringing like a bell…

  Her mouth was so dry, and she looked around her for water. She’d woken to the hot sun streaming in through those glass windows, far too hot for May, the windows all closed.

  When she sat up, a rushing noise rose in her ears, like a river inside her skull.

  Her red dress lay on the floor about ten feet away. She stood and snatched it up to slip over her head. She had no idea where her underwear was. An empty bottle of wine lay on the floor, but that was par for the course.

  That ringing noise would drive her mad. What was that?

  When she looked down at herself, she noticed the front of her red dress was stained now, with maroon all down the front. She lifted the skirt to sniff it, relieved to find it was wine.

  She had no idea what time it was. And as she searched around herself, a little panic sparked along her nerves. Where the hell was her phone? Her phone would tell her everything, but she’d have to find it first.

  She rose, but it was too fast, and nausea climbed up her throat. As she swallowed hard, she leaned against a chair, steadying herself. She closed her eyes and repeated what she’d said to Hannah last night. One thing at a time. One thing at a time.

  First thing was water. She crossed to the sink, but her stomach curdled at the stench.

  Not here.

  Opening a cupboard, she snatched a glass and rushed to the bathroom. Her hand shook as she brought it to her mouth.

  She’d forgotten something important. If she knew where her phone was, she’d have the answers to everything. What she’d done last night; what she was supposed to be doing right now.

  A banging sound trembled in her mind. It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t imagining it, that it was a banging on the door and not in her head. Someone was in the hall outside her apartment. What the hell? What kind of monster banged on your door on a Saturday morning?

  It was probably another religious person with pamphlets suggesting that she was going to hell, complete with illustrations of people burning. When she got to the bottom of the stairs, she would open the door and yell in their faces that she was already in hell. The sound of the door slamming would be the only satisfying thing about this morning.

  But when she yanked the door open at the bottom of the stairs, her jaw dropped. It wasn’t the fanatics with the pamphlets. It was a man in a grey suit with dark eyes, and a jaw line that could charm the panties off a nun. “Ms. Harris?”

  Her mouth was so dry. She licked her lips, a terrible understanding beginning to dawn in her mind.

  He was a cop, wasn’t he? “What happened? I don’t remember anything.”

  He frowned. “I’m sorry?”

  He was British. Handsome and British, and if she weren’t nauseated, in a stained dress, and probably about to be arrested, she’d definitely hit on him.
>
  She touched her forehead, closing her eyes for a moment. “Sorry. I just woke up. I went to bed late.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “I’m Detective Michael Stewart. This was the time you told me to come for the interview about Arabella.”

  She inhaled deeply, trying to master a sense of control over the situation. One thing at a time. “Of course. Come on up.”

  Okay. So this wasn’t about whatever she had done last night.

  As she climbed the stairs, she glanced back over her shoulder at the detective, suddenly aware of how short her dress was and her lack of underwear.

  Well, that’s one way to charm him.

  At the top of her stairs, she took in the disaster of her apartment—the empty bottle of champagne on the marble island, the peach pulp left in the blender. Damp towels on the floor, piles of dirty laundry. Mountains of recycling, the scent of trash and puke.

  But what worried her the most was the coke, because she had no idea where she’d left it. Would Michael arrest her if he found it?

  She gestured at one of the stools by the counter. “Do you want coffee? Or tea?”

  “No, thank you. Too late in the afternoon for me.”

  So it wasn’t morning. “Why did you want to ask me about Arabella?”

  “She didn’t die of natural causes.”

  A sense of panic thrummed inside Rowan’s skull. “So she was murdered?”

  It was at that moment that she spotted the little plastic baggie of coke—just two feet behind Michael on the marble countertop. Her stomach clenched. She needed him out of here.

  “I’m hoping you could give us more information about Arabella.”

  Usually, if she wanted a man to do something, she just had to flirt a little, make him think about how she’d look naked. But she had no idea if that would get a cop to leave her apartment.

  She leaned forward, smiling coyly, knowing that the top of her dress was revealing just enough cleavage. “I haven’t even had the chance to shower yet. Maybe you could give me a chance to peel off my dress and wash my naked body.”

  Except that was way too much, not subtle at all. He looked unimpressed, and her cheeks burned.

  He folded his hands and leaned closer, pinning her with his gaze. “Was there anything going on between you and Adam?”

  A pit opened in her stomach. “What? Like an affair? No, he’s boring. Is this about the fight he and Arabella had at Stella’s house? It was honestly over nothing. She thought my leg was too close to his. Then she dumped a drink on him. Some people are really uptight about physical contact. Puritans, really.”

  Now, a few memories were returning to her from the night before. She’d been sitting on Daniel’s lap.

  Another dramatic scene…

  Her mind whirled, and Michael’s gaze was drilling into her skull, like he could see right into her thoughts. She threaded her fingers into her hair, wishing she’d prepared better for this—at least thrown out the coke. “I don’t understand. Do you think he killed her?”

  “We’re just looking for the full picture.”

  You need to leave. “I don’t have any information. The last time I saw Arabella was at that party. And nothing happened. Maybe he was having an affair with one of his students? It wasn’t me. Or maybe he wanted her to stop throwing drinks on him. I don’t have any answers for you.”

  She was playing this wrong, coming off desperate, but it was too hard to think clearly.

  Light glinted in his eyes, and he didn’t make a move to leave. He was just staring at her, waiting for her to say more. Finally, he asked, “Do you know of anyone she had any conflicts with? Enemies?”

  Rowan shook her head. “I mean, she could get angry at Adam. She was a bit possessive, I think.”

  “Possessive?” Michael asked.

  Rowan’s head fell into her hands. Michael went on and on, pressing her with questions about Arabella, looking for every angle, every detail of her life. She struggled to concentrate, and kept asking him to repeat his questions. Half her mind was on the real mystery of what the hell she had done last night. Because she was certain it was terrible.

  “Rowan?”

  Her head snapped up. “Yes.”

  “Adam described her as struggling mentally. Did you see any signs of unusual behavior? Mental instability?”

  Rowan narrowed her eyes. “No. Unless being dramatic sometimes is a mental illness. But she was sharp as anything. Look, I didn’t know her that well. Someone accused me last night of not being that upset she’s dead, and I guess I’m not. I wanted to be like her. Smart, beautiful, doing something important with her life. But she wasn’t someone I’d ever call if I were upset. She was a little remote, like a perfect statue. I think she was a perfectionist. That’s my impression of her. Perfectionism. And that’s why we weren’t close—because obviously…” She gestured at the clothes littering her floor, the musty towels. “Obviously I am not a type A personality. But because she’s a perfectionist, if my knee accidentally touched Adam’s, she couldn’t handle it. It was black and white with her. Either Adam loved her, or he didn’t. And if he smiled at me too long, it meant he didn’t love her, and the world was terrible.”

  “He pays a lot of attention to your photos.”

  “Does he? Well, he might be a creep, I don’t know. A lot of people pay attention to my photos. Some people are just bored and on Instagram all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “So you weren’t trying to get his attention with what you posted last night?”

  Her mouth felt watery, and she wanted to be sick in the sink again.

  She had no idea what she’d posted last night, but his tone suggested she might regret it.

  Twenty-Four

  Rowan had never felt more desperate to find her phone. Her head fell into her hands, and she focused all her attention on trying to not throw up all over the marble island.

  A few days ago, she’d found an entirely new way to binge on self-loathing. TOI.com, which stood for “Twats on Instagram.” She had her own dedicated thread, only a few months old but already hundreds of pages long.

  While “body snarking” was discouraged on Reddit, there were no rules on TOI.com. And they were mean.

  She’s 28, and all she has going for her is her looks. But she’s already not as pretty as she once was. Too many fillers. That’s what happens when you live off booze and coke and have to fill yourself with plastic. What will she have left when she looks like a cheap inflatable doll? Enjoy your back alley BJs, Rowan!

  Oh YUCK!! She looks nasty.

  Friend of a friend who went to Harvard with her told me she’s BFFs with a frat-boy rapist, and she blames his victims for dressing wrong. She made one of them burst into tears by calling her “white trash.”

  I was in the same year as her at Harvard. She slept with one of the professors for an A and was also banging a 16-year-old. So gross.

  The comments were a combination of real gossip (her coke habit) and invented stories (the frat boy, the sexual exploits). She wondered if the Victorian clown person was on there.

  And whatever she had posted last night, she was sure they were already feasting on her shame on the blog.

  “What do you mean ‘what I posted last night’?” Her mind thudded. “Last night is a bit of a blur.”

  “You don’t remember anything?”

  She shot a nervous glance at the coke. “Haven’t you ever had so much to drink that you can’t remember things? It happens.”

  “How often do you have these blackouts?” he asked.

  “Not often. Look, I can’t help you.”

  He folded his hands on the table. “Before you posted that photo last night, you posted another from a party. It was you and a woman with makeup just like yours. Who was she?”

  “Hannah? What does she have to do with anything?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. I was just curious. You only ever posted a photo of one other woman on your feed before—Arabella. And now it seems
like you have a…” He shrugged. “Well, I don’t know.”

  He let the sentence hang, but she heard the unspoken word anyway. You have a replacement.

  “She has no connection to anything. She never met Arabella. She’s a psychologist.” She had no idea why she said that as if it explained everything. “The party I was at last night is charity-related thing. We’re trying to raise money for the Cambridge Teen Center. It wasn’t anything Arabella was involved in.”

  He nodded, finally rising to leave. “Well, thank you for your time. Please be in touch if you hear anything that you think might be helpful to us.”

  Before he even took a step, he turned his head to his left and stared right at her bag of coke.

  Then he just walked on to the stairs.

  As soon as he was out the door, Rowan leapt off the stool, yanking up the towels and blankets as she looked for her phone.

  No sign of it in the bathroom, or on the kitchen counter. It wasn’t plugged in like normal. She yanked the blanket up off the floor, and at last she found it. Out of battery.

  She rushed to an outlet to plug it in then flopped down on her sofa staring at the black screen. At last, it lit up with a little white apple, and her heart sped up.

  When it was charged at last, she cringed at the onslaught of text message notifications. Yikes.

  Adrenaline lit her up when she saw that Marc had written to her, at last.

  She opened the message. It simply read, Are you okay?

  Whatever she’d posted, she’d managed to get his attention at last.

  She had fifteen messages from Heather. Not a good sign.

  Biting her lip, she flicked open her Instagram app.

  The shock of it hit her like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t just that she’d posted a nude—she’d already done that—but it wasn’t even a flattering one, nor artful. It was her, sitting with her legs splayed on one of her kitchen stools, under the yellow kitchen lights. She looked sweaty, eyes glazed.

  She’d just barely managed to circumvent Instagram’s nudity rules by adding little cartoon apples in strategic places, but this was clearly a drunk, trashy image. The text beneath it was a tirade—starting with a random quote from Byron: There is a rapture on the lonely shore. Then a rambling description of how society demanded that women be beautiful but then reviled them for vanity.