Her Perfect Life

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Greer’s not in danger, Cassie is. Danger. What danger? And with that phone call, Smith had given her the upper hand. She now knew that Banning knew about Cassie, but he didn’t know she did.

  The opening front door caught the sunlight, and flared for an instant as Banning walked out, as if he were being announced by personal lightning. He carried two blue-and-white paper cups, and reached one toward her.

  “Skim milk and Splenda,” he said. “Just guessing.”

  Lily accepted it and almost took a sip. Then stopped. Silly to worry, she knew, but if Smith wasn’t lying, Cassie—Cassie!—was in danger and Greer wasn’t (where was she?) and Banning wasn’t who he said he was. And now she was supposed to drink something from a stranger? But if she didn’t, he’d know she was suspicious. She felt the warmth of the beverage through the thick paper. Felt the weight of her own concern.

  “Hot,” she said. “But thanks.”

  “Was I right? About the Splenda?”

  Maybe she could get rid of the coffee by throwing it on the sidewalk in frustration. With him, for asking such an idiot question. And frustration with herself, for ignoring her instincts that this guy was a phony. But maybe this was a good thing. Maybe now that she had some new puzzle pieces, she could use them for ammunition. Get closer to him. Find Greer. And find Cassie.

  “Sure, Splenda, thanks,” she began as if he were so clever and intuitive. As if she trusted him. She’d start by asking the question he expected. She managed a brief smile. “Did you find out anything about Greer?”

  Banning nodded. Saluted her with his cup. “I did, in fact. Not from the Lido people, they’re worthless, nobody saw anything or knows anything, typical, no one ever does. And the vacationing maître d’ is apparently at the beach with no internet. Who does that? But my research team got back to me with some info.”

  “Great,” Lily said. His research team? “So? What’d they find?”

  She pretended to try her coffee again, pretended it was still too hot. She’d find a trash can at some point. Banning sipped from his own drink, watching her. She looked at her cardboard cup again. At the plastic lid. At the perforated flap. Wait. He’d gone in for coffee? Why on earth would he take the time do that?

  “Detective? I have to say you don’t seem very—” She pursed her lips, tried to find the right word. “Concerned?”

  “Whoa. Wait. Are you serious?” Two young women with matching dark hair, glinting sunglasses, ripped jeans, dangly earrings, and what looked like textbooks in arms were striding up the sidewalk toward Lily and Banning. The one who had spoken, or more like shrieked, Lily thought, was pointing at them. Then conferring with her friend. “I mean, am I right, or what?”

  Lily glanced at Banning, who shrugged, looking amused. The students—they must be students—took a few more steps, approached, and stopped in front of them. Staring at them. At Lily.

  “I am so sorry to bother you,” the student said. “But you’re Lily Atwood, right? I am such a fan!”

  Lily put on her public face, serene and welcoming. Focused on her reality. These were viewers, and viewers protected her job, and her paycheck, and Rowen’s school and Rowen’s future. She couldn’t say, I’m busy, or I’m talking to the police, or explain what she was doing. If she was anything but congenial, these two might whip out their phones and snap her photo. They might tap open their super-followed Instas and go to payback work on her. Later she’d get the tag—and get linked to #LilyTooBusy or #LilySoCanceled.

  Even now, with her life swirling ominously around her, she had no choice. There was a routine that came next, and she would play it out. Acknowledge, connect, then disengage.

  She put up a forefinger at Banning. One moment.

  “Well, yes, I am,” she said out loud, smiling appreciatively. And it was sincere, she did appreciate them. They had no way of knowing what an unfortunate time it was. How worried she was. How much she needed them to get the hell away from her. “How wonderful of you, and lovely to meet you. And you are?”

  “I’m Iris-Colleen Walters,” the student said. “Call me Colleen. And this is my roommate.”

  “Soraya Barbash,” the other student said.

  “And, oh, Ms. Atwood, you are incredible. We watch you all the time. Don’t we, Sor? I mean … wait.” Colleen reached into her backpack, pulled out a phone. Tapped the screen. “Ms. Atwood, let’s do selfies!”

  No, Lily thought.

  “My pleasure,” she said. “But really really quickly. And I’m Lily. But then I need to—you know.” She looked at Banning, but he’d taken a step or two away and seemed deep into his phone. It was all she could do not to scream. But the show must go on.

  She’d give these two fans the shorthand version. Get herself off the hook by letting them feel as if they were getting inside information. Then get them out of here. She looked at them conspiratorially, as if she were sharing some unspoken secret. “It’s a work thing.”

  Colleen and Soraya had plopped their books and backpacks on the sidewalk and, in what seemed like practiced choreography, stationed themselves on either side of her, wrapping their arms across her shoulders as if they were old friends. Lily was used to it, the touching, to people assuming she’d be fine having strangers drape themselves over her. She understood that viewers felt they actually knew her. They’d seen her from their living rooms and bedrooms, heard her finding answers and giving advice with authority and enthusiasm. Wasn’t that what it meant to be a friend? Lily encouraged it, the bond of trust and connection. It was part of the job. She sincerely loved it, the recognition, but now she had to move this along. She had to find Greer. And Cassie.

  “Me first, okay?” Colleen held her cell phone arm’s length high above her head.

  Lily saw the three of them in the screen, all expertly looking toward the lens as Colleen framed the shot.

  “Lily, ready? Look over here. You ready? Doing it.”

  Lily smiled her happy-Lily smile, open and comfortable. Click click click, Lily heard the snaps from the phone.

  “Now this way, Lily.” Soraya’s white-cased camera was now up in front of the three, and Lily saw the picture about to be captured in the second photo. Click click click, Lily heard again.

  “Let’s see.” Colleen used two fingers to spread her screen, narrowing her eyes to assess the quality. “Perfect,” she announced.

  Lily stole a look at Banning, who’d now turned his back on them.

  “Aw, so nice to meet you both.” Lily held out her hand for Colleen’s phone. “May I see?”

  “You probably have to make sure it’s a good photo.” Colleen nodded sagely as she handed over her phone. “I totally get it. Once on social media, always on social media.”

  Lily smiled, conspiratorial again, then flipped through the photos, stopped on one of them, tapped the screen. Handed the phone back. “Thanks. They’re great. You’re students at—Emerson College, I’m guessing?”

  “Freshmen,” Colleen said.

  “For another couple of weeks, at least,” Soraya added.

  “You are so perfect, Lily.” Colleen held her phone to her chest as if she were hugging Lily herself. “I’m a journalism student, totally because of you. You do so much good.”

  “Plus, you’re totally kick-ass,” Soraya added.

  “Aw, just doing my job.” Lily remembered this age, Cassie’s age, and how much promise the world held when you were a freshman. If you survived it. Only one Atwood sister had. Or, she realized with a start, maybe not. “Let me know if you’d be interested in an internship. When you’re juniors, of course.”

  “So cool!” they said, almost in unison.

  “Terrific. Have a great summer,” Lily said. She clicked Accept when the AirDrop she’d sent came through. Now she had the selfies, too. “Anyway, now I’ve got to—”

  “We know, you’re working,” Colleen whispered as she gathered her backpack. She slung it over one shoulder, wincing with the weight. “Good luck with that guy.”

  BE
FORE

  CHAPTER 29

  CASSIE

  Cassie did not know where to put herself. If she took a seat on Jem Duggan’s couch, then she was on the couch. That might not be the safest. If she stood where she was, just inside the door of this not-dorm, this actual apartment—which, unlike the Berwick student housing, had no resident assistant and no sign-in sheet and no record of who came and went—then she looked like a total lame juvenile dork.

  She took one step onto the wall-to-wall carpet, a soft chocolate-colored expanse that went from the front door and across the living room and stopped at the kitchen. Where Jem stood, under a light that hung from the ceiling like an upside-down funnel, with a bottle of pink wine in one hand and a half-full stemmed glass in the other.

  “It’s rosé,” he went on, gesturing at her with the bottle. “Hardly even wine.”

  She knew what rosé was, and his patronizing explanation kind of made her mad. He did think she was a kid, and that was annoying. She’d come here in good faith, pretty much at least, and now it felt like if she refused him, he’d think she was even more immature. Inexperienced. She stood taller and with a confidence she didn’t quite feel, placed her black canvas tote bag on a side table by the door. A scatter of mail had been left under the silver-framed poster of a pale moon coming up behind a dark mountain. She could read the address on one stamped letter, and it said Jeremy Duggan. Jeremy, she thought, tucking that away as if it mattered.

  “I adore rosé,” she said. She remembered an ad she’d seen in InStyle. “Perfect for an autumn evening.”

  “You gonna stand there by the door?” Jem asked. “Come in, have a seat. Or check out the woods. I have a pretty cool view. You ever see Berwick Forest?”

  She took a few steps toward him, almost to the couch, and then halfway past the couch. She stopped at the center of the sleek glass coffee table. A Time and a Newsweek, she saw. The newest ones. He was smart, she decided.

  “Should you be having wine, though?” Now she was remembering a show she’d seen on TV. Some guy with a concussion, and he’d started to have a drink, and his girlfriend stopped him. “Isn’t that bad for a concussion?”

  “Yup. Absolutely,” he said as he poured more liquid into the glass. “You see there’s only one of these, right?”

  She watched the pink go almost all the way up.

  “This is for you.” In three steps, he was an arm’s length from her, and held out the glass, his hand encircling the curved bowl.

  She took it by the stem, but was unable to avoid touching his fingertips as she did. The glass felt shivery cold, the liquid inside looked gorgeously pink. She moved one step away from him, and the backs of her calves hit the metal rim of the glass coffee table.

  “Ow,” she said. The wine sloshed, but didn’t spill. Pull it together, Cass, she thought.

  “You haven’t even had one sip.” Jem laughed. “But that table, you know. It has a mind of its own. You want the couch or a chair? Or you know, it’s almost sunset. The view is kind of great. Come see, out on the balcony.”

  She looked toward the window, then at the big leather chair, then at the couch. Then at her glass. It wasn’t like she’d never had wine before, everybody had, and beer, too, and it was no big deal. And fun, until someone had too much and turned into a jerk. Or threw up. But this was a guy she barely knew, and there was too much stuff that could possibly happen. She tried to predict what Marianne would say when Cassie told her about this. Her roommate might call her an idiot. Or she might be jealous.

  “Or, you know, don’t. All good. And you don’t have to drink that if you don’t like it.” Jem had stuffed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “Anyway. Thanks so much, Cassie, for walking me home.”

  He stood, motionless, looking at her.

  “Sure.” She toasted him with the glass. “Thanks for making me get out of Wharton. And I’m glad you’re okay.”

  She saw him take a deep breath, saw his chest rise and fall, saw his expression change. She took one sip of the wine, a tiny one, and it tasted like pink. Nice pink. Something moved outside, on the balcony, caught her eye, a shape going past the sliding glass doors. She laughed when a red bird landed on the narrow balcony railing. The bird cocked his head at her, seemed to be curious about what was going on inside.

  “So cute,” she said, smiling. “See that car—” But when she turned back to Jem, his eyes were still on her. “What?” She couldn’t read his expression. “There’s just a funny bird on your—Jem? What?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  In one motion, faster than Cassie could do anything, Jem seemed to crumple. His face disappeared from her line of sight, so fast she was almost confused, and then she saw his body, stretched long and dark against the dark carpeting, one leg tucked under the other and arms at his sides, his face pointed to the ceiling. She actually looked up, like, What was he looking at? His eyes were closed.

  She felt the blood drain from her face. What the—what was she supposed to do? Should she call 911? Yes? No? She put the stupid wineglass on the coffee table, right on top of the Newsweek, and knelt on the carpet. Her hair fell in front of her face as she bent over him, and she twisted it away with a frustrated gesture.

  “Jem?” She patted his cheek with the soft flat of her hand, tentative, and worried. What was she supposed to do—she had no training for this, she needed to call 911, she needed to call someone, what did people do? She saw his eyes flutter—See? Not dead not dead—and bent closer to him, her hair resting on his chest. She put one of her hands on each of his shoulders.

  His eyes opened. He looked at her, his face inches away from hers now, and blinked, half smiling, like a sleepy cat awakening from a contented nap.

  “Whoa,” he whispered.

  His eyes closed again, and that terrified her, because maybe he was getting worse, and then what would she do? Then they opened again.

  “Whoa.” It sounded like he was almost talking to himself. “That was kinda strange.”

  She sat up, now on her knees beside him, hands on her thighs, her eyes focused on his. “Are you okay?” was all she could think of to say.

  He puffed out a breath, blinking at the stucco ceiling as if trying to clear his thoughts. He touched the bandage on the side of his head. “What happened?”

  “What—well, you collapsed.” She felt worried, and guilty for some reason. And a little glad she was here, because what if she hadn’t been and this had happened? Although she never would have known about it. “Did you hit that same place? D’you think you’re having a concussion thing? A reaction?”

  She frowned as she watched him, reading confusion on his face, and tried to think of concussion things. Someone had gotten a concussion on one of those TV survivor shows, she remembered that. She held the first two fingers of her right hand. “How many—”

  “Peace,” Jem said. He shifted his shoulders, straightened his legs. His feet were under the coffee table, and he was so tall his tan boots almost reached the couch. Jem looked bigger to her now, splayed on the floor in front of her. Heavier. She hoped she wouldn’t have to pick him up. She would never be able to lift him.

  “Come on, Jem. Be serious.” She held up the fingers again, three this time.

  “Three,” he said. “Boy Scouts.”

  She adjusted her body to sit flat on the floor, legs akimbo, leaning toward him. At least he was talking. And the color seemed to be coming back to his face. Were you supposed to give someone like this water? Or no water? How was she supposed to know?

  “Do you have a headache? How d’you feel? Does anything hurt? Where’s your doctor’s phone number? You have to go back to the hospital.”

  He closed his eyes again and put up a palm to stop her. “I’m okay, Nurse Cassie. Just let me be a sec.” Another deep breath. “Probably dehydration. Or low blood sugar. Or both. You know?” He opened his eyes and turned to her. His face had softened as if he were embarrassed. “I told you the hospital food sucked, and I—maybe I
didn’t have enough water. No biggie. I’m fine. Here.” He held out a hand. “Help me up.”

  She used the coffee table to launch herself to her feet. “No way,” she said. She brushed down her jeans, her knees now dotted with carpet lint. “Stay there. I’m getting you water. If you stand up, you might fall over again. And, like, hit your head again. Don’t go to sleep.” She pointed at him, remembering another concussion thing. “You’re not supposed to go to sleep.”

  “Yes, Nurse Cassie,” he said.

  Where would glasses be? She opened the kitchen cabinet closest to the sink, but there were no glasses.

  She stared at the stacks of plastic baggies, each stuffed full of pale green oval pills. Each bag was sealed with clear tape, and they were piled like cordwood, filling the top and middle shelf. On the lowest shelf, one baggie was open, green ovals from inside it scattered across the bottom. She frowned at them as if they were alien creatures. Why would Jem have so many pills? And in the kitchen?

  She stood, motionless, one hand on the hard white cabinet knob. Her knees went soft with fear and horror. She knew what the pills were. She’d seen the “Watch Your Drink!” posters plastered all over the school. With photos of pills that looked just like this.

  She closed the cabinet. Found the one with the blue glasses. Her heart beat so hard it almost hurt.

  That wine. That chilled rosé. She’d only taken one sip. One. The glass, with its pink and pretty contents, was still on the Newsweek, and had even caught a bit of the sunset light and glowed, for a fraction of a second, as if it were radioactive. Or she might have imagined that.

  Had Jem put one of those pills in it? One of the bags was open. She put a hand to her chest. She was lucky. She was. She’d leave the rest of the wine alone. And she felt fine. Didn’t she?

  “You all right in there?” Jem’s voice from the living room. Oh. No. She was taking too long. Maybe he’d remembered if she’d looked for a glass, she’d find his … things? And then he’d know she knew.

  “All good!” She turned on the water, calling out over the noise. “Waiting ’til the water gets cold.” She could probably go to jail for a million years, she thought as the water ran. Probably just for seeing those things. And she’d totally be expelled. Berwick had a totally strict honor code, and drugs were like—she had to get out of here. She hoped Jem didn’t ask her about them. She’d have to pretend none of this happened.