by Sara Shepard
“The kids are safe,” Allegra repeated. “How about we focus on you for a second, okay? Because you might know something that’ll help us catch this person. Make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
So Andrea told the officer she’d gone to see Piper just for a check-in the day before—she was new to the area. She didn’t get into it beyond that. Then he asked her to walk through the attack today. Why was she back at the school? Why was she in that hallway? Andrea muddled through those questions, saying she and the other moms were early to pickup and had some administrative questions. Did she see anyone in the hall? No, Andrea said. Especially not someone who hurt Piper. “And then I fainted,” she explained. “Sometimes that happens, because of low blood sugar.”
“Or out of fear,” Allegra said, meeting her gaze. “Sure you didn’t see anything?”
Andrea tipped her head toward the ceiling, staring at a water stain on the tiles. “I wish I did.”
“You know anyone who might be motivated to hurt Ms. Jovan?”
Bringing up the notes crossed Andrea’s mind—it felt wrong to leave them out, and yet she still didn’t know what to make of them. Was Lauren right in that Piper was intimidating all of them so they wouldn’t be part of her documentary? Was there a chance that by not talking about the messages, Andrea was obstructing justice somehow? After all, it could have been another parent who’d snuck in after Piper and hurt her, pushed to the brink even more than they were. But how would they ever know who it was? Did Piper keep a list?
It made her uncomfortable to have to make such a critical decision on the spot. It reminded her of the last time she was in an interrogation room: after Roger’s dad dragged him out of the hotel room. He’d called the police, of course. Said Andrea coerced his underage child into going upstate. The officer who met Andrea said that considering who she was, it might be easier to bring her down to the station and question her in private, away from the reporters. Once at the station, they’d asked Andrea what she was doing in a hotel room with a girl so young.
“It’s not what you think,” Andrea said. “We were . . . helping each other.”
But when they asked her to expound on that, she didn’t know what to say. Roger’s family didn’t have a clue about the secrets he was keeping, and it felt cruel to reveal them just to save herself. So she’d chosen to throw herself under the bus instead. It felt easier to say they’d been a couple, that she was just a rich, older predator, taking advantage of a high school kid. A liar. A sneak. A deviant.
Now, in this police station, Andrea chose to stay quiet about the drawing in Arthur’s bag. A lot had changed in her life, and she’d put a lot of measures in place to cleave her past from who she was now—Jerry had helped with a lot of it. But if someone wanted to figure it out, maybe they could. The less she was in the spotlight, the better.
Back in the present, the squad vehicle hit a pothole, jostling Andrea from her seat. After a few more turns, they were at the school, which looked beautiful in the low light and with all the waving palms. The parking lot was surprisingly empty. Andrea’s car was parked all alone on one end, and she spied Ronnie’s and Lauren’s, too. But there were no swarming cops, no nosy reporters. The wind swished quietly. Wind chimes banged together. Finally, the cop deigned to lower the music and glanced at her in the rearview.
“Mighty nice for a nursery school,” he said.
Andrea shifted her weight. What was she supposed to say, thank you?
The cop’s posture seemed rigid, tense. She found herself stiffening, too, afraid he might lash out, but he didn’t. The moment the car was in park, and the officer opened the back door for her, Andrea ducked her head, and hurried to her own car as if she was fleeing the paparazzi. She barely recalled the drive home, and when she hurried up her house’s front path, her fingers shook as she tried to unlock the front door. Mercifully, her door swung wide that very instant. Martina, the babysitter, held the knob, her face sheet-white.
“Where’s Arthur? What’s wrong?” Andrea asked.
There was something unreadable about Martina’s expression. But before Andrea could ask, there was a small sniffle down the hall. Arthur stepped out from around the corner. He looked at Andrea curiously, almost as though he wasn’t sure what to say to her.
“Where were you?” he asked in a tiny voice.
“It’s okay, baby,” she said. “I’m okay.” She wrapped him in her arms. But she could feel the babysitter still fidgeting on the periphery, and she turned back to her. “What is it?”
“It’s someone named Cynthia Vandermeer?” Martina whispered, her gaze sliding toward the kitchen.
Andrea’s heart stopped. Her mother. Here? But then the babysitter added, “She’s on your landline. She said she wasn’t hanging up.”
“Oh. Okay.” It had to be something unrelated—something about her father, maybe, or her brother. She sped through the kitchen and grabbed the cordless phone, which was sitting on its back on the kitchen island, the green power light glowing. “Mom?”
“Jesus Christ, Eric,” Cynthia’s voice growled down the receiver. “I can’t believe you.”
“W-What?” Andrea glanced in the doorway. Her mind thrummed at the name her mother just called her. “W-What are you talking about?” But as soon as the words came out of her mouth, she knew.
“I just got a call from some reporter saying a version of you dressed like a woman was called into questioning for assaulting the director of your preschool. What the hell have you done?”
Fifteen
Miss Stuckey.” An older officer walked briskly into Ronnie’s room and shut the door. It had taken him two hours to get here; rumor had it they had to call in backup from the next town over because the Raisin Beach PD was too small to interview three people at once. His badge read Connelly, and he seemed annoyed to be here. “How’s your head?”
“It’s . . . okay.” Ronnie touched it gently. There was a goose egg above her temple, proof that something had happened. “I really want to get home to my daughter. I didn’t see anything with Piper. Sorry.” She needed to get out of here.
“I want to get home, too.” The chair made a groaning, surrendering sound as Connelly slumped into it. “Why don’t you just go through what you did see and help the both of us?”
Ronnie was so nervous she could barely get the words out. “I was walking down the hall. I didn’t see anything or anyone—but I heard something. Thuds. And a scream. And then . . . something happened. I felt something sharp—an elbow?—at my throat. It hit me just right, and I went . . . down . . . and I must have hit my head because I lost consciousness.” She swallowed hard. She hadn’t quite allowed herself to fully grasp the terror of being assaulted.
“Next thing I know, I woke up and saw Piper. That’s it. Is she okay, by the way? No one’s told us anything.” A lump formed in her throat.
“An elbow to your throat,” the officer repeated. “You didn’t get a look at whose elbow?”
Ronnie recalled a face, all right—Jerrod’s. But she couldn’t tell the officer that. Who is Jerrod? he would ask. Oh, just the father of a little girl I stole. Who I’ve been hiding from for two years. Who I fear is lurking around every corner, about to kill me.
“Miss Stuckey?”
Ronnie jumped. “I don’t know anything else. I’m sorry.” She looked at the officer. “There wasn’t, like, a security camera on that hallway?” She hoped there wasn’t. She thought of the piece of paper she’d found in the filing cabinet and shoved into her pocket. She wriggled uncomfortably, feeling its folded edges at her side.
Connelly shook his head. “There were cameras at other locations on campus, but not that particular hallway. I was told by her office manager that they’d planned to put a camera in there, but they hadn’t done so yet. Budget cuts or something.”
“Oh.”
He sat back in his chair, giving her a devilish littl
e smile. “So where are you from, anyway?”
Her blood went cold. “Excuse me?”
“I have a record that you and your daughter moved here a few years ago.”
It astonished Ronnie that he could have dug up that information so quickly. “What kind of record?”
“An apartment rental.” He smiled pleasantly. “So where’d you come from?”
Lie, a voice told her. Say Montana. Nevada. But somehow, her mouth couldn’t form the words.
“Pennsylvania!” the officer crowed. “That’s a long way. What made you make such a shift?”
He knows, Ronnie thought. He was baiting her. He knew the whole sordid story about Jerrod and Vanessa. She very well might have blurted it out when she was unconscious. And even worse—this was only occurring to her—he thought that because of that story, she was a person who could be guilty of things.
“Though I guess,” the cop suddenly said, “I guess you don’t necessarily need a license to exotic dance in a different state, do you?”
Ronnie’s head shot up. “Excuse me?”
“It’s a profession you can do anywhere. There’s always a need.” He winked. “No judgments or anything. I’ve heard Topless Maids is quite a swanky organization.”
Ronnie was so stunned she couldn’t form a thought. “What did you say?”
The door opened, sending a shard of light into the room. Ronnie’s detective turned sharply, annoyed at the interruption. Ronnie shaded her eyes and stared at the figure in the doorway. A portly man walked in. “Ms. Stuckey? Come on. Let’s go.”
“What?” New panic seized her. They’d found out about Esme. She was going immediately to jail.
The second man pivoted to the detective. “Archer Cromwell. I’m her lawyer.”
“My . . . what?” Ronnie laughed nervously. “I think there’s some mistake. I can’t afford you.”
“It’s covered,” Archer Cromwell said, taking her arm. “All paid for. I’m at your service.”
“Paid for—by whom?”
The lawyer’s smile was wan and neutral. “Lane Wilder.” And then he opened the door and pointed to a perfectly normal sedan in the parking lot. “And until we talk, you’re saying nothing to anyone.” As he hit the key fob, he winked at her. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”
* * *
• • •
Thirty minutes later, Ronnie was sitting in Mr. Cromwell’s office, a small storefront in a strip mall only a few blocks away. The room had fake wood paneling, a bunch of law books on shelves, and two bronze bookends shaped like frogs.
Lane sat next to her, his hands cupped over his knees. Ronnie couldn’t look at him, she was so burning with shame. “How did this news get out?” she asked the lawyer. “How do people know that I . . . you know?” She glanced sheepishly at Lane again. She couldn’t say Topless Maids out loud.
“Well, we aren’t sure about that,” Cromwell said. “Cops get information from all over, though.” He had kind eyes that disappeared into the folds of his skin when he smiled, a round belly over khaki trousers, and strangely large feet. “Not that it has anything to do with anything. Chances are it was just some asshole wanting to share some gossip.”
Ronnie could only peek at Lane peripherally. “I’m so sorry. About all of this.”
Lane shrugged and looked away. “There’s no point in getting into it right now.”
“But I should have told you from the start. I just thought you’d leave me, and . . .” She trailed off. Lane was right. This probably wasn’t the time or place.
“I didn’t hurt Piper, Lane,” Ronnie said slowly, regrouping. She was very aware of the conversation that she and Lane had had just a few days earlier, while they were sitting on the balcony. “I mean, when we had that talk about me not liking her—I didn’t mean anything by that. You know that, right?”
“I do.” Lane’s gaze nervously cut to Cromwell. “Ronnie thought Piper—the moms in general—were judging her. Because she’s not from here.”
“And because I’m a dancer,” Ronnie mumbled.
“Yes, but no one knew that, did they?” Lane asked. Though then he added, to himself, “Oh. That’s why you brought that up the other day, isn’t it? That’s why you were worried. Because you thought someone did know.”
“No one else heard the conversation,” Ronnie told Cromwell. “It was just between us. But I’d never hurt anyone.”
Although as soon as the words came out of her mouth, she felt like a fraud.
“Does someone have something against you?” Mr. Cromwell asked Ronnie. “Perhaps a client? Maybe they released the information? Found out somehow you were there?”
“No,” Ronnie said, surprised. “Not a client—no way. What I do . . . it’s all friendly. In good fun, really. All the work I do is up the coast, nowhere local. And all the people are screened beforehand, and we go in pairs.” She was looking at Lane now. “Two girls, always.”
“Well, good,” Lane said, his voice stilted. “So this is where you’ve been, when you go to work? Not the nonprofit?”
Ronnie stared at her shoes. “No.”
“And is there sex, in these visits?” Cromwell asked.
“No!” Ronnie’s cheeks blazed. She wanted to curl up in a ball. “It isn’t a client who told on me. I’ve done a good job. Never upset anybody. The clients understand my need for discretion as much as I understand theirs.” She stared down at her fingers. They were shaking. “I actually wondered if it was another mom. Like maybe someone’s husband uses the service, and she figured it out. That’s why I was in Piper’s hallway, actually.”
Lane crossed his arms. Taking a breath, Ronnie explained the strange, crayon-printed message she’d found on Esme’s device . . . and the various ways she’d tried to interpret it. “Ronnie!” Lane interrupted. “It said hate? Esme would never write that!”
“I know, but . . .” Then she explained how paranoid she’d felt in the school hallway, enough so that she’d hid in a supply closet to spy. Lane looked scandalized. When she said she saw Piper slipping the note into Lauren’s kid’s bag, Lane shut his eyes slowly.
“It just kind of snowballed,” she said in a small voice as she finished up the story. “I didn’t mean to go to the offices. I was just following Lauren to convince her to leave. We were all in the same boat. So I ran after her. And on my way down the hall, someone hit me. I fell. When I woke up, Piper was on the ground near me.”
It was best, she thought, to leave out the part about opening drawers in Piper’s office. That random spreadsheet she’d found was still balled up in her pocket; it was divine intervention that the cops hadn’t searched her.
Lane was gawking at her with dismay. “I can’t believe Piper was doing this to families.”
“She isn’t as perfect as you think,” Ronnie said sharply, then glanced guiltily at Cromwell.
“Where were you when all this happened?” Cromwell asked.
“Me?” Lane looked surprised. “Well, depending on the time, we were either outside or I was in my office, and my assistant was getting the kids packed up.” He looked at Ronnie. “I have an appointment to speak with the police tomorrow—they didn’t have enough staff to talk to everyone on site. Thank God I was tipped off that you were one of the people who’d been found on the scene—otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten Esme. Or called Cromwell here.” He sighed. “I wish I would have seen something. Anything. And I wish . . .” He swallowed hard. “I wish you’d told me about this. The note, I mean. I could have helped.”
“I . . . blamed myself.” It felt like there was a brick in Ronnie’s throat. “And then you’d find out about Topless. I was afraid you’d leave us.”
“Ronnie.” Lane looked devastated. “You can always tell me anything. I swear. I’m not leaving.”
Her stomach soured. Oh, but you might, if you knew everything,
she thought. It was disingenuous of her to make this all about her dancing career when there were darker things he didn’t know. A man might stay with a topless dancer. That same man wouldn’t abide a child abductor.
“Did you tell the police about this note?” Cromwell asked.
Ronnie shook her head. “I didn’t know if it was a good idea. I was afraid it made me look like I had . . . motive.”
“How about the other people who received notes? Was Piper targeting them, too?”
“Sort of.” Ronnie bit her lip nervously, remembering that the others had had reasons to keep their identities private, too. Lauren and her rage. And Andrea: as soon as she said her family’s last name, Ronnie remembered reading about Eric Vandermeer in a trashy magazine in the back room of Kittens. How he’d been caught with a young woman at a hotel upstate. The police were called. It was all over the news. Eric denied having relations with the girl, but the court of public opinion was against him. Ronnie was pretty sure the girl’s family filed a restraining order.
“Well, I’m not sure what to do about the note.” The lawyer tapped the tip of his pen to his lips. “My gut would be to mention it, but we don’t want to give anyone extra ammunition. Unless we could prove who was sending them, of course. You said you saw Piper deliver one. But that doesn’t mean she delivered yours.” Cromwell turned a page on his legal pad. “Did you hear of other people not being happy with Ms. Jovan?”
Ronnie looked at Lane for this one. “Well, no,” he admitted. “Everyone loved her.”
There was a long pause, and then Cromwell raised his head as though he’d had a new thought. “You know,” the lawyer said, shifting in his chair, “you look a lot like her.”
Ronnie frowned. “Who?”
“Piper.” His smile was dubious. “No one has mentioned that?”
Ronnie cast a startled look at Lane, who didn’t look surprised. “Well, yeah,” he said quietly. “Kind of.”
