by Sara Shepard
With Arthur nestled in the chair across the room, Andrea rose and opened a second bottle of wine. The alcohol from the first bottle had gone straight to her head, and she had to remember to be careful with her walk, her voice, the way she sat. Because that was the truth of the matter: though it now came more naturally than before, she still had to watch herself.
“I was a disappointment to my mother, too,” she said in a quiet voice.
“You sure?” Reginald cocked his head. “Actually, here’s the thing—turns out I wasn’t a disappointment at all. It was just in how I was perceiving it. This was something that came to me while I traveled. Yeah, my mom complained. Everything was a pain in the ass for her, even before my father died—including my father, who was probably the most decent, tolerant guy I’d ever met. But even if I’d been valedictorian, even if I’d won the lottery, even if I was the model son of her dreams, it wouldn’t have mattered.” He stared thoughtfully into the distance. “I don’t think she would have treated me any differently. It was just the way she was, you know?”
“That’s awfully big of you to let all of that go,” Andrea said.
“People don’t usually change. Once we understand that, life gets easier.” He sat back and smiled. “I knocked on her door about a year ago. She doesn’t live that far. I thought she was going to lecture me, give me hell because I hadn’t come around, but instead she threw her arms around me and said she missed me, all that stuff I’d given up hoping for.”
“How nice!”
“Well, I mean, she woke up the next day the same cranky bitch as ever.” Reginald started chuckling. “But I do talk to her again. I spent ten years blaming her, being angry. I felt cheated, like if I’d had a nice mom, I’d know what I wanted to do with my life.” He shrugged. “But maybe I’ll never know. And at this point, I like what I’m doing. I’m content. I’ve found my path.”
“That’s good.” Andrea’s voice was merely a whisper. Hadn’t she always thought about this, too, with her own family? She’d had every privilege, but people rarely looked past the Vandermeer money to see that they weren’t actually a functioning family. What she’d give for a real connection with one of them, but it was probably too late.
But even as Andrea thought this, she began to doubt its validity. Was it possible Reginald was right? Was this just her perception of things? There probably wasn’t any hope in forging a bond with her father, but if she spoke to, say, Cynthia differently, if she thought of Cynthia differently, if she just tried to put herself in Cynthia’s shoes, could she perhaps see where Cynthia was coming from, and maybe they could work to heal?
And also, hadn’t she found her path, too? She found gratitude in that. She understood the journey was so much harder for others than it had been for her. Maybe she had to come to terms with the fact that she wasn’t going to have everything in life, and that was okay.
The wine made a glug-glug-glug sound as Reginald poured more into each of their glasses. “But I think being a good mother outweighs everything.” And then he looked at her so kindly, Andrea ducked her head bashfully. “Arthur’s lucky to have you.”
“Oh,” was all Andrea could say. And then, to her horror, she felt her eyes fill with tears. It was really all she wanted: to be a good parent. Not to screw him up. Cynthia was a mother, and so was she. They had that between them. How would she react if Arthur took a different path than the one she wanted? She’d like to think she’d take it in stride, as long as he was happy. But maybe she wouldn’t know until it happened.
“Hey,” Reginald said, ducking his head so he could look her in the eyes. “You okay?”
Andrea laughed and then waved her arm in a gesture that she hoped said, Oh, don’t mind me. “Sometimes I get a little weepy,” she lied. And then she smiled at him. It was a smile tinged with sadness—both because of her doubts and because she worried that this moment, warm and lovely and ordinary and precious, was fleeting.
Nothing stayed buried forever.
Twenty
On Monday, four days after Piper’s attack, Ronnie awoke to Lane’s hand on her shoulder. “Ronnie,” he said. “Ronnie. Veronica.”
Her eyes snapped open. “What?” Lane wasn’t the type to use her full name. She felt in trouble. Instantly, the Missing flyer popped in her mind. Someone knew what she’d done. Maybe whoever it was had told Lane.
“An officer’s out there who wants to speak with you,” Lane said. His face was gray. Grave. “I’m sorry. I tried to keep him away. And I called Cromwell, but he didn’t pick up.”
Ronnie shot out of bed. She pulled on jeans, a bra, a T-shirt. Then she changed her T-shirt because the first T-shirt was too tight.
On her way out of the bedroom, Lane caught her arm. “Honey, I’m so, so sorry.”
“Stop saying that. It’s not your fault.”
“I know, I just . . .” He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I should have listened to you. You were trying to tell me something on the balcony that night—about the note you got. And I didn’t hear you. I let my admiration for Piper get in the way. I should have stood by you.”
Ronnie pressed her head into his chest, and they hugged. “You are standing by me.”
A tall, gangly officer waited in the living room, his torso bent over his knees. He was examining some of Esme’s drawings on the coffee table—Ronnie hadn’t tidied the art supplies from the night before. He looked up when she walked in. “Cute pictures.”
Ronnie wanted to tell him to stop touching Esme’s things, but she knew better than to say so. “I’m Ronnie,” she said.
“Detective Allegra,” he replied, offering his hand.
Then they just stood there. Ronnie was dying for a cup of coffee but didn’t know the protocol on hosting police officers. The Missing flyer swam in her mind. Andrea and Lauren had tried to convince her that Jerrod most likely wasn’t in Raisin Beach, but it was hard for Ronnie to let that go. She’d felt so followed lately. So watched.
And there were other things about the flyer, questions Ronnie desperately wanted to ask but was too afraid to go searching. For one thing: Vanessa. Her name had been listed as a parent. Could she still be alive?
Her heart swelled at the idea. She pictured calling Vanessa up while Jeopardy! was on, like she used to. They would call out the answers they knew; surprisingly, Vanessa was a whiz with trivia. She pictured hugging her sister again, and making Thanksgiving apple pies together, and maybe inviting her out here for Christmas.
But then her emotions took a dive, because holy shit, she’d stolen Vanessa’s child and of course she wouldn’t be inviting her out here for Christmas. Vanessa had been a neglectful parent a lot of the time, but she still loved her kid. Did she know Ronnie had been the one to take Esme? But if both of them were alive and searching, why hadn’t they made headway yet?
Unless, of course, Jerrod had.
She heard Lane and Esme rustling in the kitchen—Lane was getting ready for work, but Ronnie had argued that maybe Esme should stay home from Silver Swans another few days, until the dust settled. The last thing she wanted was for Esme to pick up things she heard at school.
Esme’s high little voice peppered Lane with questions: Is Mommy in trouble? Ronnie could only hear Lane’s murmuring baritone, not his answers.
She looked at the officer again. “Can I help you with anything?”
Allegra nodded. “Just have a few follow-up questions.”
“Any news about Piper?”
“Uh . . .” He flipped through his notes. “The same. She’s being kept in a medically induced coma for brain swelling. I don’t know much else.”
“Is her son okay?” she asked. “Is he being taken care of?”
He shrugged. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
“What do you mean you’re sure? You don’t know for certain?”
He sniffed with exasperat
ion. “Look, Ms. Stuckey, I’m trying to figure out where we should go next with all this. These sorts of things don’t usually happen in our community.”
“Yes.” Ronnie felt her stomach draw in. “I know. Of course I know.”
“First”—he kept his face very neutral—“we tried to contact your boss yesterday to get some details about your client list, but he was uncooperative.”
Ronnie gave a mental high-five to Bill for being discreet, though she was still annoyed with him for the reaming-out he’d given her because she’d missed an appointment the day of the Piper mess. “They like to keep the list private, so . . .”
She heard a clink on the other side of the wall and froze. Lane was still here. Was he picturing a client list? She hated that this was out in the open. Yesterday, she’d called Bill, telling him she needed some time off. Maybe indefinitely. Lane hadn’t asked her to quit . . . but there was no way she could keep doing what she was doing, now that he knew.
“Anyway,” the cop went on, “the reason I ask about your clients is because—well, is it possible any of them were upset with you?”
“Upset?” Ronnie shook her head. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Okay, did you recognize any of them as parents at Silver Swans?” His eyes were bright and gossipy. “Dads? Granddads?”
“I’m careful not to take clients who live close by. But also, what does this have to do with Piper?”
The officer crossed his arms and gave her a level look. It scared her, too, that he was digging around Topless Maids, asking for client lists. This guy was too interested in her past. Next, he might dig into where she’d lived before, that she’d abruptly moved away.
She cursed herself for telling the police that she’d lived in Pennsylvania. It was like she’d drawn him a road map straight back to her nightmare—maybe they’d inquire into strip clubs there. Maybe they’d start connecting the dots. Even changing one’s name didn’t make the problems go away.
“Okay, moving on,” the cop said, slapping his hands to his thighs. “Can you tell me about the women who were also on the scene? Ms. Smith and Ms. Vaughan. Do you know them well?”
“Somewhat.”
“Have you spent time with them socially?”
“A few times, yes.”
“And what about their significant others?”
Ronnie shook her head. “I’ve never met Lauren’s husband. And Andrea is single, I believe.”
“You believe, or you know?”
“I know.” Was this guy trying to trap her into saying that Andrea had once been married—and to whom? Ronnie sure as hell wasn’t going to let Andrea’s past out of the bag.
But then her brain caught. Andrea had said her mom called her in a panic, saying a reporter had contacted her about the attack. If that was true, then wouldn’t this guy already know who Andrea was?
The Missing flyer popped in her mind again. It was so confounding. Why wouldn’t this person go to the police with what they knew? What was their angle?
“Okay. Third thing. Apparently, Ms. Jovan’s office door was wide-open when we went down to check out the scene, but her assistant swore that it was only ajar before he headed out. Know anything about that?”
Ronnie blinked. “I don’t—” She frowned. “Wait, her assistant said that? Carson?”
“Uh-huh. Any chance you stepped into Piper’s office to take a peek at something? Maybe one of your friends did?”
Ronnie’s heart started to pound. She made a strange squeaking sound from the back of her throat. The cop took this as an opportunity. His eyebrows shot up like she’d just given a confession.
“Her assistant mentioned there was sensitive information in that office,” the cop continued. “Financial documents, that kind of thing. Perhaps you knew this beforehand, though. Wanted to take a look? Steal your file?”
“I had no idea. I swear.”
“Maybe you went in for another reason?” His smile was sneaky, confident. “Maybe you were hoping you’d find a petty cash box?”
“Now wait just a second.” And here was Lane, his face red, jaw clenched, in the doorway. “What are you getting at?”
“Lane?” Ronnie shot to her feet. “Why are you still here?”
And the officer raised his eyebrows. “Pardon?”
“Would you presume another parent was riffling through the school office looking for money? A father?”
The cop waved his arm. “The office door was open, sir. Ms. Stuckey was in that hallway. I’m just trying to work through what might have happened, why she might have gone into Ms. Jovan’s office.”
“Ronnie wasn’t in Piper’s office,” Lane insisted. “She doesn’t need money.”
“Lane,” Ronnie said nervously, swinging her head around. It felt like she’d just slipped ten feet deeper into the hole.
Then she noticed Esme peek around Lane’s legs. Ronnie motioned her into the room, and the little girl ran into her arms.
“This your daughter?” the cop asked.
“Of course,” Ronnie said, hearing her voice crack. Esme had lifted her head from Ronnie’s chest and was staring at him curiously, her eyes roaming from his badge to his belt and holster to his shiny black shoes.
“I’m calling our lawyer.” Lane pulled out his phone. “No more questions without him.”
“Lane,” Ronnie repeated, “it’s okay.” She looked back at the cop, daring herself to say something—because maybe it seemed safer to speak up?
The cop’s phone beeped, and after he studied it, he was on his feet. “I have to go,” he said grumpily. “I’m just asking questions. But let me leave you with this.” He turned to her, narrowing his eyes. “If you were in that office, Ms. Stuckey, you’re better off telling us.”
Lane walked the officer out. As the door closed, he turned back to Ronnie, his mouth twisted. “What a jerk,” he muttered.
“Lane.” Ronnie swallowed hard. Here goes. She had to tell him. “It’s true. I was in her office.”
Lane blinked at her. She rushed on. “Only for a minute. I just . . . I didn’t touch anything, not really.” Liar! a voice screamed in her head. “It was so, so wrong, but we just felt picked on, you know? And frustrated and small and . . .”
Lane held up his hand. “It’s okay. I get it.” He sighed. “I wish you’d told Cromwell this to start, but it is what it is.” But then he looked at her strangely. “You didn’t know there was a file on you in there, did you?”
“No!” Ronnie cried. “I swear!”
Lane nodded slowly, but he didn’t look like he quite believed her. “Because, I mean, if you did know, and if there’s something in that file you didn’t want people to know about, then it makes logical sense you’d want to steal it back.”
“What would be in my file I wouldn’t want people to know?” Ronnie blurted.
Lane cocked his head. “That you work as a topless dancer? Unless there’s something else . . .”
“No,” Ronnie said quickly—maybe too quickly. “No, of course there isn’t anything else.”
Her heart was pounding. It felt like she’d dug herself into a hole. She didn’t even know if the evidence about stealing Esme was in that file at the school. Most likely it wasn’t, because wouldn’t the school feel obligated to report her?
But then there was someone who knew. She looked at Lane in horror, something new coming to mind. “Did you know they kept files on people?”
“Of course not.” Lane’s eyes flashed. “No way.” Now he looked really concerned. “Ronnie, what’s going on? You’re acting strange.”
Ronnie licked her dry lips. She had to get a hold of herself. She had to try to breathe.
There was a scruff of beard on Lane’s cheeks. His eyes were bloodshot, too, as though he’d tossed and turned last night. I’m acting strange because there’s so much I haven’t tol
d you, Ronnie almost wanted to scream. She wasn’t sure she deserved to have someone so squarely in her corner.
But instead she shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said. “I . . . I just don’t like the police being here. I want this to end.”
“I know,” Lane said, holding her tight. “But don’t worry. It will.”
* * *
• • •
After Lane left, Ronnie parked Esme in front of a My Little Pony app on the iPad—she could only imagine what the women in the Silver Swans Facebook group would say about that—and called Andrea. Andrea’s voice was cagey when she picked up. “A cop was just here,” Ronnie said.
“What? Why?”
“They know we were in Piper’s office.”
“How?”
“Carson. He saw that the door was different from how he left it. I didn’t confirm we were there.” She paused, considering telling Andrea that she’d told Lane. She decided to hold off for now. “The cop also said Carson mentioned there being a lot of sensitive files in the office. I wonder if that’s how they knew I worked for Topless Maids, actually.”
There was a long pause. “Silver Swans has a file about you working for Topless Maids?”
“I don’t know how. I certainly didn’t offer that up on my application.”
Andrea took a breath. “That Missing flyer. Do you think that was in the file, too?”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Ronnie said nervously, shaken that Andrea had drawn the same conclusion. “So who has access to those files?”
“Carson.”
Ronnie shivered. Carson was the person closest to Piper. Ronnie couldn’t picture the teachers being involved. “But why would he threaten us?” she whispered.
“He loves Piper. Maybe he thinks we’re going to tarnish her reputation by spilling the beans about the notes our kids got.”
“But why wouldn’t he just turn me in for Esme?” Ronnie went on, her mind reeling. “Then I’d just be in jail.”
