by Sara Shepard
“Good point,” Andrea said. “Unless he can’t turn you in. I mean, how did he get that information on you in the first place? Maybe he hacked something. Maybe he did something illegal. Or maybe he thinks we know something else Piper’s done wrong? Or . . . or maybe something he’s done wrong?”
Ronnie racked her brain of what that could be. “The cop implied I might have been looking for money.”
“You didn’t find money in the office, did you? I mean—I know you didn’t take it. But was there any in there?”
“Not that I saw. The only thing I found was that spreadsheet.” She took a hiccup of a breath. “I haven’t looked at it, though. I’ve been too afraid.”
“It’s okay,” Andrea said thoughtfully. “Let’s look at it together. Maybe we can figure out what it is.”
Ronnie really, really didn’t want to. But eventually she stood, then walked down the hall to the coat closet, trying to remember the jacket she’d had on the day everything went down with Piper. Her black one, she was pretty sure. When she reached into the pocket, the paper was still there, crumpled on one side, but intact. She smoothed it out and stared at the information.
“It’s just random numbers,” she told Andrea. “There are no dollar amounts. No names.” But then she thought about student IDs—maybe that was what these were? “Hold on,” she said to Andrea. “Let me confirm something.”
She went to a drawer in Lane’s desk, which housed office supplies, a curious array of keys, canceled credit cards, and a small handbook of all the students and parents who had attended Silver Swans last year. Most parents only had their child’s class list, but the teachers got a more comprehensive picture of everyone attending the school.
Ronnie opened it; the first page were the children in the baby class. But her theory was short-lived: Silver Swans kids were assigned student IDs, but they were six-digit numbers, not the long strings on the spreadsheet. She sighed, closed it up again, and tossed it back in the drawer.
“Even if this is nothing, I still don’t like having this in my house,” she told Andrea as she padded back to the kitchen. “It proves I went into her office.”
“Don’t get rid of it just yet,” Andrea said. “Take a picture of it for me first.”
Ronnie recoiled. “I don’t want evidence of it on my phone!”
“Okay, okay, mail it to me, then.”
“Why do you want it so badly?”
“We can’t rule anything out. Just pop it in an envelope. I’ll text you my address. It’ll be in my possession—and you’ll be blameless.”
Ronnie reluctantly agreed. Before she hung up, she said, “So how are you doing, anyway?”
Andrea sighed. “I don’t know.”
“Tell me you aren’t reading that shit online,” Ronnie said. “That Facebook group.”
“Are you?”
“Trying not to. But I’m so afraid my face is going to appear somewhere.”
“It hasn’t yet, right?”
“No.” Ronnie sighed. “It’s why I’m not leaving the house, for the most part. I’m worried about sending Esme to school. I don’t want her to be judged.”
“I know. I’m worried about that with Arthur, too. But you’ll be okay. Your lawyer said he’d keep your image from showing up online, and that’s all you need to worry about. As for what people are saying . . . well, you can’t stop that.”
“Did Arthur go to school today?”
“Oh God, no.” Andrea sounded sheepish. “Sorry. I don’t practice what I preach.”
Ronnie sighed. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she felt the same way. “I was wondering something else,” she said, hoping Andrea wouldn’t mind that she asked. “That young person? The one they caught you upstate with? What was his name again?”
Andrea took a breath. “Roger.”
“Do you hear from him ever?”
“We lost touch,” Andrea admitted. “I mean, after the hotel thing, and the police, and it came out in all the papers, I wanted to reach out to him—but I knew I shouldn’t. It would have just made things worse—for him, not me. Before I left to come here, I looked him up on social media, typing in a bunch of names I thought might work . . . but he wasn’t anywhere.” She sighed. “I think about him a lot.”
“I get it,” Ronnie said.
“What about you? You don’t think of . . . of that awful guy, do you?”
“No,” Ronnie said quickly. “Or, well, I do . . . but not fondly.” She shut the door to their bedroom. “I hope I never see him again. But I worry—”
“Don’t worry,” Andrea interrupted. “It doesn’t seem possible.”
After she hung up, she placed the spreadsheet in an envelope and wrote out Andrea’s address. She thought about leaving Esme alone for the few minutes she’d be outside, but it made her nervous. As luck would have it, Mrs. Lombardo was watering her flowers right below Ronnie’s balcony. Ronnie smiled down at her. “Do you mind coming up for a sec?”
“Don’t have anything else to do,” Mrs. Lombardo said, amicably enough.
Once the babysitter was in the apartment, Ronnie headed to the mailbox at the corner. The metal door made a dissonant squeal as she pulled it open and dropped the letter inside.
There was a shortcut back to the apartment through the parking garage, which was sparse at this time of day. Her hard flats echoed loudly against the concrete. Something dripped in a corner near a parked minivan, and there was a noxious smell of oil coming from one of the bays. Something metallic sounded from the other side of the garage—like someone had dropped a set of car keys. Ronnie turned around slowly, suddenly alert. Someone was moving stealthily through the shadows, like they didn’t want to be seen.
“Hello?” she called out.
She crept around a bulky black SUV so it would form a barrier between her and whomever it was. “Hello?” she called out again.
Another footstep. Ronnie squinted into the darkness, only able to make out the shape of a person coming toward her. Her mouth went dry. This is how it ends, she thought. Her mind flashed to Vanessa lying unconscious on the carpet where Jerrod had left her.
“Please,” she said, a sob rising in her throat. “Who’s there?” She almost said his name. Jerrod?
The figure stepped forward. Ronnie began to bargain. Please keep me safe, she willed. I’ll be a better person. I’ll always tell the truth.
An overhead spotlight shone down on the advancing figures, sharpening their features. Ronnie was so surprised that she straightened against the wall abruptly and banged her head on the concrete pillar. “Oh!” she cried out.
“Hi, Ronnie,” Vanessa said. Her sister stepped forward with a sad smile. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Twenty-One
Here we go.” Graham gripped a serving platter with two oven-mitted hands, waltzed to the table, and set down a plate of cacio e pepe. The rich, buttery scent wafted into Lauren’s nostrils.
“Oh my God.” She sighed. “Smells heavenly.”
Graham broke off a piece of garlic bread and smiled. He’d come home early from work, Whole Foods bags in hands, announcing that he was going to make his signature meal. He’d wooed Lauren with cacio e pepe on one of their first dates, proclaiming he’d learned to make it in a cooking class in Italy. Lauren had been so charmed by the meal that she’d told him, woozily, that she wanted to marry him and have his babies. Later, she’d found out that he’d taken the trip with an ex-girlfriend, which marred the gesture slightly, but it certainly didn’t deter her from eating the meal whenever he made it.
But today, Lauren stared down at her plate, dubious. What was the occasion? Granted, it wasn’t like she’d prepared anything—she’d slept through most of the morning and had been in such a daze all afternoon that it hadn’t occurred to her to go to the store. But that happened often.
There was a di
stinct possibility that Graham had found out about her sleuthing at Silver Swans. Perhaps someone had seen Lauren and reported it back to Graham. But why should Lauren feel guilty about what she’d done? She hadn’t set out to go to Silver Swans. She’d had an innocent conversation with a producer. And hell, maybe she’d found out something that could exonerate her.
“Piper kept us on as producers after she and Hulu parted ways,” Kelsey had admitted after dropping the bomb. “She only told us this week. Wednesday, I think.”
Lauren thought about that. Wednesday was the day before Piper’s attack. The day Andrea had met with Piper. Was this what she heard Piper arguing about over the phone in the parking lot? “But why would Piper continue on without a network?” Lauren asked. “Why was it so important?”
“Because she has faith in it,” Kelsey said. “She wants to make it into something all her own—and honestly, it was going in a more reality show direction—in hopes of selling to a network down the line.”
“Really!” Lauren cried, recalling how Piper had recoiled when someone had asked at the breakfast if the program was going to have a reality show vibe. How quickly she’d changed her tune.
“Yeah.” Kelsey shrugged. “But it’s not my place to criticize.”
“If she’s turning it into some sort of Real Housewives: Preschool, I’m surprised Piper hasn’t done a zillion interviews with you for the program,” Lauren said. This was starting to make her feel better about Piper’s nasty email—naturally Piper didn’t want a whole chunk of a program being taken up by a mother going through postpartum rage. It seemed too tragic for reality TV.
“Yeah, I don’t know,” Kelsey said. “Maybe she’s a private person. She slashed out a bunch of preliminary questions we asked her to approve. She didn’t want to talk about anything personal. Not even her son.”
“So the show isn’t about motherhood anymore?”
“Well technically, it’s about this school. But who knows?” Kelsey sighed. “Anyway, it’s why we haven’t pivoted to investigating what happened. Piper wouldn’t want an attack—especially on her—to be in a show she’s financing. You know?”
“Do you think I could see your footage?” Lauren had asked. “Like . . . with the parents?”
Kelsey shook her head. “Sorry. Those interviews were done in confidence.”
Later, Kelsey emailed Lauren with Jean’s contact information at Hulu. Can you not mention I gave you this? Kelsey wrote. I think it’s okay you talk to him, but I don’t want to get in the middle—especially if it’s weird.
Naturally, she called Jean right away. She needed to know why someone would drop Piper. The information might save her—save all of them. But the call had gone to voicemail. Jean hadn’t yet called back.
“Parmesan?” Graham asked.
“Uh, sure.” Lauren reached for the canister and sprinkled the cheese. Graham was eating heartily. She tried to recall the last time Graham cooked this dish. The day he’d gotten the job at Ketchup—that was it. Lauren had been eight months pregnant, swollen to the point of bursting and anxious as hell. Sometime in the second trimester, the baby thing had become all too real. She was having a child with a man she’d only just met! Did they actually love each other, or were they just playing house down the coast? Graham hadn’t even gotten around to painting the nursery, so she was considering hiring a company to do it.
“I just don’t know what to do with myself,” he told her. “I feel so stuck here.”
“We didn’t have to move,” Lauren answered. “I thought we both wanted this.”
“It’s easy for you. You’ve made something of yourself.”
She’d felt confused. Was he going to back out? Ditch her one day, turn her into a single mother, stuck in some random beach town? She also hadn’t realized he’d felt so adrift, and that made her feel bad, too. Maybe she wasn’t so attuned to him; maybe they didn’t know each other that well. Maybe the baby was a mistake.
But then, just days later, he’d gotten the call from Gracie. It was a whirlwind, and his whole personality brightened practically overnight. All at once, Graham became more excited about the baby—and about her, too. Lauren’s doubts vanished.
Now, she put down her fork and dared to ask what was on her mind. “So . . . I hope this isn’t a last meal. Before, you know, I go off to the funny farm.”
Graham cocked his head. “You shouldn’t call it that, Lauren.”
“The funny spa?” This didn’t crack a smile, either. She stabbed at a noodle.
He glanced at her with concern. “I just want you to be your best self. And get the help you need.”
“But I’d rather do that at home. Around my child. I’d miss him too much, Graham. It would kill me.”
Graham nodded thoughtfully, then spooned another bite into his mouth. After he swallowed, he said, “Well, you know yourself best.”
“I do. I really think this is the right decision.” She had her hands clasped in prayer. The relief she felt was palpable. Graham was on her side. Vigorously, she pushed a bigger bite into her mouth. She was all of a sudden hungry again.
“Oh,” Graham said a little while later, after he’d served himself seconds. “I forgot to mention. I had a visit with the police today.”
Lauren lay down her fork. “You what?”
Graham looked surprised. “I thought you knew. They said they were going to call you.”
Lauren searched through the day. She hadn’t received a call from the police. Nor had she missed one. “What happened?”
“They had a lot of questions about you. But don’t worry. I didn’t . . . say anything.”
The scent of Parmesan grew sharp in Lauren’s nostrils. “Okay . . .”
“And now, it seems that they’re focusing on a few others. I’m pretty sure you’re no longer a person of interest.”
“Wait, a few others are?” Lauren blinked. “Who?”
“Those women who were with you in that hallway.” Graham raised an eyebrow. “I mean, from what you told me, they were the ones who had the compelling reasons to shut Piper up—way more than Piper just accidentally forwarding you a mean email.” He pointed his fork at her and smiled. “I pitched that in a story meeting, by the way. Well, a funnier version. The Jimmy character receives a nasty email about him that’s not meant for him. It’s about his dick. And then things go badly.”
“About his . . .” Lauren’s mind stepped backward a few paces. “What do you mean, from what I told you? What did I say about Ronnie and Andrea?”
“You told me they’d also received notes. And then later, you added that they would go to extreme means to stop it from happening again. Because they have things to hide.” He grabbed another piece of garlic bread. “I thought it would be useful for the cops to know that.”
Lauren could only stare at the rising steam coming from the breadstick as Graham tore it in two. She couldn’t quite grab on to the memory of telling Graham this. She hadn’t said anything about Andrea being a Vandermeer, had she? And what Ronnie confessed about Esme flashed in her mind, too. Ronnie absolutely had a reason to keep Piper quiet, but if Graham knew that—if Graham had told the cops—Ronnie could lose that child.
“I shouldn’t have said anything about them,” she whispered. “Um, when did I tell you? That other stuff, I mean. The stuff I said about Ronnie and Andrea having things to hide. I know I mentioned the notes Friday. But . . .”
“You . . .” Graham was looking at her strangely. “Saturday night. You don’t remember?” He set down his fork. “I thought this was a good thing. Had I known you didn’t want me to share, I would have kept quiet.”
“I just . . . I said I wouldn’t. I promised them.” Saturday night? She scrambled to remember. Saturday, she’d talked to Kelsey. She’d come home, then, and tried to play with the baby, but she’d felt so nervous, so she’d had an illicit, breastfeeding-taboo
glass of wine, which made her woozy. Graham worked late, and she’d fallen asleep on the couch. She’d awakened to the lights snapping off and Clarissa shutting the door, but she’d been disoriented—kind of drunk. Graham had stood over her, and she’d felt a little sheepish, afraid he could smell the alcohol on her breath.
Was that when she’d betrayed Ronnie’s and Andrea’s trust? They’d confided in her. Look what she’d done.
Graham reached across the table and touched Lauren’s hand. “I just want you to be safe, babe. I want us all to be totally, totally safe.”
Lauren nodded shakily. “I know, but . . .”
She didn’t feel safe. How was this her mind? If she’d confessed things to Graham, who else had she told? How could she do this to Ronnie and Andrea?
She dropped the fork into her uneaten food. Nothing felt real or solid. Lauren glanced at her baby, her throat closing up with sadness. “Graham,” she said in a choked voice. “Graham. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I do need help.”
Graham’s expression wilted, and he stood up and moved around the table and gathered her crumpled form in his arms. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “We’ll get you help. We’ll get you all the help you need.”
Twenty-Two
Ronnie’s fingers trembled as they held a paper cup of coffee. Across the wooden bench outside the café, her sister calmly stirred mint tea. Ronnie couldn’t recall her sister ever drinking mint tea before—not unless it was spiked with vodka. The innocence of it felt incongruous and wrong. In fact, all her feelings felt wrong. On the one hand, she was overjoyed to see her sister. She’d cried for a year, numb with grief, because she thought Vanessa was dead.
On the other hand, she was scared shitless. Because here was the end of the road. If Vanessa was here, surely Jerrod must be close behind.
“This sandwich is good,” Vanessa mused. “Yours?”
“Um,” Ronnie squeaked, “sure.”
She was too jacked up to try the sandwiches she’d bought for both of them for an early dinner—blessedly, Mrs. Lombardo said she could stay on with Esme back at the apartment. And anyway, they weren’t supposed to be talking about sandwiches. They weren’t supposed to be sitting outside a sandwich shop in the late afternoon California sunshine like everything was fine.
