by Sara Shepard
Not so deep down, you seethed with annoyance that she was being so self-righteous. Flora came from vast amounts of money; her father was some hotshot corporate lawyer back in New York. She didn’t even have a regular job; she was starting some bullshit sportswear line, clearly a vanity project, the pieces made in China and shipped here and stamped with her holistic seal of approval. You even wore her stupid rubber bracelet for a while, supporting her cause. You went to her stupid launch party. You bought her leggings and a headband you’d never wear and a pair of socks that were no better than the ones you used to buy in big packs at Walmart. And this is what she throws back in your face? A few dollars siphoned from her account?
Flora didn’t need the money. Silver Swans did. You did. Not that you could have told her that. Flora was furious when she came to you. She said she’d figured it all out and was going to blow the whistle. “Everyone else might love you,” she said, “but I think you’re full of shit. Exploiting parents, especially during this time? Do you realize how wrong that is?”
You had to act quickly. It was so easy, in the end—all you had to do was pinpoint what really mattered to her. You’d never met a girl who didn’t want to protect her father. Hell, that even included you, not that your dad had any secrets worth keeping.
She took your money and shut up. She knew what bombs you could detonate, and she stayed away. Her capitulation was a relief at the time, but now you wonder if you’d been naïve. You’d noticed her bracelets on not one wrist but two. New mothers at that. It’s more than a coincidence. Flora knows these women; she must. Maybe she said the things she wasn’t supposed to.
This paranoia seeps into your every thought. Every door slam you hear at the curb you think is an angry parent coming for you—or worse, the police. Every phone call you worry is someone who’s turned over another rock. You wonder if North is starting to notice how jumpy you’ve become. You wonder, even, if North knows what you’ve done—but no. That’s impossible. You keep telling yourself that only Flora knows, and perhaps these three new women don’t know a thing, but you curse that you’ve let them slip through the cracks. Now they’re in your community, and it’s not so easy to kick them out. You have to be careful.
“But we can turn up the heat, if we need to,” Carson adds, after you’ve been silent for too long. “I . . . found some more things.”
“What things?”
“On them. Well—two of them, anyway. Veronica and Andrea. Stuff they probably don’t want broadcast, if they can help it.” He sighs. “It’s amazing, what people hide.”
“That’s good,” you say. “There’s also an email I got from Lauren. About her anger.” You feel better now. This will all go away. Carson has it under control.
“Are you still noticing strange things about your house?” Carson asks then.
You swallow. “Sort of.”
It’s only little things. You swear you locked the back shed before leaving, but when you get home, it’s open. At night, you’ll bolt awake, certain someone is standing in your yard, though when you peek out the windows, no one is there.
“Can’t you turn on your alarm?” Carson asks.
You pause. Your home’s previous owners installed a system, and a sign for said system remained on a stake in the lawn to deter potential burglars, but you never actually had it reactivated. It was a corner you’d cut, a nonnecessity you thought you could forgo so you could afford the place’s mortgage. You never thought it would matter. Wasn’t Raisin Beach supposed to be ridiculously safe?
For most people, maybe. But perhaps not for you.
“And what about North? Has he noticed anything?”
“I already asked him. I’ll ask again.”
You notice another call coming in, then. “I need to go,” you tell Carson. You try to put your imaginary stalker out of your mind. No one has snuck into your house. You left a window open yourself. You left a book in a spot you didn’t remember. “I’ll see you in the office. I’m about to get into the car.”
You click over to the other line as you grab your bag and head out the door. “Piper?” says a crisp woman’s voice. “Please hold for Jean Gillout.”
You break into a grin. The Hulu guy. The documentary. You cannot wait to get started.
“Jean!” you cry when he comes on the line. “How are you? I was just asking my assistant to set up some more interviews! We’re so excited.”
There’s a long pause. You think the connection has been lost. Finally, the exec clears his throat. “Listen, I know we haven’t known each other very long, Piper.” He sounds strange. “But . . . something’s come to my attention.”
Your veins go icy. Twice this summer, you met with Jean in swanky LA eateries to pitch your case. And both those times, you feared Flora was lurking somewhere, somehow knowing you were there, ready to spill your secrets. But it never happened. You always told yourself it was because she’d been taken care of—her hands were dirty, too. But now you wonder.
Only, you can’t let on you’re scared. So you say in a bright voice, “Is everything all right, Jean?”
He sighs. “I’ve been informed about something that is kind of . . . well, concerning.”
“Concerning?” you repeat. You’re suddenly shaking. You need to call Carson. You need to mobilize.
And then Jean says it.
And you’re so startled you drop the phone.
Jean keeps talking, but you don’t really hear him. Because it’s worse than what Flora knows. Worse than what you’ve done to the parents. It’s a bad dream. Impossible. You want to leap through the phone and shake him and say, No, you’re wrong.
Instead, all you ask is who told him. You blurt it out furiously, angrily. You don’t mean to. Jean says he doesn’t know; the tip was anonymous. But he made some calls, he says, and he was able to confirm everything.
What’s the point in denying it, then? You are on the road, you realize, driving to work. You don’t even remember starting the engine.
After another awkward pause he suggests perhaps you could be the focus of the documentary—what you’re going through. “But it would be a very different documentary,” he admits. “And I doubt you could keep your position at Silver Swans.”
“No.” You step out of the car. You feel numb. “I-I can’t do that.”
“Are you sure? Because it’s certainly intriguing. Juicy, even.”
“Fuck you, then,” you hiss. “Fuck you and fuck juicy.”
But then you feel terrible for lashing out, and you whisper a whole bunch of things you’d promised yourself you’d never say. You are standing in the parking lot now. Thank God no one is around. You make him swear not to tell anyone. You feel you might start to cry. “Fuck you,” you whisper
“Piper,” Jean says, “I’ll keep this to myself. I promise. We can say we parted ways because of creative differences. That okay with you?”
You tell him yes. What else can you do? If you kick up a fuss, he might go to the press. The parents. Your world will crumble.
You quickly get off the phone after that. Doesn’t he realize what good subjects these parents are, how invested they’ve become? But he’s already made up his mind. With another puzzled, uncomfortable look, your chance is gone. And all it’s done is open up new, terrible possibilities. Who told him? Your paranoia may have been right all along.
And then a thought comes to you, there in the middle of the parking lot. A dark, ugly, festering thought. You push it away, certain it can’t be right, but then you realize, maybe it can.
You can’t confirm your fears right away. One of the moms who got a note wants to meet. You have to play it cool, play your cards, and then get her the fuck out. After that, you have a staff meeting with Carson, who notices something’s off with you but can’t guess what it is. Finally, right before you work the drop-off, you have a few moments to yourself. You lock yourself i
n your office. You click on the folder on your computer where you keep digitally scanned files on your parents’ applications. You find the one you’re looking for and leaf through it. Now you know why you feel like there’s been something niggling at the back of your brain. You curse yourself for not being more careful, but you’d just thought—there’s no way.
His name is the same. It’s a common name . . . but not that common. You start to google him, connecting his address. Google comes up with an image. A face. You draw in a breath, because you’ve been so stupid. When you see this face staring back at you, you know how badly you’ve fucked up.
Maybe he’s been watching you all along.
Twenty-Four
The North Ridge Wellness Facility, according to the website, didn’t require a patient to bring much. Clothes were provided. Toiletries. Reading materials, appropriate footwear—all of it was there and waiting. Yet Lauren dropped a large suitcase on the bed regardless. She couldn’t pack nothing.
Lauren turned to her breast pump, which was sitting on the floor. As much as she wanted to give up breastfeeding—and this was a great excuse—it felt like the only tie to Matthew she had left. She stuffed it and its clean parts into the carrying case and put it into the suitcase. She added a photo of Matthew she kept on the bedside table; she’d need it to look at if she wanted to produce any milk.
Just looking at the picture made her chest seize. She was leaving her baby. She didn’t even know for how long. Was she nuts? She imagined how her mother would take this, her sisters. Mel’s high-achieving children, Gwen’s Instagram-perfect life, and here she was, unable to handle herself, unable to handle a single child.
She’d sold out her friends, and she didn’t even remember doing so. She was losing the plot. Whole chunks of her life were gone—and maybe she’d even hurt Piper. Being in an environment where she could concentrate on herself was the only way to fix things. This was the rational thing to do. She needed to be well for the baby and Graham. Matthew would be okay—he was so young he wouldn’t even notice Lauren was gone.
Her phone rang. Andrea, read the caller ID. Lauren froze. She’d been afraid of Andrea and Ronnie calling ever since Graham had dropped the bomb that she’d ratted them out. Early this morning, the police had even come to the door—to corroborate what Graham told them about Andrea and Ronnie in the station, no doubt. Lauren had been so traumatized and ashamed, she told Clarissa to tell the cops that she was sick in the bathroom and couldn’t see them. Later, Clarissa had brought Lauren a cup of digestive tea and the officer’s card. Please call, Detective Allegra had scrawled under his name.
The phone kept ringing. Maybe the cops had hauled in Andrea and Ronnie without Lauren’s verification. Was Andrea calling from the police station? Oh God. She let the call go to voicemail, but moments later, Andrea called again. Lauren let out a silent scream. Was Andrea going to call and call until Lauren picked up?
Her fingers had a mind of their own; they pressed the green answer button. “Lauren.” Andrea’s words were rushed. “We need to talk.”
Oh God. Oh God! “I’m sorry,” Lauren blurted. Her voice was an octave higher than normal. “Andrea, I’m so sorry.”
“You’re . . .” Andrea sounded confused. “Why?”
“I didn’t mean to say anything. Not about you, or Ronnie—I’m sick. Really sick. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. But I’m going away. To deal with it.”
“Going . . . away?” Andrea sounded flabbergasted. “Now? But we need you!”
Lauren could feel warmth through the line. Even after all Lauren had done, Andrea was still being nice.
“I can’t get a handle on this anger thing,” Lauren said. She stared down at the breast pump in her suitcase, the picture of a smiling baby Matthew in its silver frame. “I black out. I’ve been saying things that I don’t remember—and doing things, too.” Her heart was pounding so fast. “That day with Piper—I don’t remember. I mean, I remember being in her office, and then running out, but after that . . . I don’t know what happened. I’m scared I did something.”
There was a long silence. Andrea cleared her throat. “You think you hurt Piper?”
“I don’t want to think it. But it wasn’t the first time it happened. I’ve . . . I’ve even hurt my baby.” She felt tears blur her eyes. “I need to get a hold of what I’m doing.” Something else occurred to her, too, and she took a breath. “As far as Piper goes, I’ll call and confess. I don’t want anyone blaming you or Ronnie. I’m sorry if they’ve already reached out to you. I’m sorry if they know more about you—it’s my fault. I’m sorry for everything.”
The line was silent for a long, long beat. “The police know?” Andrea whispered. “What did you tell them?”
Lauren moved her tongue into her cheek. “Nothing. But I must have told Graham . . . and he did. That Allegra guy came to the house earlier, presumably to talk to me personally.”
“But I just saw them, at Silver Swans.” Andrea sounded puzzled. “I even talked to that Allegra guy. I mean, unless he’s withholding it for some reason, but I think he’d enjoy taunting me with it, asking if my father knows.” Then she paused, took in a breath. “Why did you tell your husband?”
“I don’t remember. I guess I was desperate.”
“And you’re sure he told the police?”
What had Graham said? Just that he’d spoken to the police about what she’d said about Andrea’s and Ronnie’s motives . . . but not specifics. Had she misinterpreted this, somehow?
“Lauren,” Andrea said. “First off, I don’t think the cops know. I could check with Ronnie—you’re worried you told your husband about Esme and he repeated it, right? Well, I don’t think that happened. We would have heard from her by now.”
Lauren sat down on the bed. Her head swam. “But Graham made it out like he told them something . . . vital.”
“Maybe he only thought he did—or maybe they made him think that for some reason. But also? You didn’t do this to Piper.”
Lauren wiped a tear. “But what if I did ?”
“No, I’ve figured something out. With Carson. With the parents.”
Andrea told her everything about how Piper and Carson were systematically withdrawing small amounts from people’s accounts all summer. “Who knows how much money we’re talking about,” she said, “but surely enough to fund a documentary and a nice life while other people were suffering.”
Lauren felt breathless. Had she and Graham lost money, too? “Do you believe Carson’s telling the truth that Piper was involved?”
“He showed me the bank information.”
“And do you believe Carson when he says he didn’t hurt her?”
“No, not totally. But he has an alibi. He seemed pretty confident, and he’s already been questioned.”
“But this doesn’t rule it out that it’s me,” Lauren said. “It just opens up the possibilities.”
“Someone else knew,” Andrea said. “Her name is Flora Haines—I actually know her father. I guess Carson paid her off and, as he put it, systematically blocked other parents in her circle from attending the school. But he was still afraid she was talking.” Andrea explained that the bracelets were what tipped off Carson. Flora made those bracelets for a sportswear clothing line she was starting, but he and Piper thought they were some sort of symbol of solidarity.
“Okay, but I didn’t know this Flora person,” Lauren said. “Why did I get a note?”
“I guess because you were talking to us,” Andrea suggested. “Carson also said Piper was really freaked out before her attack—she was afraid she was being stalked. Someone was trying to get to her.”
“Flora?” Lauren guessed.
“That was my thought, too, but why? What would she be coming for? She looks just as bad for taking the bribe. It’s someone else. And that person is who hurt Piper.”
Outs
ide, a dog barked. Someone started up a leaf blower down the block.
“I really don’t think you did this, Lauren. Please don’t leave and go into some . . . rest cure. I mean, unless you want to—but don’t do it because you think you’re responsible or that you told on me. The police don’t know anything. And I need you to help us. I feel like we’re close . . . to something.”
Lauren ran her hands down the length of her face. “But what about other memories I’ve lost? I’ve said things, done things—and it’s gone.”
“That could be something serious, but it could also be you being an overwhelmed new parent. You think I remembered everything when Arthur was a baby? Whole weeks went by that I lost. And back then, I wasn’t even the mother!”
Lauren let out a halfhearted laugh that morphed into a sob. Tears ran down her face, partly from relief and partly from grief she couldn’t quite pin down. Maybe it was the picture of Matthew staring back at her from the bottom of the suitcase. It had been taken this summer, only a few days before her argument with Graham in the kitchen, her blackout, her . . . violence. So she hadn’t hurt Piper, but she’d still unintentionally hurt her baby. She still wasn’t absolved.
After she hung up, Lauren sat on the bed, listening to Clarissa and the baby in the living room playing with an electronic toy drum. Lauren suspected Clarissa knew Lauren was checking herself in somewhere—she was treating Lauren extra gingerly, as though she were made of tissue paper. Did Lauren want to go? The time alone would be nice. The reflection. And Graham certainly thought it was a good idea. And yet . . .
Experimentally, she removed the picture of Matthew and put it back on the bedside table. Then she unloaded the breast pump and placed it back on the floor. As for the suitcase, she set it back in the closet—for now. If she changed her mind, she could always pack it again and still be ready for when she and Graham had planned to leave tonight. But until then she needed to think some more.
