As she was reading all about Brian Beck, the owner of Beck’s, and his mission to make Philadelphia the best-dressed city in America—a goal Emma thought, based on her childhood in South Philly, where the men tended toward bowling shirts, and her adolescence on the Main Line, where the fathers wore wool sweaters with patched elbows, was an impossible dream—she got a message back from one of her Cara Stevenses. Yes, she was the author of that article, and yes, she’d be happy to talk. Bingo. But she had to call Emma back from a pay phone.
A pay phone? Emma thought with horror. Did they still have those? Well, maybe in Vancouver they did. Vancouver seemed about as far away and foreign a place as Croatia or Tasmania.
She gave Cara the number of her new burner phone, packed up her laptop, and headed all the way across campus to the one place she knew Fiona and all her roommates would have absolutely no interest in going after their little shopping or lunch date. The synagogue, B’nai Sholom. She sat on a low wall outside, alone. The only time she’d seen it busy was on a Saturday or during a Jewish holiday, and even then, it was quieter than anywhere else.
She gathered her thoughts, made a few coded notes in a doc that she named “Lunar Eclipse,” and buried it in a folder called “Science Labs.” Then she copied it onto Dropbox for later use at the library.
Five minutes later, Emma’s phone rang.
“Cara,” she said breathlessly.
“Yep,” she replied. Her voice was deep and scratchy, as if she’d just woken up. Emma realized there was a time difference; she had to think of that kind of thing.
“Sorry for the subterfuge, but we don’t know each other.”
“Right. I could be…the police, or—”
“If you were the police, I’d be thrilled. Shocked but thrilled. I was more worried that you’re a professor. Or a horny man out for revenge.”
“I am neither.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“But full disclosure: I’m a female student.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Saw you on Instagram. Cute sunglasses, by the way.”
Of course. Crap! She’d have to change her privacy settings on social media, maybe delete her accounts. She’d have to think about that carefully, though; her mother would freak out and worry that something was wrong.
“So, what, you’re helping out with sexual assault research, interning at Rolling Stone or Teen Vogue or something? Somewhere that still gives a tiny shit about investigative journalism?”
“No.”
“Well, what story are you working on then?”
“I’m working for the student newspaper.”
There was a brief pause, and Emma heard a sharp exhale of breath. It occurred to her that she’d rarely heard anything so clearly and wondered if pay phones had better microphones than cell phones. If technology was actually going backward. Whoa, that would be a cool story, too.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Crap, she was about to lose her! She had to defend herself and Jason. If not her, Jason.
“I know our paper is, like, nothing to a real reporter like you, but I feel the evidence I’ve found—”
“No, that’s not it.”
She paused. “What is it then?”
“Well, is Leandros still in charge at Semper?”
“Yes.”
“Ha, yeah. Well, more on him later. Or you can just Google it and find out how in bed he is with all of Philadelphia. So who knows about your story and your research? Just your editor?”
“Yes,” she lied.
“So the story hasn’t been killed yet?”
“Well, no, that’s why I’m calling you. I’m just starting really.”
“So you’re a freshman and don’t know shit about the history of this, right? Your editor a junior or a senior? I can find out. You’ll just save me some time.”
“He’s a senior.”
“Well, neither of you was on campus when my story broke, but he might have been aware of it if he was on the newspaper staff his first year. Okay, never mind. So. What do you want to know? Where do we start?”
“I guess my biggest question is, why wasn’t this a series? It felt like a five-parter, or three. I kept waiting for…I don’t know, other shoes to drop.” She winced as she said this—it was one of her mother’s favorite phrases. After her father was killed and she found out about his mistress, that’s what she’d said. That the other shoe had dropped.
“Yeah, well, it was supposed to be. Till the second installment was killed.”
“Killed by who? I mean whom?”
“Technically, by a pansy-ass editor. But officially, by the owner of the Inquirer, who threatened to fire him. He had three kids in college, so I understand to some degree, but he’s still a pussy.”
“Did he give you a reason at least?”
“Oh sure. Said I used too many unnamed sources that they couldn’t substantiate. But the real reason was I was about to name some of the clients and one of the restaurant owners and dared to call out Semper University for not protecting its students. I had one of the girls on record. Someone who was about to graduate. But that wasn’t enough.”
“Did that restaurant owner happen to be Brian Beck?”
“Close. His brother, Sam.”
“Brothers?”
“Yeah, imagine how proud their mommy must be. Two pimps in one family. What a gene pool. So how’d you find out about Brian?”
“A bit of intuition, a bit of luck, and a lot of proximity.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Beck’s store is next to this private club. They use the same valet parking service. And the valet parking guys have big mouths.”
“Wait, I don’t follow. The Beck brothers opened a club on Chestnut Street?”
“Yes. Why? Is it new? I haven’t checked it out thoroughly yet.”
“Must be new in the last few years. When I was working on this, Sam Beck had just renovated a big restaurant on Broad Street, near the old Philadelphia Inquirer building, if you can believe that. Like he was just daring one of us to figure it out. Anyway, the second floor was a private space, and he ran the operation out of there. All by invitation. Only one bartender and one server allowed to even set foot up there. The rumor was it was his brother’s idea, and he had something on him, but still.”
“Must have been small if there were only two people working.”
“No, it was huge. Half a city block. But they only served champagne, vodka, scotch, and these miniature desserts. Macarons, petit fours.”
Was this to keep the girls from eating too much? Was that why Fiona stopped for Thai food afterward? Because she was starving? Emma felt her lack of experience acutely. Maybe sex felt best on an empty stomach. Or, ew, this might have to do with oral sex. She felt suddenly nauseated.
“So it was really just a meeting place, and the arrangement went from there?”
“Funny you should say that. That’s what they called it internally. Privately. The arrangement. And that formed their excuse, too: ‘The arrangement between two people is up to them. We just introduce friends to friends of friends.’”
“Ugh, I know. I’ve seen the websites and the apps. So what was the name of that restaurant?”
“Sparks.”
“Ugh again.”
“So I guess the new location is better for girls from Drexel and Penn. As well as the guys from the store.”
“Wait, what?”
“Oh, you didn’t think Semper had the market sewn up, did you?”
“No, but it’s a state school, and it’s bigger and…well, you know all that, but it’s also—”
“Trashier? Sluttier?”
“Uh, I didn’t say that.”
“Sorry, I have to work on my political
correctness. Too much time in newsrooms.”
“Well, I was going to say, maybe less moneyed.”
“There are girls on scholarship juggling student loans everywhere. And believe it or not, some girls do it for other reasons.”
“For the sex?”
“Well, that’s what they’ve convinced themselves. ‘I like sex. I like to experiment.’ But it’s really the thrill, the danger, the wrongness.”
“I noticed you didn’t say illegal.”
“See, this is the problem. It skirts the law. Talk to a lawyer. Talk to a psychologist.”
“Oh, I will. I’m planning to,” Emma said, although she was taking notes so furiously about all the people she’d have to call next, her head was spinning.
“And keep meticulous records and notes. Try to get people to go on record. That way if your story gets killed, you can take it somewhere else, somewhere young women’s perspectives are valued, like the Cut, or Lenny. You’d know better than me. Your editor must have balls of steel to let you pursue this.”
“He does,” she said firmly. And hadn’t she felt that about Jason? His calmness, his cool head? That was a kind of strength and certainty. She was sure of it.
“I assume you have a girl on the inside? Is that how this started?”
“Yes,” she said. A half lie. She wondered if Cara Stevens had been sitting in front of her, a tough and seasoned professional, if she could tell how much bullshit was propping up her side of the conversation.
“Because that’s the most important thing. The girls are being manipulated and harmed, whether they see it that way or not. Especially if they’re freshmen. The younger, the better, in my view.”
Good, Emma thought. Now if she could just get Fiona to share what was going on with her, she’d have a story. Especially since Fiona was trying to recruit Taylor. Collusion!
“Yes, my, um, source is a freshman.”
“Good.”
“Well, this has been great, wow. Thank you, Cara. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“You’re welcome. Let me know if you need anything else. And promise you’ll be careful.”
“I will.”
“And one more thing?”
“Yes?”
“When you have a second, DM me a list of your professors.”
“My professors?”
“Yeah, just in case.”
“In case what?”
“Well, I always suspected that students weren’t self-selecting. Someone was recruiting.”
Emma’s stomach dropped to the floor. No wonder Cara told her to be careful. No wonder she’d been working on a series. She was beginning to understand why Cara had called her from a pay phone. And maybe, just maybe, why she’d left town.
Thirteen
Maggie
There was not an ounce of recognition on Taylor’s face as Maggie approached her. This, Maggie knew, was from a combination of things. One, she was drunk. Two, Maggie looked young in a ponytail. Three, no one cared or remembered anything about anyone’s parents. Oh, they’d pretend to all right. The charade started in high school when they accepted your rides to games, when they came to your house at all hours and ate your food, when they were getting ready for a party together in your daughter’s bedroom and one of them needed a black eyeliner. Then, yes, they would register your existence. Maybe on those nights, when you’d looked them in the eye and given them something they needed, maybe then they could describe you or pick you out of a lineup. Sometimes they’d eye something on you they wanted—a nail polish color, a tasseled necklace—and you’d feel their gaze linger, registering, filing away.
But most of the time? Mothers were just a blur, part of the background, or occasionally, when you asked too many questions or worried too much, an easily kicked-over barricade in their way.
The converse of the equation, though, which aided Maggie now, was how much the opposite was true. How mothers saw their children and their friends in stark, detailed relief. All the negative things floated up first. Chipped polish. Bitten-down nails. The too-orange edges of a spray tan. The bend in the back of their heads where they’d missed with the flat iron. Mothers saw these things first. They’d been trained to be on the lookout, and they were, whether they liked it or not. So Maggie had no doubt she’d recognize those roommates and no doubt whatsoever that the girl laughing as she dropped a shot of Jack into her Solo cup of beer was Taylor.
Maggie took a cup from a teetering stack and pulled herself a beer, pretending to drink.
Taylor wiped the foam from her mouth with her sleeve. “Cheers!” she said to Maggie.
Maggie lifted her cup toward her. “So what are we celebrating, Taylor?”
Taylor stopped drinking, blinked. The fairy lights above them swayed in the wind, creating shadows across the planes of her face.
“What?”
“Are you celebrating the fact that one of your roommates is gone? Instead of, I don’t know, being out looking for her? Instead of talking to the police and organizing a search and putting up flyers like her other friends will be tomorrow?”
She squinted. “Oh my God. It’s, it’s—”
“Yeah, O-M-G. It’s Emma’s mommy. So let’s go out front and talk about that.”
“No, I—”
“No? Well, would you like me to call your mom and explain instead?”
It was early by campus standards—ten thirty—but late for Maggie. She was exhausted, and Taylor was tipsy, and that’s why Maggie suggested coffee, pointing to a place around the corner.
“No,” Taylor said, “I’m meeting people here.”
“Fine,” Maggie said. She opened the gate, motioned outside, and Taylor followed her. They stood on the sidewalk, one woman upright, one wobbly.
“So where’s my daughter? And why didn’t you and her other roommates report her missing?”
“She’s been gone a while.”
“I know that, Taylor. Why didn’t someone contact me?”
“Because she’s not, like, missing. She’s just, you know. Elsewhere.” Something about the way she spoke gave Maggie the impression that she was pretending to be drunk, not actually drunk.
“Elsewhere?”
“She’s staying somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“That I do not know.”
“Do you know she hasn’t been to class? Her teachers haven’t seen her or her friend Sarah. So you know her, Sarah Franco?”
“Sort of. And no, I didn’t know.”
“Don’t you have any classes together?”
“One, but it’s, like, a lecture. There’s hundreds of kids in it.”
“So when did she leave?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a week?”
“Why did she leave? And why are you ignoring your voicemails, when the police are trying to reach you?”
“I don’t listen to voicemail,” Taylor said. “I don’t pick up for random numbers.”
Of course, Maggie thought. No one bothered. Too much time. Life moved too fast for voicemail or messages.
“You do realize they’re going to find you? And you’re going to have to answer someone a lot tougher than me. So why don’t you just tell me where she is and save yourself some time and heartache.”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“Well, if you don’t know when or where, maybe you can tell me why.”
“Why what?”
“Why she’s quote-unquote staying elsewhere.”
“You know, not everyone is cut out for dorm life.”
The wind picked up and blew a strand of hair across Taylor’s lips. She lifted it away and turned her head so the wind blew her hair back. She stood away from Maggie now, ignoring her, swaying just a little, like a drunk person would. A drunk person in a bad play.
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. It’s like camp or having a big family. Emma couldn’t deal.”
“Couldn’t deal?”
“Right.”
“So she’s staying with another friend?”
“I guess.”
“You guess? And what about your other roommates?”
“What about them?”
“Where are they?”
“Tonight, you mean?”
“Yes, tonight, Taylor. Now. Because I find it astonishing that none of you were reachable on exactly the same evening. All night long.”
She said nothing, looked at her feet. This confident, spark plug of a girl, a theater kid, the life of the party, good with people, suddenly couldn’t perform. And couldn’t look her audience in the eye.
“I don’t know. We’re not joined at the hip.”
“Any Instagram stories or Snapchats from them tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t give me that, Taylor. I don’t believe you. I can hear your alerts buzzing in your goddamned pocket. You know exactly where they are.”
“Look, I don’t know what you want from us. We don’t know. We don’t understand her, okay? The workings of her mind are not, like, normal.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, she doesn’t care about people.”
“That’s not true.”
“No offense,” Taylor said, and Maggie steeled herself for what was coming next. Because when a young person used that phrase, she knew she was about to be offended deeply. “But I don’t think you know your daughter.”
Ouch. An arrow through the heart. Wasn’t that what all mothers feared? That you spent all this time, talking, tending, shaping, and the result would be a complete mystery? Maggie suddenly couldn’t breathe. She bent forward a few inches, trying to gather herself, centering her gaze, and in that half second, Taylor turned and ran back inside. Maggie could have followed her, could have embarrassed her, could have stolen her phone from her back pocket. She did none of those things. Instead, she made her first mistake. She called Kaplan and left him a message, told him she’d found Taylor and gave him the address.
Where She Went (ARC) Page 7
