Dark Turns

by Cate Holahan

  The dean took a breath, allowing her words to sink in. “We have, of course, increased campus security and tightened all exit and entry points onto school grounds as a precaution. But we cannot have faculty, students, or their parents jumping to false conclusions. The assumption that Lauren was murdered would be, in all likelihood, incorrect and could lead to mass panic.”

  Stirk eyed her. Nia picked up on her cue. “I understand.”

  “We will notify the student body as soon as the police release a cause of death. Waiting prevents undue alarm, should Lauren’s death prove accidental or,” Stirk cleared her throat, “self-inflicted.”

  The dean rubbed her forehead as though the whole speech had given her a massive headache. For a moment, Nia thought that the woman might become emotional. But when Stirk held up her head again, her gray eyes looked just as dry as before.

  “To be clear, we do not want to discuss anything that we saw or didn’t see. I am in communication with law enforcement, and the school will release statements when appropriate. Do you understand?”

  The question sounded patronizing. Of course she understood. She had to shut up lest the school be unnecessarily held liable or suffer damage to its reputation for what might yet prove to be an accident.

  Nia doubted Lauren’s death would be ruled anything but homicide. Though she didn’t know whether she’d seen thumbprints or rope burns on Lauren’s body, the placement of the marks right above the girl’s clavicle couldn’t have been caused by random abrasion. Stirk had to suspect as much as well.

  The dean cleared her throat for the third time. The sound demanded a response.

  “Yes. I won’t say anything.”

  “Good. We appreciate your discretion. More information is not always better.” The dean gave a weak smile. She put her glasses back on the bridge of her nose. “The students will, naturally, wish to discuss a classmate’s death as the news circulates, particularly in the cafeteria, where they have the opportunity to socialize without teacher oversight. I am asking all four resident advisors to take shifts in the student dining hall during meal times today and tomorrow. We need to monitor conversation and make sure rumors don’t get out of hand.”

  Stirk opened a drawer in her desk, withdrew a sheet of paper, and passed it to Nia. It featured a long grid, constructed in Microsoft Excel or some similar data analysis program. In the first column were four names including her own: two female, two male. Time slots topped the subsequent columns.

  “I took the liberty of blocking out the cafeteria schedule and assigning monitoring duties that did not interfere with teaching or extracurricular obligations.”

  The kids ate three times a day. Breakfast was three hours long to accommodate the students’ varied morning schedules. Lunch was one hour. Dinner was two. The row with Nia’s name had the first hour of breakfast and the first half of lunch highlighted.

  Nia didn’t like trading her morning stretching time for cafeteria duty. She needed to loosen up her heel before class to avoid damaging it during demonstrations. But she doubted it would be easy to switch shifts. Most faculty taught or coached at least one extracurricular.

  “This is how the RAs earn that free housing.” The dean sighed. “You and your colleagues are our eyes and ears and, often, the first adults that students turn to for guidance. Breakfast is already over for today. Your shift can start at lunch.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there.”

  Stirk’s expression darkened, as though concerned by Nia’s response. “Remember, it’s our job to protect both the student body and this institution.”

  The dean again waited for some kind of affirmation. Nia managed a nod. The gesture seemed to satisfy. Stirk reclaimed her pen and resumed reading the book on her desk. Conversation over.

  Nia picked up her new schedule, rose from her seat, and exited. The implication of Stirk’s parting words was not lost on her. All the teachers and students were responsible for student safety. They had all failed at their collective job.

  They would all need to help cover the school’s butt.

  5

  Bras bas [brah bah]

  Arms low or down. This is the dancer’s “attention.” The arms form a circle with the palms facing each other and the back edge of the hands resting on the thighs.

  Nia exited the registration building into the late morning sunshine. The brief rest and the cold air had taken some of the sting out of her foot, allowing her to focus on a new pain in her stomach. Hunger roiled her insides. She needed food.

  Black coffee had served as breakfast, and that was three hours ago. If she remembered correctly from the orientation map, a pay cafeteria for faculty lay somewhere on the western edge of campus, just beyond the boys’ residences. She could cut through the boys’ quadrangle to shorten the walk.

  Trees rustled overhead. The sound was one of the few noises on the quiet campus. Second period had started. All students would be in class, lest they risk Saturday morning detention. She would be one of the few people traipsing around outside—if not the only person.

  Nia increased her speed. As she walked across the boys’ quad, she lectured herself about odds. Wallace hid in cow country Connecticut, nestled between a lake and a forest. The nearest real town lay beyond acres of farmland, at least thirty miles down the highway. The closest city was an hour by car or bus. Regardless of who had murdered Lauren, the school was far more secure than any of her old neighborhoods—especially now with officers combing the campus for strangers.

  The sight of a police cruiser snapped Nia’s attention back to her surroundings. It was parked on the courtyard lawn beside a wall of gothic buildings, looking every bit as futuristic as a hovercraft. The two detectives from the prior day stood beside it. They wore khaki dress pants and navy blazers. Blue-striped ties. Their clothing mimicked the Wallace uniform, but their graying hair ruined the camouflage.

  Nia walked toward the car, eager to ask for—or overhear—news about Lauren. The cops had seen the neck bruises. Surely they didn’t believe the girl had fallen, or jumped, into the lake.

  The police faced a young man. Unlike the boys in ballet class, this teen had filled out his six-foot frame. His broad shoulders propped up his navy jacket, making it appear tailored rather than borrowed from Dad’s closet. Well-defined forearms flexed beyond rolled-up sleeves. His chin punctuated a firm jawline, underlining a handsome face.

  “There’s no need to get defensive. We just want to ask you some questions.” Detective Kelly addressed the boy. Nia recognized his gravelly New England accent.

  “No. You can’t.” The student’s tone didn’t share the confidence of his words. His voice rose at the end, like a question. “Not without my parents.”

  “You don’t need your parents to talk to us.” Detective Kelly rubbed the back of his neck. He shrugged like everything was no big deal. “We’re just trying to figure out what happened to your girlfriend.”

  “Lauren wasn’t my girlfriend.” The boy’s voice rose in pitch and volume. He sounded panicked. “And you can’t be here.”

  Kelly stepped toward the boy. “Well, even if you two weren’t together, you were friends, right? Her friends say she went to meet you.”

  The boy shook his head. “No.” His voice grew louder. “I hadn’t talked to her since last summer. I’m calling my father. He’s an attorney.”

  “There’s no need to worry your dad. We’re all just trying to figure out why Lauren went to the dock that night.”

  Detective Kelly walked toward the boy. Just as he hit the bottom step, another man appeared in the doorway. He moved the teenager to the side, blocking the entrance with his taller figure.

  “Excuse me. What seems to be the problem?”

  A badge flashed in Kelly’s hand. “Detectives James Kelly and Ed Frank. And who are you?” The question shot out like an accusation.

  The man appeared too old to be a student but not old enough to be the parent of one. A dust of dark blond hair lined his angular jaw and upper-li
p. Maybe an older brother still helping with the move? He wore a white undershirt and jeans. Fine blond hair hung around his cheekbones, giving him a rumpled, crashed-on-the-couch appearance.

  He didn’t resemble the kid. The student had a Greek look about him, with thick dark hair that was cropped on the sides, large olive eyes, and tan skin. The man looked plucked from one of those Scandinavian countries that produce towheads with deep-set sea eyes and fair skin.

  The man reached behind him and pulled the door shut. “I’m Peter Andersen, the resident advisor in this building. Now, what seems to be the problem?”

  “A student’s dead body was found on campus yesterday. We’re trying to talk to friends of the girl to figure out what may have happened.”

  The boy turned to his new ally. “I told them I hadn’t seen Lauren since June.” He pulled a cell phone from his pants pocket. “I’m calling my father. He’s a lawyer.”

  Detective Frank pointed like he wanted to jab a finger into the boy’s chest. “I don’t care who your father is, kid.”

  Peter stepped from the entryway. He placed himself between the boy and the policemen. “Okay. How about I call the dean and she can help us sort this out?”

  “We’re just trying to talk to people that knew her.” Detective Kelly sounded less sure of himself. “You want to help us solve this, don’t you?”

  Peter held one hand up in surrender. He dipped the other into his pocket, withdrawing a cell phone. “Look. I’m no lawyer, so I’m not arguing with you or trying to keep you from doing your jobs. But it’s my job to call the dean whenever there’s a problem.” He turned to the boy. “Why don’t you go back inside and wait for Dean Stirk?”

  The teenager pulled a keycard from his pocket. He kept his eyes on the officers as he flashed it at the door. A beep, like a microwave timer, sounded.

  Detective Frank threw up his hands. “Why don’t you want to talk to us, Theo? Usually folks want to help the police. Seems suspicious.”

  The boy spun back around to face the group. His attention darted from the officers to the resident advisor and then zeroed in on Nia. His face reddened.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he yelled, announcing his innocence to her and anyone else in the vicinity. “Everybody’s looking at me like I had something to do with it but we hadn’t even spoken since before school let out.” He extended his arms, imploring the officers. “It’s not fair. If people see us talking, everyone will think it’s my fault.”

  Detective Frank put his hands on his belt. “No one is here except us and a teacher.”

  The boy pointed to the courtyard. Detective Kelly looked over his shoulder to where Nia stood. He had to recognize her from the lake, and it would seem strange, her turning up again near a suspect. She needed to explain.

  Nia strode toward the group, compensating for her embarrassment with overconfidence. “Hello, detectives.” She turned to the student and the young teacher. “I’m Nia Washington, a new resident advisor in the girls’ dorm. I saw there was a problem and thought I might be needed. Can I help here?”

  The detectives’ annoyance coated her skin, but she held her head high as she walked past their glares. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She didn’t dare answer it. This was a serious situation and police made her anxious.

  Peter tucked blond strands behind his ear before gesturing with the phone. “Just sit with Theo while I call Dean Stirk.” He descended the steps and then motioned to the policemen, inviting them into the telephone conversation while diverting their attention from the trembling student.

  Nia sat beside the young man. The sun-baked stone burned through her thin dance pants. She crossed her legs and uncrossed them, giving her thighs momentary reprieve from the heat. Instinct prompted her to place an arm around the boy’s shoulders, but Battle’s voice cautioned against it. No blurring lines. Instead she patted the step.

  “Your RA is calling the dean. And your dad will come. He’ll help get this all sorted out.”

  Theo rubbed his eyes as if trying to wipe them from his face. “People break up. Not everyone kills themselves afterward.”

  Everyone wanted to blame the dead girl. Again, she thought of the bruises around Lauren’s neck.

  Nia pursed her lips, trapping the words on her tongue: she didn’t kill herself.

  6

  Attitude [a-tee-TEWD]

  A pose on one leg with the other lifted in the back, the knee bent at an angle of 90 degrees and well turned out so that the knee is higher than the foot.

  The police huffed back to their cruiser like men ready for a fight. Noses flared. Heads lowered like charging bulls.

  Dean Stirk had arrived with the school’s expensive-looking attorney, who had insisted that Theo couldn’t be questioned because he had requested a lawyer. In reality, Theo had only asked for his father, who happened to be a lawyer. But the boy quickly corrected his mistake and demanded to speak to his father and his attorney.

  Dean Stirk ushered Theo back to the dorm with instruction to reach his parents. As soon as the door shut behind him, she and the lawyer took off, spouting a mix of bureaucratic slang and lawyerese: accelerated communication timetables, appropriate language, security enhancements. Nia guessed an e-mail would go out later in the day.

  Peter watched his superiors until they disappeared behind a stone building. He looked down at Nia, still seated on the steps. She returned his gaze, waiting for instruction or permission to leave, something along the lines of “Thanks for your help. I got it.”

  “Well, that was stupid,” he said.

  “The cops are only trying to do their job.”

  “Not the cops. Stirk bumbling around like that. She should have sounded the alarm as soon as they found that girl. Now when all these parents descend on campus wanting someone to blame, they’re going to look straight at us.” He shook his head and brushed back the hair that fell from behind his ear into his face. “Watch. The press will say we care more about spinning the story and the school’s reputation than student safety.”

  Nia met Peter’s eyes straight on, thanks to the extra few inches given by the steps. Stirk’s earlier speech had made her feel culpable for the school’s actions. Peter’s criticism put her on the defensive.

  “The dean doesn’t want to alarm anyone until the police announce the cause of death And she has to give Lauren’s parents time to notify the rest of the family. Imagine if the girl’s grandmother found out from a news report. The press will understand.”

  “They won’t.”

  How could he know? She didn’t like Peter’s cocky attitude.

  “A student’s death needs to have all the adults running around like chickens with their heads cut off,” Peter said. “Even if she committed suicide—”

  “She didn’t commit suicide.”

  His brow furrowed. He scratched behind his ear as if the hair he kept tucking there irritated it. The nervous tick pleased Nia. Her words had knocked some of the sheen off his self-righteousness.

  He exhaled loudly. “Look. Don’t assume the kids know anything. I know the students are all abuzz about their bad relationship, but they just don’t want to blame a dead girl. I doubt Theo would have hurt Lauren.” His ice-blue eyes captured her gaze. “I was his RA last year. People think he’s one of those beer-sneaking jocks because he’s on the crew team. But he’s a sensitive kid.”

  She could almost believe him. The crying student on the steps didn’t seem like the kind of testosterone-pumped teen that would make and broadcast a sex tape. She’d pictured a handsome bad boy with unkempt hair, half-unbuttoned shirt, and a permanent smirk on his face—a younger version, perhaps, of the man standing in front of her. But, for all she knew, Theo was that guy. She’d seen him confronted by two bullying detectives. Fear could make even the worst men vulnerable.

  Peter still stared, waiting for acknowledgement of his character defense.

  “I wasn’t implying anything about Theo.”

  “I’m not saying he’s not a
teenage boy who does stupid things. But all teenagers do stupid shit, you know?” Peter’s mouth cracked into a smile. The expression wasn’t a genuine grin as much as a guilty one. It invited complicity.

  “Even so, she didn’t kill herself.”

  “Why? You think rich girls don’t kill themselves? Kids here think high school romance is everything. My bet is she got worked up about the breakup and jumped into the lake, intending to make a big show of attempting suicide, and then had trouble getting back out. The bottom of that lake is pretty muddy.”

  “Everyone wants to accuse this girl.”

  “Because she probably made a mistake.”

  Nia stood up to face him head on. “I found her body. She had marks around her neck, like thumbprints or a rope.”

  Peter’s mouth dropped open. The pink drained from his face, exposing a yellow undertone. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Strangled?” His chin retreated into his neck. “No. That . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head.

  The severity of his reaction erased Nia’s satisfaction at pushing him off the blame-the-victim bandwagon. She felt bad for him. It was one thing to think a teenager had done something dramatic and gotten herself killed and another to think she’d been murdered—maybe even by a student.

  “Did you know her?”

  “What?” Peter dragged his fingers through his hair again, pinning the strands behind his ears. “No. I mean, not really. I’d seen her with Theo. I mostly teach upperclassmen.”

  “Could he have done something?”

  Peter rubbed his palms over his face, as if trying to erase his shocked expression. “Well, I don’t know then.” A hand retreated into his jeans pocket. He retrieved his phone and began rotating it in his palm like he was itching to call someone. Probably the dean.

  “No.” He shoved the phone back into his pocket. “Theo’s a good kid. It’s not fair for him to be accused just because he dated her.”