Dark Turns

by Cate Holahan

  “Theo had a poem accepted to a literary magazine just last month. I sent it in for him.”

  The arrest had been the elephant in the room during the conversation. Nia had avoided any mention of the morning, not wanting to upset her host. But now that Peter had brought Theo up, it seemed callous not to discuss the case.

  “Have you spoken to him since . . .”

  “Stirk doesn’t want me reaching out.” He bit his bottom lip and shrugged. “But his father says he’s alright. All they have on him is some text message and a trumped-up motive about losing it because Lauren didn’t want him back. I guess he was by himself on Saturday for a few hours too, so the police are claiming he doesn’t have an alibi.”

  Would a lovesick poet kill his ex-girlfriend for refusing him? It didn’t seem likely. But it did seem possible that Peter was romanticizing a favorite pupil. Everyone wanted to think the best of those they’d spent time with, if for no other reason than to excuse their own lack of observation. Every serial killer had some neighbor willing to volunteer as a character witness. Nicest guy. Loved barbequing. Sports. A little quiet but in a pleasant way. No one could ever have believed he kidnapped young women and held them in his basement.

  Nia never bought that nobody actually suspected. People sensed evil. Most were simply too hell-bent on politeness to dig it out.

  “If you ask me,” Peter continued, “the police need to be looking for some weirdo in the area that might have sneaked onto campus during move-in madness.”

  Peter seemed so sure Theo wasn’t guilty. But if rumors of the sex tape were true, then Theo couldn’t just be the nice, sensitive student that Peter knew. The kid had sent around an intimate video, presumably without his partner’s permission. That didn’t show much respect for women—or, at least, for Aubrey.

  “Did you see him with Lauren much?”

  Peter seemed to withdraw, as though her question had created a wall between them. Nia wanted to bring him back with some compliment or comment about the weather, but she also wanted to know what happened to the girl she had discovered.

  He cleared his throat. “They were together all the time last year. I would see them outside on the quad holding hands and talking.”

  Nia looked out Peter’s window. The sky had spent its fury, and sunlight was breaking through. Droplets still tapped the walk, but there were too few to tell whether they shook from the trees. She imagined Lauren alive, sitting on an iron bench beneath the sagging willow at the end of the courtyard, cuddling with the boy Nia had sat next to just the day before. Theo was a big kid with large rowing arms. Lauren had looked slight and young, every bit fifteen. Physically, he could have killed her. But mentally?

  “I think he really liked her,” Peter continued. “But I don’t think that he loved her intensely in any crime-of-passion way. Theo told me that she was really religious. I think that was basically code for she wouldn’t sleep with him.”

  “She was fifteen.”

  He threw up his hands like a yielding soldier. “I’m not saying she should have done anything. But Theo’s a popular kid, and I guess other girls offered. It sounded like some of the older rowers had ribbed him pretty hard last year about being a virgin.”

  Nia sighed. “High school. I wouldn’t repeat it.”

  Relief spread across Peter’s face. “I thought it would’ve been easy for a beautiful dancer. It’s the shy guys that get the worst of it.”

  “Girls are worse than boys with bullying. They’re just subtle about it. They make pointed comments about weight or clothes. They don’t invite you to birthday parties or they tease you about your parents.”

  “You were bullied?”

  Nia shrugged. The truth was yes, but she’d had bigger problems, like trying to afford toe shoes. The snide comments from fellow ballerinas had never been more than petty annoyances.

  “I’m surprised a big kid like Theo would be bullied.”

  Peter picked up his mug and walked into the kitchen. “Bullied isn’t the right word. Just teased, I guess.” He placed the mug into the sink. “Nothing that would have made him angry enough to hurt Lauren. I think he was just done waiting for her and broke it off. He said he’d been seeing another girl.”

  Aubrey? The girl was a teenager’s fantasy: classically beautiful, smart, and confident, with a contortionist’s abilities and an aggressive sexual presence. Any horny high school kid would have traded in the good girl for a chance with the badass ballerina.

  “Was the other girl a student?”

  Peter pushed out his hands as though directing a car to stop. “I don’t ask names. It was uncomfortable that he got into so much detail in the first place.”

  He filled his mug beneath the faucet and then dumped it back into the sink. Doing the dishes was a clear sign that the party was over. She unwrapped the towel. “Thank you for helping me warm up and dry off.”

  Peter’s eyes darted to her cleavage, then to her face. “Anytime. Are you dry? Do you need a shirt or anything?”

  She held out the towel to him. “If I leave in your shirt, the boys’ quad will have something new to talk about.”

  Peter crossed the room to take the towel from her. “I can handle teasing.”

  “I’ll change when I get back.”

  “I’ve enjoyed talking with you. Maybe we can do it again? Trade the tea mugs for some food and drink?”

  Nerves tingled through her body. Peter was attractive and interesting. Leaving Wall Street for a greater passion was admirable. But should she date a coworker? What if it ended badly?

  “We can go to Siwanoy. It’s an Indian reservation just fifteen minutes outside of campus.” A charming grin crinkled his blue eyes. “They have a casino with a nice restaurant. No one will see us.”

  Her body began to answer for her, nodding along to his words.

  “Great,” he said. “How about tomorrow, around seven?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’ll pick you up at your place.”

  13

  Passé [pa-SAY]

  Passed. An auxiliary movement in which the foot of the working leg passes the knee of the supporting leg from one position to another (as, for example, in développé passé en avant) or one leg passes the other in the air (as in jeté passé en avant) or one foot is picked up and passes in back or in front.

  The cell alarm buzzed beside Nia’s head. She slapped at the phone, face still pressed to her pillow. After a minute, she rolled up to a sitting position and glanced outside the window. A blue sky sparkled outside. The late morning sun had chased away the rain clouds.

  She felt more tired than before. The taste of the sleep had made her hunger for a full eight hours. That was the problem with naps. Sometimes they refreshed, but if you were really exhausted, they just wiped you out.

  She rose from the bed, body cracking like popping bubble wrap. The time on her phone indicated that it was 11:40 a.m. She had to get to the lunchroom.

  She splashed water on her face and slipped into leggings and a tunic. The outfit worked outside of dance class and would be fine for later when Ms. V and Battle wanted her to demonstrate choreography suggestions. Her toe shoes were still in the studio.

  Her ballet flats sat beside her door, as sad and soggy as a wet newspaper. Sneakers would have to do. She pushed her feet into a pair of tennis shoes and stepped out of the room.

  “Hey, Nia.”

  Aubrey smiled as she locked her door. With all the running around, Nia hadn’t realized that her own student lived next door. She made a mental note to introduce herself to the girls on her floor.

  “Hi, Aubrey. I didn’t know we were neighbors.”

  “Yeah. I’m always next to the RA.” She snorted. “Guess my mom likes people keeping their eye on me.”

  The mom that never came to see her? Nia listened for any bitterness or sarcasm in Aubrey’s tone. The girl sounded nonchalant, but that didn’t mean she didn’t care. Teenagers made it their business to sound as though everything was n
o big deal.

  “You have a minute?” Aubrey asked.

  In truth, no. She had to get to the cafeteria, all the way on the main campus, before lunch started at noon. But Aubrey was her student.

  “Were you heading to lunch? I have to be at the student cafeteria but would love company on the walk.”

  “We all have to eat.”

  Aubrey led the way down the steps and out into the courtyard. In her uniform, the schoolmarm skirt shortened a few inches to show off ballet-sculpted legs, the girl was a walking advertisement for prep school. Aubrey continued to walk a few steps in front of Nia as they crossed the crowded quadrangle. Whatever she wanted to discuss, she didn’t want to do it during the walk. Maybe she figured they would talk over lunch.

  Nia guessed that Aubrey wanted to ask questions about auditions. She’d have to decide this year whether to sign up with a major company or go to college. Maybe she wanted to know why Nia hadn’t been accepted into the New York City Ballet. What better way to learn than from others’ mistakes?

  Aubrey veered suddenly off the cobblestone path and onto the grass. She called over her shoulder. “I know a shortcut.”

  Nia followed her into a narrow area behind the girls’ residence. She smelled garbage. A large dumpster sat beneath a square hole in the building, its contents broiling in the sun. This was where the trash chute let out.

  Aubrey turned to face her. “So you found Lauren’s body?”

  The girl had brought her here, away from other students, to ask about Lauren’s murder. Stirk’s warning replayed in Nia’s mind. But she couldn’t pretend not to have seen the body. She’d already confessed to half the class.

  “The dean doesn’t want me to talk about it.”

  “The cops arrested Theo, though. So they think he did it. Do you know why? Did the police find anything near the body—hair or skin—to tie to the murderer?”

  “You mean, did they find DNA?”

  “Or anything else.”

  The intensity of Aubrey’s stare bothered Nia. She tried to guess what was fueling it. Had Aubrey known Lauren? She had, apparently, been with Theo. Did she think he was innocent?

  Aubrey’s mouth twisted. She covered her eyes with her hand and sobbed, suddenly. “I’m sorry to have to ask.” Her hand fell to her mouth before reaching out to Nia. “I was, um, kind of involved with Theo over the summer. Things didn’t end well. It’s frightening to think he might have hurt Lauren and that maybe, if I’d stayed with him, he would have hurt me instead.”

  Aubrey bit her bottom lip. She looked up and scrunched her brow, as though struggling to hold back tears.

  “I’m sorry, Aubrey. I wish I could help. I don’t know whether or not Theo did it.”

  “So you didn’t see the police gather any evidence to indicate Theo did it? They didn’t collect anything?” The girl blinked rapidly. “It’s just, I need to know. I can’t sleep thinking I might have come so close . . .”

  Nia tried to put herself in her student’s shoes. How would she feel if police had accused Dimitri of murder? Of course she’d want as much information as possible. Stirk had said the RAs should help the students. Aubrey didn’t need platitudes. She needed answers.

  “I heard that the cops think he did it because he sent a text message asking to meet Lauren at the boathouse and that he doesn’t have a good alibi for his whereabouts Saturday. I didn’t see anything by Lauren’s body that they could tie to anyone, but I didn’t stay that long.”

  Aubrey sniffed. Nia didn’t see any tears, but if Aubrey were anything like her, she wouldn’t cry in front of a stranger.

  “Even if he did do it, he can’t hurt you. The police have him.”

  The girl exhaled. “Thanks. I better let you go. Lunch already started. The cafeteria is up that way.” She pointed to the road. “I’m going to wait for Joey. I just feel better when he’s around.”

  Nia recalled the boys’ lewd remarks from breakfast that morning. The poor girl probably didn’t want to eat alone.

  Aubrey hurried back toward the quadrangle. Nia watched her go, wondering whether she’d helped her student or just hurt herself by spilling her guts. She turned in the opposite direction and headed up the road.

  *

  Nia pushed the pasta on her plate with her fork. The acidity of the marinara sauce reminded her of the garbage. Nerves had squelched her appetite. She’d disobeyed Stirk’s multiple warnings to keep quiet. The dean could fire her for insubordination if word got out.

  She needed the health insurance to fix her foot. If she didn’t get the shot, she wouldn’t be able to get back in shape in time to audition in January. Even worse, her condition could deteriorate further. She was already walking, running, and dancing on an injured foot. What if the tendon burst? Her career would never recover.

  The prospect made her physically ill, and the cacophony in the cafeteria wasn’t helping to calm her nerves. She withdrew her phone, looking for something to distract her.

  She hit the search application. A blank, rectangle box appeared beneath Google’s multicolored icon. What could she search for? She answered the question with another. Would Aubrey tell the dean? She knew a little about the girl. The search engine would know more.

  She typed in “Aubrey Burn, Wallace.” The all-knowing Internet giant refined her query: “Did you mean Aubrey Byrne, Wallace?” She selected the corrected spelling.

  A row of pictures topped the page. In each, Aubrey held a different plaque of some kind. A dozen links followed. Nearly all appeared to be press releases about awards and accolades. Aubrey had won a national science competition. She’d been accepted into Mensa for an IQ of 152. And she’d been admitted to American Ballet Theatre’s summer intensive for the second year in a row.

  One link read, “Dancers do IT best.” What was it? Nia could guess, but she clicked on the link anyway. She wouldn’t watch the video. But she did want to see if it was still up. Maybe she could help Aubrey get it removed.

  A site opened with a large media player. Instead of a still image in the box, a message sat stamped in the center. “This video has been removed due to violation of the site’s policy on nudity and sexual content.” Beneath the video was a counter. It had 25,000 views.

  For a noncelebrity, the number was massive. The school only had about a thousand students.

  Nia hit the back button, returning to the page of Aubrey links. More awards, pictures of beaming teachers with arms draped around the sloped shoulders of their prized pupil. Aubrey’s parents were not pictured or, judging from her scans of the articles, even mentioned. Wasn’t Aubrey’s mother alive?

  Nia clicked the “next page” button. One link stood out from the list of academic societies, a New York Times article from nearly nine years earlier titled “Lifesaving Surgeon Dies in Crash.” Nia clicked.

  Philip Byrne, a prominent cancer surgeon whose pioneering methods of tumor removal saved thousands, died in a car accident this week. He was 53. Police said Byrne was driving south on US Route 9W Tuesday night, during moderate snowfall, with his 7-year-old daughter in the front seat. They were returning from the girl’s school in upstate New York. According to a statement by the child, a northbound tractor-trailer drifted across the yellow line. Byrne swerved sharply in an apparent attempt to keep the car from impacting with the passenger side. The vehicle skidded on the icy road and slammed into a tree. A branch pierced the driver’s side window, killing Byrne. His daughter suffered a concussion. No other injuries were reported. Police are searching for the truck driver.

  Nia stopped reading. Many teenagers lost parents, but Aubrey’s father had died in a particularly sudden, horrible way, right in front of her. Nia scanned the article for survivors. His daughter, Aubrey, and a two-year-old son were listed along with his wife, Nicole Withers, an attorney with Bingham, Meyers, and Young in Manhattan. No uncles. No aunts. No grandparents.

  Nia typed in Aubrey’s mother’s name into the search box. A headshot of a striking blond woman topped several pa
ges of links. Most were related to Philip Byrne’s death. Several, from before the father’s accident, linked to precedent-setting bankruptcy cases. Aubrey’s mother either hadn’t done anything notable since her husband’s death or had ceased working altogether.

  Nia tried to imagine the woman in the photo: privileged, successful, unaccustomed to tragedy. What would a woman like Aubrey’s mother do after losing her husband? Would she become drunk and depressed, barely able to care for her young children, forcing her genius daughter to mature early? Or would she remarry and ship her eldest to boarding school, starting a new life free from painful memories?

  Nia put her phone on the lunch table. Poor Aubrey. Her father dies in front of her. Her mom abandons her. And, after all that, her ex-boyfriend is arrested for murdering his last girlfriend. No wonder teachers tried to look out for her.

  Tragedy stalked Aubrey Byrne.

  14

  En Arrière [ah na-RYEHR]

  Backward. Used to indicate that a step is executed moving away from the audience.

  Nia shoved half a protein bar into her mouth as she walked across the girls’ quad to her apartment. Her lips could barely close over the volume of food, but she already wanted another one. Why hadn’t she bought more bars at the faculty cafeteria? She needed the calories.

  Grueling didn’t begin to describe the choreography session with Ms. V and Battle. The pair consistently disagreed on the moves the students would be capable of performing. They’d demanded she run through variations on dozens of combinations, arguing all the while.

  Ms. V championed less intense choreography. The instructor envisioned a stage filled with pretty ballerinas performing facile positions that, when in sync, looked impressive. Battle wanted to push it. He imagined each girl showcasing a mastery of intermediate and advanced techniques. The parents, he’d maintained, donated to the dance program when they saw their kids performing like professional soloists, not members of the corps.