by Kate White
“You think I’m a creep, don’t you?” Phoebe asked after a moment.
“What do you mean?”
“For not trying to figure out what was eating away at her.”
“Not at all,” Glenda said. “And you know I’m always straight with you. The girl caught you off guard five minutes before class, and you did what you could at the time.”
“I know. But I feel guilty now. And I just want to know she’s okay.”
“This information is helpful. I’ll pass it along to the cops this morning.”
Phoebe remembered another detail. “Val Porter told me Lily’s boyfriend disappeared this spring. Do you think her disappearance could be connected to his?”
“His name was Trevor Harris, and yes, I wondered the same thing,” Glenda said. “People weren’t as worried, by the way, when he seemed to vanish. It was this past March. He’d apparently talked about just bagging it and heading out west. He wasn’t much of a student, and he didn’t get along super well with his family.”
“Maybe Lily heard from him and went to meet up with him someplace.”
“Possibly. Though she is close to her family, and they said she’d never just take off without telling them.” Glenda shrugged. “Yet based on what she said to you, it sounds like she was toying with the idea of a fresh start someplace.”
“Or a different kind of escape,” Phoebe said. “Like taking her life.”
“Also possible.” Glenda looked stricken.
“What exactly are the cops doing?”
“They’re interviewing everyone who knew her, as well as people who were downtown that night. And if she doesn’t turn up in a few days, they may use cadaver dogs to see if they can pick up any scent along the river.”
“Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t lost more students in the Winamac. It’s right by those bars.”
“There was one drowning about a year and a half ago—the spring before last. The guy had been doing a pub crawl that night, and they think he got disoriented, walked in the wrong direction, and accidentally fell in. Kind of hard to swim when you’re drunk as a skunk and dressed in work boots and corduroy pants. But we’re constantly warning kids about drinking and the river from the moment they arrive.”
Glenda bit her lip and gazed out the window.
“There’s something else on your mind, G,” Phoebe said. “I can tell just by looking at you.”
“Yeah,” Glenda said quietly. “There is something else. That’s the main reason I wanted you to come by. Last spring we learned that there might be a secret society on campus. A secret society of girls.”
Phoebe could feel a breath catch in her chest.
“How big—and what’s their agenda?” she asked after a couple of seconds.
“We have no idea on either count. In fact, we’ve got little proof they actually exist. In May a student of ours showed up at a local hospital having a panic attack. She was completely hysterical. After they calmed her down, she told one of the doctors that she had once been a member of a society of girls on campus, and that they were out to get her now.”
“Does this so-called group have a name?” Phoebe asked.
“She called them the Sixes. Tom Stockton—the dean of students—went to see her, but she clammed up on him. She dropped out of school the next day.”
Phoebe shifted in her chair uncomfortably. “Are you sure this girl wasn’t just having some kind of psychotic break?”
“The doctor didn’t think so. Plus, there’s something else. Over the past year, maintenance has found the number six painted discreetly in various places—like on the foundation of Arthur Hall—but we never could figure out what it meant.”
“Wait,” Phoebe said. “Are you thinking Lily’s disappearance is tied into the Sixes somehow?”
“I don’t know. But Tom Stockton has reason to believe that Lily may be involved with the group.”
Maybe that was the mess Lily had referred to, Phoebe thought. Had she been a member for a while but then decided she wanted out?
“What are you going to do about it?” Phoebe asked.
“I’ve got a plan, but I’m afraid you may not like it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want you to go on an information-gathering mission for me on campus,” Glenda announced. “I want you to see if this society really exists and if so, what they’re up to.”
Phoebe couldn’t hide her surprise. “What?”
“Hear me out. Even if there’s no connection between the Sixes and Lily’s disappearance, I need to shut them down. You know as well as I do how groups like this can get out of hand.”
“But isn’t that something the administration should be doing?” Phoebe said.
“Yes, that’s our responsibility, and we’ve got procedures for these things. You start with the person being harassed and move outward from there. But Tom has been unable to turn up any real proof. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about college kids, it’s that they’re very reluctant to throw any of their peers under the bus. In sensitive cases we sometimes use a person outside the administration.”
“But why would girls talk to me? That’s—”
“Oh, please, Fee. You’re not only a bloodhound when it comes to digging up info, you’re also brilliant at getting people to spill—whether it’s about their secret lives or their sordid pasts or the affairs they’ve had with their half brothers.”
“Still, I can’t just start randomly pumping people, can I?” Phoebe said, running her hand through her hair. But she knew she couldn’t say no. Besides the fact that she’d never be able to turn down Glenda—she owed her—Phoebe now felt an obligation to help the girl she’d had so little time for.
“I’ve thought of a way to handle that,” Glenda said. “You can say that I’ve tapped you to assist with the internal investigation about Lily’s disappearance. That gives you the perfect opportunity to ask questions and see where that leads you.”
“Will I be stepping on anyone’s toes—like Tom Stockton’s?”
“I don’t think so. Tom doesn’t take it personally that we hit the wall with our own investigation about the Sixes. Kids just don’t like talking to ‘the man’—and in this case it’s the administration. But you should arrange for Tom to brief you. He’s expecting your call.”
For a brief moment, Phoebe felt as if she was sinking in water or sand, but she forced herself to get a grip.
“Okay,” Phoebe said, “I’m in. I’ll need the roommate’s name and info, and contact info for this Blair Usher, too.”
There was no time to catch up on personal stuff today. Glenda said she needed to touch base with both the campus and local police before meeting with Lily’s parents. They had arrived late last night by car, and she was seeing them in an hour.
As Glenda walked Phoebe to the front hall, they found Glenda’s husband Mark buckling a bike helmet on their nine-year-old son, Brandon. Mark was striking looking, half white, half African American, with olive green eyes and skin so light that people often assumed he was white. Glenda had met him during her final year at boarding school and dated him on and off until they’d decided to marry ten years ago. He presently worked as a freelance management consultant, though Phoebe suspected he wasn’t too busy in the general Lyle area.
“Hi, guys,” Phoebe said. Brandon wrapped his arms around Phoebe in greeting. Mark offered only a nod and smile. She and Mark had never been close, but from the moment she’d arrived on campus, Phoebe had sensed a new coolness from him. She wasn’t sure why. The obvious conclusion: he thought Glenda’s professional rescue of Phoebe was potentially damaging to his wife’s stature.
“Where’s your helmet?” Glenda asked Mark.
“I’m not going with him today. He’s done these streets alone before. It’s good for him to get out there on his own.”
“But it’s Saturday morning. One of us should—”
“In a perfect world one of us would go, but we both have work to do this morni
ng, don’t we?” He had a sarcastic tone Phoebe had never heard him use with Glenda before.
“I’d better go,” Phoebe said, feeling awkward. “I’ll start today, Glenda—and I’ll let you know tonight if I find anything.”
Brandon tugged on the strap of his helmet as if it was choking him. Phoebe gave him another hug and said good-bye to Mark. Glenda walked Phoebe to the oversize front door and swung it open.
“It means a lot to me to have you do this,” Glenda said quietly. “But if for any reason you’d rather not, just say so, okay?” She gave Phoebe a long look.
“No, I’m good,” Phoebe said quickly, pulling her anorak closed.
As she hurried down the sidewalk from Glenda’s house a few moments later, Phoebe could feel a mix of things churning inside her. There was concern—for Glenda and whatever headaches this situation might cause her, but mostly for Lily. Had the girl just taken off, trying, in her words, to escape a mess? Or had something terrible happened to her after she left the bar?
And there was also unease. The need to know had taken hold in her, as it so often did in her work, but this time, in investigating the Sixes, she would be traipsing over ground she’d sworn she’d never go near again.
She thrust her hands in her pockets, protecting them from the wind that had suddenly picked up. One hand brushed against a piece of paper, and Phoebe realized that it was the flyer about Lily that she had torn from the tree. She pulled it from her pocket and uncrumpled it.
Staring at it, she realized suddenly that it wasn’t a G that had been scrawled on Lily’s face. It was the number 6.
***
I T WAS IN January that she first sensed she was in some kind of trouble.
The school was buried under two feet of snow, and everyone on campus seemed possessed by cabin fever, glum from endless term papers, soggy boots, and the biting cold. But none of that had bothered her. She loved the boarding school and everything about it, especially in comparison to her big, sprawling high school. For her there was nothing more pleasurable than sitting cocooned in a carrel in the library, reading and writing to the muffled sounds of girls outdoors calling out to each other as they hurried across campus in the snow.
The work was tough, but she didn’t care. She’d gotten straight A’s her first term, had four poems published in the literary magazine, and was up for a spot as an editor of the newspaper. Someone had whispered that she was a shoo-in. She’d written tons already for the paper, and her stuff barely needed editing.
But the spot went to another girl, one who had barely contributed to the paper. It had stung to hear the news.
She tried to pump herself up. There would be another opening at some point, she told herself, and she’d go for it. Until then she’d just contribute more ideas, write even more pieces.
Suddenly, however, her story ideas were routinely rejected, and she was given only one assignment in a whole month—a totally lame little story. It was as if she’d ended up on somebody’s bad side.
The third-quarter literary magazine came out, and this time there was nothing of hers inside. What did I do wrong? she wondered. Her poems had seemed so good to her.
And then the study group thing happened. She’d been meeting once a week with three other girls from her American history class, preparing for the frequent and awful pop quizzes the teacher was famous for. One afternoon, a member of the group told her that she and the two others had decided to disband and study on their own. But a week later, she stumbled on the three of them working in a lounge without her. It was as if they wanted her to see them. She hurried quickly by, as the blood rushed to her cheeks.
People have stopped liking me, she realized with a horrible sense of dread. And she didn’t know why.
3
P HOEBE STUFFED THE flyer back in her pocket and hurried along the sidewalk, her mind racing. Was the scrawled 6 an indication that Lily had become a target of the Sixes? Phoebe wondered. She pictured the girl’s sad blue eyes and felt a fresh swell of worry.
Phoebe had planned to bike along the river that morning, as she’d done most Saturdays and Sundays since she’d arrived in Lyle, but she scrapped those plans as she walked back home. There was no reason not to start her research immediately; in fact, the weekend would probably be the best time to pump students, when they weren’t busy schlepping to classes. But first she had to connect with Tom Stockton, the school’s dean of students. If she was going to hit the ground running, she needed background info and whatever leads he had about the Sixes.
Once home, she found Stockton’s cell number in the faculty directory. His phone rang five times, and just when she was certain it was going to voice mail, he answered.
“Stockton,” he announced, his tone firm.
“Hi, Tom, this is Phoebe Hall,” she said. “I know I’m catching you at a crazy time, with this student missing, but I was hoping we could talk at some point today.”
“Say again.”
“Phoebe Hall. I’m teaching here this term, and I’m supposed to talk to you about the secret society—the Sixes. Glenda might have mentioned I’d be calling.”
“Oh—right. Of course.”
“Can you meet today—to fill me in?”
“I wish I could, but I’m up to my ears with this Lily Mack crisis. I’m on my way to a meeting about it right now.”
“Could you grab a cup of coffee after that?”
He sighed. “I hate to commit to anything at the moment. We have no idea if this whole thing will turn really ugly.”
The guy was starting to annoy her. Glenda had said he was on board, but it sure didn’t sound that way.
“What if we at least set up a time, and then if you can’t make it, we’ll reschedule? I promised Glenda I’d work on this over the weekend. There’s a chance the two things might even be connected.”
“All right,” he said after a second. Invoking Glenda’s name had apparently done the trick, but he didn’t sound pleased. “Why don’t we meet at Café Lyle at noon.”
Café Lyle was the coffee shop in the student union. If she was going to entice kids to open up to her, she could hardly be seen fraternizing with the enemy. “Do you mind if we meet at Berta’s?” Phoebe said, referring to a little café on upper Bridge Street near Tony’s. “I think it might be better to do this off campus.”
After another audible sigh, Stockton agreed. As they ended their call, Phoebe considered her next move. Though she didn’t want to do much until she had a full briefing from Stockton, there was no harm in talking to Lily’s roommate right away. Glenda had already e-mailed her the name—Amanda Azodi—and her dorm.
She headed back out, this time to campus. It was just after eleven when she arrived at Curry Hall. Students, she’d discovered, tended to sleep till noon on Saturdays, but she suspected that Lily’s roommate would probably be up already, given what was going on. Phoebe tried the main door of the dorm and realized that it was locked. She’d forgotten to ask Glenda for any kind of access card to swipe. She’d have to wait for someone to exit the building.
After ten minutes a sullen-looking girl emerged, dressed in jeans, a baggy sweatshirt, and Uggs. Her ponytail, Phoebe noticed, was tied with what appeared to be a pair of stretchy yellow panties. The girl allowed Phoebe to catch the door without even a glance in her direction.
Phoebe rode the elevator to the fourth floor and stepped into the hallway. Directly in front of her was a lounge and kitchenette, with a garbage can overflowing with trash and several pieces of sagging, modular furniture; one sofa had been turned upside down. Except for the low groan of the refrigerator, the floor was absolutely still. Phoebe glanced at the number on the first door to the left: 406. It looked as if 424 would be farther in that direction. She realized this was the first time she’d been in a college dorm in twenty years.
Walking down the silent hallway, she imagined the students who lay sprawled in their beds behind the doors, sleeping off hangovers or exhausted from all-nighters they’d pulled during t
he week. The cinderblock walls of the corridor were plastered with announcements, including flyers pleading, “Help Us Find Lily!!!” When Phoebe reached 424, she saw that there was a makeshift paper pocket taped to the door with dozens of the same flyer inside, obviously there for people to grab and distribute. She rapped lightly on the door several times. From inside she thought she heard someone stir. As she raised her hand to knock again, the door opened partway, and revealed a young woman’s face.
Phoebe had only seen Lily’s roommate from a distance the previous night, and up close the girl’s looks surprised her. At Lyle the pretty girls traveled in packs, and she had expected that Lily would be rooming with someone equally attractive. But her roommate was almost homely, with a wide, flat face, deep-set brown eyes, and shoulder-length brown hair styled in a structured under-curl that seemed from another era.
“Amanda?” Phoebe asked as the girl stared at her in confusion.
“Yes?”
“My name’s Phoebe Hall. I’m part of a team at the school looking into Lily’s disappearance. May I come in?”
“What’s the matter?” Amanda asked, alarmed. “Did they find her?”
“No—not yet. But I’d love to ask you a few questions.”
“I already talked to the police, you know. I told them everything.”
“Yes, I’m sure you were very helpful. But the college has to do its own investigation. We want to turn over every stone.”
“Okay,” the girl said after a moment’s hesitation. “You wanna come in, then? Sorry . . . our room’s kind of a mess.”
That turned out to be the understatement of the century. Phoebe entered a space that looked like it had been in the path of a tornado. The two beds, with twisted sheets and comforters drooping over their sides, were on risers, allowing for the desks and dressers to fit underneath, and every inch of extra space below was filled with wadded clothes, splayed books and magazines, plastic dishes, soda cans, and flattened cookie boxes. All the surfaces in the room—desktops, dresser tops, and windowsills—were covered, too, with more books, boxes of tampons, and jumbo plastic bottles of shampoo and hand lotion. One side of the room seemed particularly messy. Phoebe realized that it must be Lily’s side, which the police had probably searched.
