HEAR

by Robin Epstein

“Nothing’s—” He pauses. Obviously something’s wrong. “Actually,” he says, recalculating, “I think it’s better if we discuss this in person.”

  “Fine. I’ll be home for Thanksgiving. We can talk then.”

  “I’m here,” he says.

  “Here?” My eyes search the unfamiliar dorm room; I’m still close enough to sleep to feel discombobulated by his statement.

  “I’m in town. I’m staying at the Beckwith Inn.”

  “Not with Uncle Brian?”

  “No.” He stops there, not choosing to give an explanation for the strange accommodations. “Why don’t you meet me at the hotel for breakfast?”

  Ugh. “Today?”

  “Let’s say eight thirty.”

  Uggggghhhh. “I might be a little la—”

  “Kassie.”

  Ugggghhhh! “Fine,” I repeat, though this time my tone indicates it’s anything but. “I’ll see you at eight thirty, Dad.” I put down the phone and crash back on the pillow, yanking the sheet over my head.

  “Hey!” Pankaj mumbles, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me toward him. “And good morning.” He kisses the back of my head.

  “I doubt it.”

  Pankaj flips me over to face him and cracks open one eye. “That doesn’t sound good.” He gives me a sleepy grin. His hair is rumpled, and a dark shadow of stubble rings his face.

  There’s nothing I want to do more than spend the day in Pankaj’s bed with his arms wrapped around me. “Promise me you’ll stay here, just like this, until I get back.”

  He looks at the clock and winces. “That will not be a problem.”

  I kiss him again then get out of bed.

  It’s rumored that George Washington slept at the Beckwith Inn, and with its wooden ceiling beams, stacked stone panel walls, and early American folk art decor, you can see why a founding father would feel at home here. My own father, dressed in his casual Brooks Brothers attire, looks fairly comfortable himself as he sits in an oxblood-red leather wing chair near the large fireplace in the lobby. He glances up from the paper he’s reading as soon as I walk in the door and stands as I approach.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Kass, you look . . .” He eyeballs me before saying anything more. “Well.”

  “Thanks.” I have no idea what he truly sees when he looks at me anymore. Our relationship has gone from frosty to heated in the last few weeks, neither of us pleased by the recent revelations.

  “Have a seat.” He points to the other wing chair as he sits down. “Do you want coffee?”

  I shake my head. “I’m going to go back to bed when I leave.” I think about Pankaj waiting for me in his room, and I try to focus on this happy thought. “So . . . what brings me to the Beckwith Inn so early on a Saturday morning?”

  A look of disappointment crosses Dad’s face as he continues to scrutinize me. He knows. “Kass, before you left home, we came to an agreement,” he says severely.

  “No, Dad.” I’m not going to allow it. I refuse to let him bully me. “ You came to an agreement. By yourself. However, since I disagree with your thinking, I decided to ignore your advice.”

  “Kass, I wasn’t giving you advice,” he replies, carefully enunciating every word. “Nor was I making a request. I told you very specifically you were not to date that boy.”

  I stand, shaking my head at him. “Okay, bye, Dad. Tell Mom I say hello.” I begin walking away, but my father catches me by the arm.

  “Do you think I get some sort of a kick out of this, Kass? Do you think I told you not to date Pankaj because it’s a power trip for me? I’m trying to protect you,” he says in a stern whisper, close to my ear. “Who do you think killed Graham Pinberg?”

  My eyes widen. Pankaj didn’t kill Graham Pinberg. I am entirely certain of this. I know it. And yet my knees still buckle at the implication. My father’s hand on my arm is the only thing that keeps me from crumpling.

  “Sit down.” He guides me back to the chair.

  I should regain my composure before I say anything. “Are you suggesting Pankaj killed Graham Pinberg? Because that’s—”

  “No,” Dad replies, shaking his head. “But I need you to listen to me very carefully, Kassandra. I had a vision when I was in China with your mother—it was hazy and only partially formed, so I didn’t understand what it meant at first. That happens occasionally. It was only when you mentioned Pankaj that pieces started coming together. That’s why I forbid you from seeing him.”

  “Well, that’s stupid,” I say resentfully. “He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “I know that now.” Dad pauses and looks out across the lobby before refocusing on me. “But the vision sharpened for me last night, and that’s why I came here this morning: Pankaj hasn’t done anything wrong yet, but he will. And intentionally or unintentionally, his actions will put you in grave danger.”

  “Why would you even say that?” I throw my hands up, exasperated in the way only a parent can make you. “He’s done nothing but help me through this crap, and you just said yourself Pankaj had nothing to do with Pinberg’s murder.”

  “No,” my father says, “but his sister did. On Chris Figg’s orders.”

  My mouth opens to respond, but I don’t know what to say.

  Dad seems satisfied by this: my nonresponse is exactly what he wanted. “ You need to stay away from them, Kassie. Trust me when I tell you this is a dangerous family.”

  In my father’s cold stare, I find the words to answer. “Do you mean their family or ours, Dad?”

  As I walk back to Pankaj’s room, I think about how to break the news. How do you tell someone his sister’s a killer? Unfortunately, despite everything else, I don’t doubt that my father is right about Nisha. I’m still not sure what to say when I reach Pankaj’s dorm room, so I just take a deep breath before knocking on his door.

  “It’s open,” Pankaj calls out.

  Though the world was already sent spinning for me this morning, it’s still early on a Saturday, and as promised, Pankaj is still exactly where I left him an hour ago. He holds the sheet out, beckoning me to join him underneath. I slip off my shoes and climb into bed.

  “How’d it go with your dad?” he asks, spooning me.

  “And here I thought having Mara return to campus today as my roommate was going to be the worst part of my day.”

  “That good, huh?” he says with a smile.

  I can’t tell him. I can’t tell him yet.

  “The past few days have been really nice,” I say instead.

  “ Yeah, they have.” Pankaj puts his arms around me and kisses me. The sheet tangles between us as we clutch at each other until suddenly he stops. Like an animal who’s picked up a scent, Pankaj bolts upright. His head turns to the side, and his nose lifts to search the air.

  There’s a knock at the door a moment later. His eyes widen as the doorknob twists and the still-unlocked door swings open.

  Though I’ve never before seen the girl who barges into the room, I instantly recognize her. She cocks one of her full dark eyebrows and lets her giant duffle bag drop to the ground. Then she flicks her head, tossing her long black hair behind her, and the smell of her pomegranate shampoo fills the small room. “Oh brother!” she says with a throaty laugh. “What have we here?”

  “Nisha.” Pankaj scrambles out of bed.

  “ You must be Kass!” She maneuvers around Pankaj and extends her arms to me as if she expects an embrace. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “ Yeah,” I reply, uneasily, “likewise.”

  Nisha slowly spins, taking in the room. “Wow, I still can’t believe I’m here—I’m so lucky.” She smiles. “And we are all going to have such fun together!”

  “What?” Pankaj and I say simultaneously.

  “ You mean you guys don’t know? Why, I could just kill that Mr
. Figg! I guess I’ll just have to do the honors myself.” She shakes her head, and there’s a sparkle in her obsidian eyes. “Since your friend Alex got busted for all those terrible crimes, he’s obviously out of the program for a while. So Figgy asked me to come. I’m taking Alex’s spot and joining you as the newest HEAR.”

  “No,” Pankaj replies, taking my hand and moving me away from his sister.

  “Oh yes, Brother,” Nisha says with a familiar smile. “And I don’t know about you, but I can hardly wait to see what happens next!”

  Acknowledgments

  If writing is in the rewriting, there are many people who deserve significant credit for this book. Early readers who gave me support and suggestions include Alison Pace, Tali Rosenblatt-Cohen, Renee Kaplan, Liz Topp, Elmira Bayrasli, and Suzanne Dottino.

  Allison McCabe’s brilliant notes and guiding hand changed the book’s trajectory and her sage words, “Go darker,” continue to inspire and haunt me.

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my agent Lucy Carson. To acknowledge all the work Lucy has put into this book would require another book. But her efforts on my behalf have been invaluable. Molly Friedrich, who first fielded my query and gave notes along with Molly Schulman, thanked me for “Not sobbing in despair as we ripped the book to shreds.” Now it’s my turn to thank her for her canny, scissor-handed assessment.

  Beth Jarvie explained the engineering of engineering buildings. Valerie Cates taught me about tarot. Through the efforts of Alison Pace and Bene Cipolla I learned crucial beauty how-tos. Raymond Pero’s gift made me question my doubt.

  My gratitude to the talented and hilarious Rebecca Bohanan is boundless. On every “Final!!!” draft I sent, she provided stellar insights and her enthusiasm continually encouraged me.

  Jay Dyckman’s support and tagline-writing artistry were priceless, especially important since I could never afford him.

  I was beyond fortunate to be published by the rock stars at Soho Teen: I was a fan of Dan Ehrenhaft’s writing long before he became my editor. I’m now even more awed by this multi-talented virtuoso who also happens to be a true mensch. Meredith Barnes is a dream publicist who brims with intellect, ingenuity and charm. Bronwen Hruska, an extraordinary publisher, brainstormed with me and leads this immensely talented group that includes the astute and brilliant Rachel Kowal, the super skilled Amara Hoshijo, masterful cover artist Vanessa Han, marvelous “minister of the interior” Janine Agro, and the phenomenal Katie Herman, Delia Casa and Rachel Kambury.

  Cheerleaders, inspirations and caretakers also include Pankaj Amin, Shaifali Puri, Kim Barker, Suketu Mehta, Alex Fletcher, Silu Sao, Tom Downey, Charlotte Morgan, Hilary Park, Steve O’Donnell, Lynn Parramore, Joanna Hershon, Kate Morgenroth, Chris Santacroce, Susan Van Allen, Geoff Rodkey, Charlie Rubin, Nina Van Arsdale, Jack Turner and Dana Spector.

  I am indebted to several writers whose work influenced my thinking: Daniel Druckman and John A. Swets, Editors, Enhancing Human Performance: Issues, Theories & Techniques ; Thomas Lewis, Fari Amini and Richard Lannon, A General Theory of Love ; Laura Kipnis, Against Love ; Jon Ronson, The Men Who Stare at Goats ; Norman Doidge, The Brain That Changes Itself: Stories of Personal Triumph from the Frontiers of Brain Science ; Eknath Easwaran, translator, The Bhagavad Gita; Jennifer Kahn, “Can You Call a 9-Year-Old a Psychopath?”, The New York Times Magazine ; Paul Chambers, Paranormal People ; Robert D. Hare, Without Conscience: The Disturbing World of the Psychopaths Among Us.

  Finally, but always primarily, my family. Marcia Epstein, the original guru, was (and is) a perpetual provider of love, humor and support. Amy, Len, Maddie, Benjy and Eli Feldman frequently served as sounding boards and are a consistent source of happiness to me. Paul Epstein was a role model and he remains in my head and heart. Saying thank you for everything seems too meager.