by Sara Shepard
I touched the heavy purse at my feet. “I’ve brought all of his paperwork. It goes back almost seven years.”
Strasser looked surprised. “You two are old enough to be married seven years?”
“We’ve been married for fourteen years, actually,” I admitted. “Straight out of college.”
Martin sent me an annoyed look, as if he didn’t see the point to disclosing personal details.
Strasser glanced at the papers in my hands. “I received some of your history, but certainly not seven years’ worth.” He held out his hands and gestured for the files. “May I?”
“Oh.” I pushed the purse forward. “So these are doctors’ notes, scans, dates of surgeries, and then I kept this separate log of medications Martin was taking and when they stopped working, or the side effects he got from them, that sort of thing. It includes blood pressure information as well.”
“My. Very thorough. Good job with this.”
God, how he’d looked at me, even then. Where have you been hiding, you divine thing, his eyes seemed to say. Where had that love gone? And when did it go?
“Did Greg have any other enemies?” Willa asks, jolting me from my thoughts.
My mind feels sluggish. “He was really well liked. Truly, the only enemy of his that I can think of is . . .” I trail off. Wave my hand.
Willa frowns. “Who?”
“Forget it. Never mind.” But I was about to say, again, Me.
Has my sister read my mind? Given the guarded way she’s looking at me, I think yes. I laugh offhandedly. “I am on the cops’ suspect list. I certainly had motive. And I was the one who found him.”
“But you didn’t do it.” Willa sounds resolute. Thankfully.
“They’re just covering all the bases. They have surveillance of me leaving the parking lot at a certain time of the evening, and if I drove really quickly—like ninety miles an hour—burst into the house, and stabbed Greg immediately, the timeline could fit.”
“But you said you passed out on the bathroom floor.”
“I know. I did. Except no one saw me do that. Then again, there are no witnesses saying I came home at a different time than when I did, either. And like I said, that surveillance image in the parking lot doesn’t give me much time to get back here and stab Greg.”
Willa sits back, her hands curled around her knees. “What about your girls?”
I pause. “What about my girls?”
“Where were they the night it happened?”
“I thought Aurora was home, but it turns out she was at a friend’s house two doors down.” I turn my head from side to side, feeling my neck crack. “Lilly. They usually sleep in the guesthouse in the backyard. The police already talked to both of them. Neither heard a thing.”
“And what about Sienna?”
I look at my coffee. The creamer is a congealed layer on top. “She was on campus. At a party.”
“They seem really out of it today.”
“Do you blame them? It’s a shock.”
“They seem more than shocked, actually.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
Creak.
A figure has stepped into the hall: a beautiful twentysomething girl with bouncy red hair, wearing a dark blue leather jacket. It’s Raina Hammond, Sienna’s friend from school. I jump to my feet. What the hell is she doing here?
“Mrs. Strasser.” Raina’s eyes are full of sorrow. “Oh my goodness, Mrs. Strasser. I was standing right there with Sienna when she heard the news. I am so, so sorry.”
“Raina . . .” How did this girl get in? I’d just checked the door—it was locked. Did she say anything to the reporters? Is she a reporter? “This isn’t a good time.”
Raina’s eyebrows arch. “Sienna invited me. She’s upstairs, right? Staying here for a little while instead of the dorms?” She makes a strange choking sound. “I really, really need to see if she’s holding up okay.”
I notice Raina’s red eyes and blotchy skin. Has she been crying . . . about Greg? I’m confused. Raina barely knew Greg.
Raina wipes her eyes. Her gaze shifts to Willa. “Are you Sienna’s aunt Willa?”
“Yes . . .” Willa says cautiously, seemingly picking up on my vibe.
“Nice to meet you. Sienna thinks you’re the bomb.” Raina sniffs, then points upstairs. “Can I go up just for a sec? Please?”
“Um . . .” God, I’m too tired for this. “Fine. Sure. Whatever.”
To my horror, Raina wraps her arms around my shoulders. She smells like flowery perfume and expensive leather and vodka. A tendril of silky hair slithers across the back of my neck like a spider, and I jump back. “Okay, okay,” I say. “Go on.”
Raina’s booties thump on the risers. Willa’s gaze is on me, and I sigh. “That’s one of Sienna’s college friends—she was out with Sienna the night Greg died, actually. They go to Aldrich together. Raina used to work for Dad—that’s how Sienna met her, I believe—but she doesn’t anymore, I don’t know why. But I don’t get a great vibe from her.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “I came home one time to find her in my bedroom, standing near my dresser. The drawers weren’t open, there was no sign she’d touched anything . . . but I don’t know why she was in there in the first place.”
Willa’s eyes linger on the stairs again. We can’t hear any noises coming from all the way up there. “Was she close with Greg?”
“Not that I know of. Though . . .” I glance upstairs again. Those tears in Raina’s eyes. That heartbroken voice.
And suddenly I realize something. The night Greg was killed, I’d called Sienna when we reached the hospital. Before blurting out what happened, I’d asked where she was. “At this party,” she said. “But it’s winding down. And I’m not drunk. As soon as I find Raina, I’m leaving.”
As soon as I find Raina. But Raina just told me she’d been with Sienna when my daughter heard the news. She’d implied that she’d been standing right next to her. Witnessing it all.
She just lied.
10
RAINA
FRIDAY, APRIL 28, 2017
I know I should stay away from Alfred Manning’s house—for a lot of reasons. It’s not like I’m his favorite person these days. But I saw him pulling out of the street before I turned in, so at least I knew I’d avoid that minefield. I came for Sienna. I need to be around people who are as shaken as I am. I wish I could tell her the truth . . . but I’m not an idiot. Sienna wouldn’t understand. She’d take offense. I would, too, if I were in her shoes.
But still, for all intents and purposes, she’s my friend. And as a friend, I have the right to console her. So here I am.
When I climb the stairs to the bedroom where Sienna is staying, I find her sitting on the floor, a yellow fleece blanket bunched in her lap. She’s not crying. Practically not breathing. Instead, she’s staring at something on her cell phone. Her finger keeps scrolling, down, down, down—it’s a long text. Or a homework assignment. I really hope Sienna isn’t worrying about homework at a time like this, but then again, she’s obsessed with grades. The day I met her, when I was working in her grandfather’s office, she’d run into the lobby near tears because she didn’t understand an organic chemistry assignment and was sure she was going to fail the required class. Alfred was out, but I’d stepped in to help her. Organic chemistry isn’t that hard if you understand the equations. Sienna was so grateful for my pop-up tutoring session that she instantly made me her friend . . . which worked to my advantage.
Now, Sienna looks up and sees my tears, and a confused expression flutters over her features. Maybe she’s thinking, drama queen. Maybe she’s speculating about Greg’s hacked e-mails—I’m sure she’s read them. Who hasn’t?
Or maybe she’s wondering who killed him.
I drop to my knees next to her. “How are you hold
ing up, baby?”
Sienna blinks slowly, like a turtle. She looks at my tears and, once again, her face registers confusion. “Sorry.” I wipe my eyes, growing self-conscious. “I’ve got PMS. And I’m scared shitless. There’s a killer on the loose, you know?”
Sienna’s mouth twists. Still, she says nothing.
“Have the police figured anything out?” I ask. “Do they have a suspect?”
“I don’t know.” Sienna’s voice is emotionless. “Our whole house is being dusted for fingerprints. Even my bedroom. They’re probably going through my drawers. Looking at my underwear and tampons.”
Her eyes lower almost catatonically. She reminds me of a barnyard animal that sleeps standing up. It makes my heart twist. My friendship with Sienna might have started out less than sincere—I saw her as yet another stepping-stone to truly get close to Alfred Manning—but she’s grown on me. If I’m rocked by Greg’s death, I can’t imagine how I’d feel if Greg were my stepfather.
“Are you okay?” There’s a hitch in my voice.
Another slow blink. “I took some NyQuil,” Sienna admits. “It’s making me feel . . . I don’t know. Like my bones have turned to vapor.”
I breathe out. It’s just pills, then. She doesn’t know anything. And I’m actually glad she’s taken something. It’s probably better just to blur these next few days . . . or even weeks.
“Do you want me to call anyone?” I ask. “Friends from the dorm? Maybe Anton?” That’s the boy she admitted she had a crush on but was too nervous to act on it. They were just friends, for now, but Sienna could totally snare him if she tried.
Sienna closes her eyes. “No.” Her voice is soft and faraway. Her features slacken.
“Okay. Sleep it off.” I pat her shoulder. “Let me help you into bed. Where’s Aurora?”
“Don’t know.” Sienna lets me pick her up and walk her over to the little bed by the corner. She is a rag doll as I move her legs onto the mattress. “She’s pissed at me. She didn’t even sleep in this room last night.”
“Why would she be mad at you?” I ask, but Sienna is snoring as I finish the sentence.
* * *
Ten minutes later, I’m walking around Aldrich campus. The place is a shitshow. Classes are still being held, but a lot of kids are using the hack and the downed systems as an excuse to go home for a long weekend. Many who are still here are protesting about things that have come out in the hack—there’s a group by the library up in arms about some uber-racist remarks one of the people in housing made to his staff. Over by the Campus Life building, a stately brick house with columns, girls are holding signs bearing Greek letters with slashes through them—something must have come out about a frat. There’s a news van on every street corner. It all makes me a little sad. I adore Aldrich. I don’t want its reputation to be tarnished. I don’t want people to stop applying here. I went through enough to get accepted; I want this all to be worth something.
But will I get to stay here? What am I going to do?
As I turn a corner, I get that prickly feeling again. Someone is watching me. I stop short and glance over my shoulder, but the sidewalk is empty.
I pull my hood down. No one sees you. No one knows what you know. You have to believe that.
Around the corner from the hospital is a coffee shop called Becky’s. I push through the door, relishing the darkness and dankness. Greg and I used to meet here a lot, actually. We sat at one of the back tables, looking around to make sure no one we knew came in. I had as much to lose as he did, after all—it’s one thing for an Aldrich girl to be seen with an upperclassman, even a grad student. But a man old enough to be her father? I had an image to uphold as a good, dutiful coed. I’d told Greg I wanted the whole Aldrich shebang: dorm life, an editorial position on the literary magazine, maybe even student government. I wanted to go to football games, fencing matches, rallies. I had three purple Aldrich sweatshirts hanging in my closet, and I wore them with pride. I loved the appreciative nods I sometimes got from people on the street when they saw the school’s name. That’s right, people, I go here. I’m smarter than you.
I think of the first time I met Greg. Ironically, it had been in passing. I’d been at my interview at President Manning’s office; he was looking for a new executive assistant because his last girl, Tara, unexpectedly quit. I might have had something to do with that. Some careful spying on Tara’s weekend activities and drug use, a strategically worded e-mail telling Tara that she resign as Manning’s assistant or else I spill the beans—it was that easy.
I’d called his office the day she quit, before he’d even had time to post the job online. Naturally, I was the very first interviewee. I knew Manning would choose me. Not because he needed someone immediately—he was the type of man who seemed to flounder without an assistant—but because I’m just that enticing, that good.
I was sitting in the waiting room outside his office, staring at the paintings on the walls. They were of presidents of Aldrich Past. All men, of course, sitting on their tufted chairs with their pipes and their smug smiles. I’d read online that the president of a top-notch college made more than three million dollars a year. With that kind of cash, I’d be pretty damn smug, too.
The door to the back office opened. “Raina Hammond?”
It wasn’t Manning but a haggard, fake-smiley blond woman. She introduced herself as Marilyn O’Leary, Manning’s deputy. “He and I work very closely together,” she said. She looked me up and down, and I thought I caught a little disapproval in her gaze. “Whatever gets to Manning goes through me first.”
I didn’t like the sound of that, and I also didn’t like that she followed me into Manning’s office. There, at his desk, was Alfred Manning in the flesh: that golden skin, those sparkling, dancing eyes, those expressive eyebrows I’d seen rise so comically in the many interviews he’d given on CNN or 60 Minutes as the leader of a progressive, esteemed university. He wore a button-down shirt and well-fitting wool trousers, and he seemed to ooze superiority. Instead of feeling insignificant—or off my game—I was proud. I’d infiltrated a top school’s inner sanctum. I knew I was going to get this job. That’s right, all you assholes who thought I was going nowhere, a voice taunted in my head. Look at me now.
A look of delight crossed Manning’s features when he saw me. He was coy about it, but I knew he was taking in my face, the size of my breasts, and my long, shapely legs. “Why don’t you come in?” he said, gesturing to the door. Then he turned to Craggy Blonde: “Marilyn, we’re all set here. Thank you.” Craggy O’Leary made a pinched face and left the room.
Alfred Manning’s office was kitted out in warm cherry bookshelves, a low-slung leather couch, and a grand desk that spanned the width of the room. Upon the desk was, among other things: a bust of William Shakespeare, a photo of a younger Alfred Manning and Robert De Niro, who’d received an honorary Aldrich doctorate, and a gold Rolex that was flung so haphazardly you’d think it was a Swatch.
My fingers crept toward it. Maybe I could just steal it, sell it, and not have to go through the rest of this bullshit. But then Manning sat down, and my hand snapped back.
“So.” Manning said, looking at his notes. “Miss . . . Raina.”
I reached into my oversize purse and handed him a résumé. “I heard you weren’t a fan of e-mail, so I figured I’d better print this for you to read again.”
“You heard I didn’t like e-mail?”
There was something challenging about the man’s smile, like he found this all a game. That was okay. I liked games. “I mean, I know you use it. I just knew it wasn’t your preferred mode of communication. And in fact, I’m very tech-savvy—I can do all of your computer responsibilities, if you want. Social media and all that.” I lowered my lashes in the way I’d practiced in the mirror. “If I get the job, I mean.”
“I like people who show some initiative,” Manning said in praise. W
as he flirting? I decided yes.
Manning glanced at the paper in front of him. “You studied at Columbia’s Summer Creative Writing Program. Who’d you work with?”
My mind scrambled. “Professor Cordon. Among others.”
“Ah. Yes, I know Gerald.”
His name was Archer, actually, but I’d let it slide. It wasn’t like I knew the guy, either. “I want to be a writer,” I added. “Like you.”
Manning looked surprised. “You’ve read my books?”
“Are you kidding?” I leaned in a little closer. “I’m a huge fan.”
Manning pressed his hand to his chest. “You are?”
“I especially liked that mystery about the state fair you wrote in the eighties.” I cocked my head just so. I felt a carefully positioned tendril of hair kiss my bare shoulder.
“My word.” Manning seemed flustered. “Most students don’t even know I’ve been published. It’s just my hobby, really. It’s not like my books are with large presses.”
“You’re being modest. You’re very good.”
Manning shrugged, but it was obvious he was delighted. He looked up again, and we locked eyes. He looked away first. “So, um, can you tell me a little about the position?” I asked.
“Ah, yes.” Manning walked me through the details of the job. “It’s pretty standard, really. Answering calls. Scheduling. Making sure I’m where I’m supposed to be.” He gave me a serious look. “There are a few circled dates every month where I’m out of range and not to be disturbed. I expect you to be my guard dog in those instances.”
I didn’t like being called a dog—I would leave that role to Craggy O’Leary. So I said, “I’ll be your gatekeeper.”
“Very good.”
The older man’s blue eyes had flecks of orange through them that reminded me of a wolf. I bet when he was in his prime, he was gorgeous. Even better-looking than Dr. Rosen.
“I’m eager to prove myself,” I purred to Manning. “It would be such an honor.”
