by Sara Shepard
The warm air kisses my skin. I take deep, even breaths, running my fingernails up and down my arms; I’m tempted to break the skin just to feel something. Church bells gong. Two kids in Aldrich sweatshirts smoke e-cigarettes in front of off-campus housing. A local news van circles the block and turns into the church parking lot. Jesus. I hurry to the back of the building.
“Kit.”
I wheel around. Patrick stands with his hands in the pockets of a dark suit. He is alone, and he’s looking at me with a mix of urgency and uncertainty. I stare at him, then at the church, then at him again.
“What are you doing here?” I finally splutter.
“I wanted to express my condolences.”
“You came to my husband’s funeral?”
“You and Lynn work together.” He shrugs. “It would have looked weird if we didn’t come.”
We. I want to kick him.
“You said you weren’t married,” I whisper.
“You said you were a widow,” he shoots back, his eyes aflame.
“That’s true!” I place my hands on my hips. “And now it’s even more true!”
Patrick’s expression falters. “Jesus,” he says in a low voice. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
I stare at a billboard across the street for a new hardware store a few blocks away. The tenderness in Patrick’s voice is heartbreaking. Just like that, I want to touch him, bring him close. “Of course I’m not okay,” I mumble. “I walked in on my husband bleeding out. Most of the people in that funeral think I did it.”
“You didn’t do it.”
“I know that.” Another tiny piece of me crumbles, but I have to resist. I raise my chin, my gaze purposefully nowhere near his face. “It’s better we lied to one another in Philly. And it’s good nothing really happened. It would be humiliating, considering Lynn and I work together.”
“I regret that nothing happened,” Patrick says quietly.
I clamp down hard on the inside of my cheek. Do not react.
But Patrick moves closer. “I kicked myself when I didn’t get your phone number. And when you showed up at that benefit . . .” He lets out an embarrassed laugh. “I don’t mean to be cheesy, but it felt like the universe was trying to tell us something.”
“Don’t bring the universe into this. Don’t pretend this is fate.”
But he senses me faltering. His suit jacket rustles, and before I know it, his fingers are twining through mine. Involuntarily, I grip hard. Then I let go. But then I squeeze again. There is a push-and-pull in my heart and brain. I know I should walk away, but I can’t.
“Can I call you?”
“I . . .” I close my eyes. Say no. You have to say no.
“Patrick?”
People have begun to stream out of the church, and some have trickled around to the side lot. I have a clear view of Lynn Godfrey click-clacking in her high heels toward a row of vehicles, her children in tow. Patrick’s children. She’s whispering to them, patting the head of the little boy, who’s dressed in an expensive-looking child-size suit. Lynn’s head swivels about as she looks around for her husband. I also notice Willa in the crowd . . . and she does see me. Her eyes narrow on Patrick. I step away from him, mustering a look of innocence.
Patrick backs up, too, but not before he gives me a deep, meaningful look. “Think about it, Kit. Please?”
“Um,” I murmur, uncomfortable because Willa hasn’t taken her eyes off us. Patrick jogs back to the parking lot. Lynn greets him with a surprised smile—she definitely hasn’t seen that he and I were talking. She takes his hand, and they climb into a white Porsche SUV.
Willa marches to me, her brow furrowed. “Who was that?”
“Just . . . someone.” I can feel the heat in my cheeks. “Expressing his condolences.”
Willa frowns. Maybe she can tell I’m not being completely truthful. She turns to the car Patrick and Lynn have just climbed inside. Behind the windshield, I can see Patrick’s lips moving. Is he giving Lynn an excuse for what he was doing behind the church? Is he telling her he loves her, and that he’s a good man, and that he would never be like dishonest, philandering Greg Strasser?
He’s a liar, I want to scream. I want to hate Patrick. But I don’t. All I can think of is his fingers entwined in mine, his mouth saying, I can’t be away from you. I am a terrible, terrible person, because the truth of it is, I don’t think I can be away from him, either.
13
WILLA
SATURDAY, APRIL 29, 2017
Look at this turnout!” I swing Kit’s Mercedes E-class down yet another filled parking lot row, narrowly avoiding two young, muscled dudes in a Blue Hill Country Club golf cart. Every parking space I pass is filled with a car. “I don’t remember this many people at the church. I guess most would rather drink to Greg’s memory than pray.”
Kit’s got her eyes closed. “For the millionth time, Willa, just valet.”
“All right, all right.” I steer toward the front of the club. The dashboard dings, though I’m not sure why. Kit insisted that I drive after the funeral because she was feeling too woozy. I wonder if it has anything to do with that George Clooney clone she was having a tête-à-tête with after the funeral.
The club’s main building is a sprawling, ivy-covered monstrosity with long glass windows that look out onto the driving range. I wish I didn’t remember this place as precisely as I do, but it seems branded on my brain. When I was fifteen and my father got promoted to president of Aldrich University, he decided that our family should join the club. Most of my memories from here are of sitting slumped at a giant oak table in the dining room, watching preppy girls from my class snicker at me from behind straight, sleek columns of hair. After fulfilling her socialization requirement, my mom always sank down next to me and whispered, “God, these people are such shits.”
Now, as we head toward the doors, Kit gazes around nervously. I wonder if she’s looking for reporters. I’d bet any amount of money that some are staked out here—when reporting on cases like this at “The Source,” I’ve slipped into all kinds of events like these, eager to listen in and absorb the mood. I’m about to tell her I’d be fine with skipping this entire event, but then my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from my boss at “The Source,” Richard. Have you heard the latest about the frat stuff coming out in the hack?
I frown, my fingers poised over the tiny keyboard. What?
It takes him several texts to get his point across. Two local reporters dug up e-mails from two students about some rape cover-ups at the Chi Omega house. There’s this trail of administrative e-mails essentially saying that everyone needs to get their story straight. There are definitely some violations taking place, and some people definitely knew.
The words swim before my eyes. Like who? I want to write, but another text comes in.
Wanna tackle it since you’re there anyway?
I roll my jaw. This is my sort of story, but no. No. C’mon, man—I’m at a freaking funeral for my sister’s husband. Give me time to breathe.
I turn to Aurora and Sienna. The girls are sitting together on a bench, speaking in low, heated voices. Sienna massages her forehead with her hands. Aurora lets out a huff and turns away. Abruptly, Aurora jumps to her feet and storms off. Sienna takes her hands away from her eyes and watches her go, a scowl on her face.
I watch her go for a moment, then collapse next to Sienna. “What was that about?”
Sienna glances at me, and the scowl morphs into a wearier expression. “It’s stupid.”
“She looked pissed.”
“She’s just . . .” Her shoulders rise and fall. “We had a fight about this guy . . . it’s dumb.”
A muscle twitches in her cheek. I think about what Richard just told me about the frats. Sienna is an Aldrich student now. Has she ever gone to one of those parties? Has anything dangerous eve
r happened to her there? Were her dorms safe? All at once I hate that they’re coed.
I wish I could bring myself to ask her. There’s something so innocent about Sienna, despite her curvy body. She seems like a baby bird I need to shelter. But instead, I say, “Are you still writing?” A few years ago, Kit told me Sienna had taken an interest in fiction, so I’d asked her to send me some of her stories. They were quite good for someone her age. Sienna nods. “Can I read some?” I go on.
“I guess. I post them on Wattpad.” She whips out her phone, opens a new text, and types in a web address. There’s a swooshing noise. “I just sent it to you. But don’t judge, okay? They’re a work in progress.”
“Me, judge?” I nudge her. “How about this: I’ll read your stories, and I’ll let you read some of my stuff from college. It’s pretty embarrassing.”
“Okay,” Sienna says, though not as enthusiastically as I’d hoped. Her gaze drifts across the lobby. “You mind if I talk to my friend, Aunt Willa?”
“Sure. Go right ahead.”
Sienna shoots me a grateful smile and stands. As I look across the lobby, I see she’s heading for that Raina girl. They huddle together, talking. Raina glances at me, then looks away. I guess things never change at this club. All these years later, I’m still being whispered about.
Kit has left the lobby, so I drift into the club to find her. The building smells exactly how I remember—a nauseating mix of flowers, some chemical-laden wood polish that’s probably giving all of us pancreatic cancer, and top notes of booze. It seems like all of Blue Hill have made their way to the big, horseshoe-shaped bar in the main room. Attractive, tanned men clamor around the bar. Thin, angular, lineless women who all have the same perky breasts guzzle white wine at bistro tables.
I elbow through the crowd. No one seems to recognize me, which is a blessing. Voices float into my ears, and I catch the mention of Greg’s name. It’s the usual let’s-rehash-Greg’s-greatest-hits jabber—business types muse about the time he got a hole in one on the fourteenth hole, another man remarks about a time Greg did a brilliant Sinatra impression during karaoke night at a local bar. In death, Greg Strasser seems cooler, friendlier, and larger than life. Though maybe that’s unkind of me. Despite his philandering, Greg didn’t deserve to be killed.
I also catch snatches of words like murderer and on the loose. Someone says, “I heard this strange noise outside my house last night, and I even brought my dog in—you can’t be too careful!”
I’ve wondered about this, too: Is there a murderer on the loose? Should we be worried?
I order a pinot grigio and drift around the tables. Then I catch Greg’s name again—but the tone is quite different. Hushed. Conspiratorial. Gossipy.
“I mean, this is the thing,” says a voice. “Besides the whole . . . e-mail stuff . . . it’s not like he was trying very hard with her.”
I freeze by a window that overlooks a sand trap. The voice comes from a table of women of varying ages. One is tall and masculine, with a prominent brow and thick brown hair ending just past her ears. The second woman is petite and perky with chestnut-colored hair arranged in a French braid. The third woman—the one who’s spoken—is about forty pounds overweight, wearing pink glasses, and glancing furtively back and forth.
“So true,” French Braid pipes up. “He was always at the hospital, even when he wasn’t on call.”
Wine wells in my mouth. Are they talking about Greg and Kit?
“And at first, he seemed to love those stepdaughters, but at the end? It’s like they didn’t exist.” That’s Tall One. Is she one of Greg’s coworkers? A nurse?
“And aren’t those two a piece of work.” Pink Glasses rolls her eyes. “Those pictures of them in the bikinis at his funeral?”
I press my nails into my palm. Should I intervene? Who gives these bitches the right to talk about innocent teenagers?
“Anyway,” French Braid says. “Those e-mails, whew! Who do we think she is?”
“No clue,” Pink Glasses says.
“My money’s on her being the killer,” opines French Braid. “Not Kit.”
Tall One looks surprised. “You think?”
“Yep. Lolita gets obsessed in the e-mails. She was obviously unhinged. I bet she found him at home the night of the benefit. She wanted to get back together, but he didn’t. They argued, and she stabbed him. I saw an SVU about this very same thing last week.”
A man stands and blocks my view of them, though maybe that’s a good thing, as I’m bubbling with outrage. So now we’re using Law and Order episodes in lieu of real evidence?
“But what about how Kit and Greg got together?” I think it’s French Braid talking. “I was more wondering if that plays into this, somehow.”
“What do you mean?” That’s Tall One’s voice.
“You don’t know?” I can barely hear her over the bar chatter. “That first husband of Kit’s? Strasser was his surgeon, and the guy died on his operating table. Some say those two planned it—they’d been dating long before he died. They wanted the first husband out of the way.”
I duck my head and try to blend into the surroundings. I feel jarred by what I’ve just heard. I knew Greg worked in the cardiology department when Kit’s first husband, Martin, underwent the heart surgery that he didn’t survive. But I wasn’t aware Greg was Martin’s surgeon. Was I supposed to just know? Why didn’t Kit tell me?
I want to know more, yet when I turn back to the women, they’re packing up their things. Should I follow them? Ask more questions?
“Excuse me?”
Behind me, a tall man about my age holds a tumbler of brown liquid. He has a mess of chestnut curls, piercing blue eyes, a prominent Adam’s apple. He’s also blinking at me with a big, expectant smile on his face.
“It’s Paul,” he says. “Paul Woodson? From high school?”
For a beat, I can’t remember Paul Woodson—I’ve locked high school memories away so tightly, it’s a wonder I even remember my school’s mascot. But then I recall a cramped room where we held the lit magazine meetings. And Paul Woodson’s beat-up Vans sneakers tapping as he flipped through poem submissions. And Paul wrinkling his cute nose at most of the abysmal entries. He used to quote Velvet Underground lyrics, which had inspired me to buy the band’s whole catalog at Tower Records and listen to it on repeat.
“Oh,” I blurt. “Jesus. Paul. Oh my God.” I sound like a nervous eighth grader. “I just mean . . . shit, my brain is scrambled today. It’s good to see you!”
He smiles sadly. His two front teeth still overlap, something I’d found unbearably hot at sixteen. “It’s weird. I was just thinking about you the other day.”
Paul Woodson was thinking about me? This seems highly improbable. Then I remember: Of course he was thinking about me. My sister’s husband was murdered.
“When’s the last time we saw each other?” Paul asks.
“Um, I think it was that dinner,” I say, because I know for certain. “For lit mag.”
“Yes, that dinner!” Paul cries. “At the Indian place!”
I nod as though I hadn’t obsessed over that dinner for weeks, months, after it happened. “It’s been a long time.”
“And what are you up to now?”
“I live in California.” I want to sip from my drink, but I’m disappointed to find it empty. “I have for years. I’m an investigative journalist.”
“Oh yeah? Freelance, or for a paper, or . . . ?”
“This online news site called ‘The Source.’ You probably haven’t—”
“You work at ‘The Source’?” Paul looks thrilled. “It’s the first e-mail update I click every day! I’m a journalist, too, actually. Well, a rock reporter—I cover the local band scene. But I’d love to get into more investigative stuff. You’re my idol.”
Is this happening? Paul was the king of the alternative k
ids, all army surplus gear and half-shaved head and Henry Rollins intellectual sarcasm. I spent lit-mag meetings slumped in the back, feeling sporty and preppy and nothing like the spidery, edgy girls who flocked around Paul like groupies. I haven’t thought of Paul in years, but now that he’s standing here in front of me, I can’t believe I haven’t thought of him in years.
Paul’s expression shifts. “Shit. Sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to talk about your job. I am so, so sorry about your brother-in-law. It’s shocking.”
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”
He leans closer. “Do the police have any leads?”
“No.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Despite tearing Kit’s house apart for clues. Crazy, right?”
“They aren’t equipped to handle this sort of thing—they’re more into white-collar crime and petty break-ins.” An inspired smile settles over his features. “You should look into it. You’d probably do a better job.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I mumble, though he’s right. I’m good at getting answers and facts. Good at noticing when people are lying. Good at making the police tell me more than they should. But all at once I feel exhausted and confused. Seeing rumpled, fuck-it-all Paul Woodson in a country club is about as unlikely as seeing a shark in a kid’s backyard swimming pool.
“So wait, how do you know Greg?” I ask.
Paul sips his beer. “I was his ghostwriter.” Noticing my blank stare, he clarifies. “Greg wrote a medical column for the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette; he hired me when it got picked up for syndication, since I live close. The guy is great at deciphering blood-work numbers and repairing an aortic valve, but he needed someone to translate that into laymen’s terms.”
“Oh.” I sneak another peek at Paul. He has grown handsomer since high school; he’s still lanky, his jaw is still sharp, but his chest has filled out, and I like the flecks of gray at his temples. Then something hits me. “You live here? Near . . . Aldrich? You moved home?”
