by Sara Shepard
I run my fingernails against the rough threads on the couch. That’s pretty slick for a high schooler.
“The only way we found out is because one day Bill caught him paying her in this little playground behind the grocery store. Bill was furious. He shook it out of Raina. Wanted to arrest that doctor, too, but that would mean getting Raina in trouble. In the end, we let both things go. But people found out all the same. Word gets around. The doctor switched hospitals. Sold that big property. And Raina?” She stares up at the ceiling, as though apologizing to God. “Well, she was the talk of the town. She had the grades to be valedictorian, but the principal revoked the honor because of the scandal.” She clucked her tongue.
“She was dead to her father after that.” Mrs. Hammond juts a thumb down the hall, where her husband disappeared. “He screamed at her for days. Screamed at me, too, because I insisted we pay back that doctor every cent Raina took from him.”
“You didn’t have to,” Paul says. “He committed a crime, too.”
Mrs. Hammond tilts her head skeptically. “This is terrible of me to say as her mother, but I think Raina was the instigator. She lied about her age all the time. Always said she was older, and from somewhere else. We went on a vacation to Niagara Falls once and found out that she was going around the hotel pool, talking to men, calling herself Madison.” A sad smirk appears across her lips. “We sold her bags and fancy clothes, but it still wasn’t enough to pay the doctor back.”
“And how did Raina deal, after all of it was over?” I ask.
Mrs. Hammond shrugs. “You mean did she seem to understand that what she’d done was wrong? I don’t know. She seemed angry, mostly. Probably that she got found out. I’m not sure she really learned her lesson, though.”
Paul leans forward. “What makes you say that?”
Mrs. Hammond twists the hem of her T-shirt. “This January, not long after Christmas, we got some gifts from her. No return address, but fancy things. Too fancy, actually.” She glances plaintively at us. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Because you know something? Because she’s doing it again?”
I look at Paul, feeling uneasy. “We don’t know. Not for sure.”
“Do you know her address? Where we can find her?”
I lick my lips. Do we have the right to tell? But then I realize that I could give a hint without actually spelling it out: “The school’s e-mail system has been hacked. Have you heard?” Mrs. Hammond shakes her head. “I can give you the website where all the e-mails were dumped. You can search Raina’s name on there. Some of her e-mails list her new address.”
Paul stands. “You’ve been really helpful. We appreciate your candor.”
Judy Hammond gets to her feet, too. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and she touches my hand before I leave. The skin on her palms is cold, papery. “When I found out she’d run away, I thought she’d go somewhere far, like Florida. But only forty miles into the city? That almost makes it worse.”
“People don’t have to run away far to escape their problems,” I say, a lump in my throat. “It’s more about changing who you are. More about inventing a new life.”
When we step outside, the air smells like exhaust fumes. Back in the car, we stare at each other for a long beat before exhaling. My mind is whipping fast. “Could she have been doing this with Greg?” Paul asks. “Doing things with him sexually, then flipping the script? Saying she’d tell on him, ruin his reputation? Making him pay her?”
I drum on the steering wheel. “And what if, the night of the benefit, he decided he didn’t want to pay her anymore? He already knew his marriage to my sister was over because of the Lolita e-mails. Raina had nothing to hold over his head anymore. So he tells her the game is over, and Raina gets mad. That cash is affording her a brand-new life at Aldrich. It’s not like she wants to go home to this.” I point to the tired street.
“It could make sense,” Paul says.
“Except it’s all speculation right now. It’s not like we have anything concrete to prove she was running a scam.”
I get a thought and pull out my phone. I tap the app for the hack database, recalling that I’ve seen a few bank notifications in Greg’s inbox. I click on the first few. His bank alerted him whenever he’d made purchases of five hundred dollars or more—there are receipts for fancy dinners, a Nordstrom shopping trip, car maintenance. I don’t see anything suspicious. Certainly nothing to Raina.
Paul leans over to look, too. He’s so close, his chin is almost touching my shoulder. I can feel his minty breath on my skin. It makes me go a little still. “These bank alerts don’t say if Greg wrote any big checks. Or if he took out withdrawals in cash.”
“There’d be no way for us to trace that unless we subpoenaed Greg’s bank accounts.” I chew on my lip. “Except . . . would he write her a big check? Kit told me that she and Greg share a bank account. She would notice something like that. She’d see a big chunk of cash missing, too.”
“Did Greg have a secret account?”
“Not that the cops have found.” I shift my weight. “Is there another way to siphon off nine grand—or more—in such a way that Kit didn’t detect it?”
“Could Raina have set up a shell company?” Paul’s tone is joking. “Maybe she’s posing as Nordstrom-dot-com?”
“Or maybe he just gave her a few twenties or hundreds at a time?” I speculate. “Except I doubt they’d want to be seen together too often . . .”
Paul wrinkles his nose and stares out the windshield for a while. Then he turns back to me. “Did I mention that my ex-wife was thirteen years younger than we are?”
I stare at him, shocked. “She was twenty-four?” I can’t hide my revulsion. “That’s a child!”
“Anyway.” Paul tugs on his collar. “One of the reasons we broke up was because we seemed on two different planets when it came to a lot of things. She didn’t even have a checking account. Barely knew what to do if someone wrote her a check. She was always saying that no one her age had a checkbook—they all paid their bills online. She never carried cash. Never even had a credit card, half the time.”
“Isn’t that sweet,” I say acidly. The last thing I want right now is to hear about Paul’s prepubescent wife. “And that has to do with this . . . why?”
“Well, one of the financial things my wife did know about—which I didn’t—was paying people through an app.”
I frown. “What, like Paypal?”
“Yes. One of those.”
I click back to Greg’s e-mail in the hack. “I’ve heard of the apps, but I’ve never used them. I’m super old-fashioned when it comes to money—I still enter charges in a check register.”
“Me, too!” Paul says, sounding almost overjoyed. Which makes me a little less angry about him being a cradle robber.
“So there’s, what? Paypal? Venmo?” I start scrolling through Greg’s e-mails, but I don’t see anything. Nothing in his deleted messages, either. Then again, if Greg was paying Raina, he wouldn’t have kept those messages around. They’d probably been doubly deleted ages ago.
I log into my own Venmo account, which I’d set up but never used. But it’s not like I’m going to find a public note proclaiming that Greg Strasser paid Raina Hammond for sex acts or hush money. What would those emojis even be? But then, halfway down the screen, I notice a familiar photo of a man standing on a beach in Barbados. It’s the very same picture shown at Greg’s funeral a few days ago. He looks tanned, handsome, almost young. It’s strange that the digital version of Greg has outlasted the man.
His screen name is GStrass92; Venmo has announced that Greg Strasser paid Kit Manning an undisclosed amount on April 25. That’s the day before the benefit. So he does use his account, then.
But if I want to see more—and dollar amounts—I need more access. “Maybe I can sign into his account,” I murmur.
Paul nods, watching m
e carefully. But before I do, I send a quick text to Sienna. What was Greg’s e-mail password? I ask, remembering that she’d said she’d hacked into his e-mails to see if he was cheating. About half a minute later, Sienna responds: StBarts081215. The place and date of Kit and Greg’s wedding.
“Let’s hope he’s the type who uses the same password for everything,” I murmur, going to the login screen. Luck is on my side, because after a few variations of the password, I’m in.
“Whoa,” Paul says, sounding dazzled.
I don’t know my way around Venmo, but I decide to click on “Friends.” I scroll through a list of people, my heart thudding hard. “There!” Paul cries, pointing at a name toward the bottom of the list. RayRay09, reads the screen name, and there’s a tiny image of the same pretty, red-lipped girl that’s on Raina’s Instagram page.
I let out a whoop. “Holy shit.” And then I click on her name. A list of payments appears. No explanations, no emojis, but still.
“This is it,” I tell Paul, grabbing his hand before I realize that, well, we’re holding hands. But I’m so excited, I don’t care. “Paul, this is freaking it.”
“What?” Paul cries, his eyes dancing.
“Greg was paying Raina through this app. In total, we have him on the books for giving her almost fifteen thousand dollars.”
23
RAINA
TUESDAY, MAY 2, 2017
This city is a strange place. One minute, you’re driving through a neighborhood full of small, crooked houses smashed together like teeth in a mouth. But then, suddenly, you turn a corner, and bam. The houses look like castles, set on large, rambling lawns. Some of them go on forever, windows upon windows, garage doors for miles, circular driveways fit for a five-star hotel. That’s how I feel when we get to Alexis’s parents’ place. Like I’ve landed on a very fancy planet. Like my ship has come in.
“This is nice,” I say breezily, as if I’m surrounded by this sort of opulence all the time.
The Uber stops, and Alexis climbs out. I follow, gazing up at the towering brick-and-stone building. What must it have been like to grow up in such splendor? I want to hate Alexis for having such a plush life, but I don’t. Maybe because she’s looking at me like she really wants me to have a good time. Or maybe because, soon enough, I’ll be profiting from all of this.
I gaze around the property. No lights are on, and there are no cars in the driveway. “Seems kinda empty,” I say.
“Oh, my grandma’s party isn’t here.” Alexis walks up the front lawn. “It’s at a restaurant nearby.” But then she frowns. “I’m surprised my parents aren’t home, though.” She pulls out her phone and studies the screen. “Shit. I missed a text from them. Their flight from France was delayed—they won’t be here for another hour.” She glances at me, her expression contrite. “Are you okay waiting outside until they’re back? They’re always changing their locks—they’re security freaks—and I don’t have the updated house key.”
I shift in my high heels. They’re already beginning to pinch my feet. “Couldn’t we just go to the party without them?”
“Uch, no.” Alexis makes a face. “I don’t want to see Trip yet. Besides, it doesn’t start until eight. Let’s just party here.”
In my world, being locked out of one’s house would mean sitting on a cold porch, suffering stares and possible harassing remarks from the neighbors, and possibly inhaling meth fumes from the basement lab next door. In Alexis’s world, it means sitting on a sprawling stone patio under a heat lamp, enjoying a good bottle of wine procured from a beverage fridge nestled into a rock in the outdoor kitchen. I sink into a canvas couch and gaze at the forest in the distance. Next to us is a burbling hot tub that Alexis says we can go in later if we want. Alexis starts a crackling, spitting fire in the pit in the center of the patio. She even turns on sexy music on her phone, which links to invisible speakers built into the walls. A soft blanket of sound surrounds us.
“Cheers.” Alexis holds up her glass. “Thanks for coming. For saving me.”
I sip. The wine is smooth, decadent, and surely expensive. It goes down easy, but I have to pace myself. I can’t get drunk tonight. I need to stay on point.
The fire snaps and pops. I can feel Alexis staring at me. “So,” she says.
“So,” I say back, grinning.
Our eyes meet, and Alexis giggles. I do, too. The tension is gooey, thick, luxurious. We’ve talked a lot since the party. Things between us have started to shift from mere flirtation to something deeper and more confessional. Alexis has confessed about her eating disorder in high school. How she feels subpar next to her high-achieving older siblings. She’s said how, most days, she hates her artwork, and she wonders if people take her seriously.
We also texted about Aldrich stuff—hack gossip but also our upcoming schedules for winter semester. Let’s rush a sorority next semester. Let’s do it together. Hell, I’d have the money to afford the dues soon. It’s funny, earlier this year, when I was working for Manning, Sienna and I had considered rushing . . . but it wasn’t something I was keen on doing with her, even if I had been able to afford it. Maybe it’s because rushing requires a certain amount of vulnerability, and that was a part of myself I didn’t want to share with her. Of course, that could be tangled up in the fact that I was scamming her family. With Alexis, things feel less complicated.
I’ve never actually had a friend like this. Sure, there were kids I hung out with in high school, though usually I used them because of what they had to offer: a sumptuous liquor cabinet, a forest full of four-wheelers, a Toyota Corolla that I could borrow. But I was never a girl who lay on the carpet of someone’s bedroom and swapped secrets. I was always . . . well, scheming. So it feels kind of nice sending off a text and getting one back so immediately. It feels nice to have inside jokes with someone, upcoming plans. I feel rooted to Alexis in a way I’ve never been before. It makes me feel bad for everything I’m keeping from her. Sort of bad . . . but not completely.
We bob our heads to the music. With the wine and the setting sun and the roaring fire, it’s hard for this setting not to feel romantic.
“Come a little closer,” I murmur, patting the cushion. Alexis smiles and moves over, the warmth of her body dripping into mine. My other hand curls around my phone. Go time. I need to turn on the video recording function soon, so that it captures what’s bound to happen. But I also have to be aware if her parents suddenly pull up. I can’t have them catching us and ruining everything.
But before I can touch my phone, Alexis says, “Tell me a secret, Raina.”
“A secret?” I draw both hands into my lap, intrigued. “What, like truth or dare?”
Alexis nods, her eyes gleaming. She’s got her hair swept off her face, which accentuates her sharp cheekbones and the slope of her jaw. Her skin is milky, edible-looking. The wine has left a reddish stain on her lips.
“I’m not telling you a secret unless you do, too,” I say, deciding on the spot.
Alexis shifts so close that our thighs are touching. She finishes off her wine, then looks at me, her mouth twitching. “Okay. Don’t be mad, but my grandma’s party isn’t tonight.”
I frown. “Wait, what?”
“And my parents aren’t due back in the country for another week.” Alexis ducks her head. “I just wanted an excuse to get away from campus. With you. So no one would see us. Do you hate me?”
I sit back and cross my arms. At least now I don’t have to worry about her parents interrupting us. “You didn’t have to make up an elaborate birthday party to get me alone.” I wave my arms around. “This is gorgeous. I’m thrilled to be here.”
She breathes in as though she wants to say something, then stops herself. Finally, she blurts, “You’re beautiful, Raina. Like, I can hardly stand it.”
I fumble with my wineglass. People have told me this my whole life, but somehow, her bluntness abo
ut it catches me off guard. “You’re beautiful, too,” I stammer.
Alexis’s face seems to flower. She hinges a little closer to me, and I can smell the wine on her breath. My heart is humming. Is it going to happen now? Our faces are mere inches from one another. I can see the hope in her eyes. My fingers feel for my phone, but it’s just out of my reach. As I’m fumbling, suddenly Alexis’s lips touch mine. What comes next is soft, and warm, and delicate. It sends unexpected tingles through me, and then it’s over. Alexis pulls back, her eyes wide, her lips parted.
“Sorry,” she says in a breathless voice. “I just . . . really wanted to do that.”
“It’s okay.” My voice is laced with wonderment. My mouth feels stung. I want to do it again, I realize. Again and again and again.
“Your turn,” Alexis says softly, holding my hands. “Now you have to tell me a secret. Something you’ve never told anyone.”
My mouth opens, then shuts again. My brain feels like it’s moving through sludge. I need to think of a good secret, something that will intrigue her but not show my seedier side. All I can think about is the kiss. I want to touch her again. I want to explore those tingles. Stop it, my brain wills. I can’t get caught up in Alexis. I can’t start feeling something for her. I need to kiss her one more time so I can record it. I need to dangle that carrot a little longer.
“I know.” Alexis’s finger traces a flower pattern on the inside of my wrist. “Tell me why you were crying the day I met you in the coffee shop.”
My mind freezes. I hadn’t expected her to ask this.
There’s no way I can tell Alexis the truth. Except she’s looking at me so eagerly, so excitedly, her eyes gleaming, her posture straight and expectant. She knows I’m hiding something. Maybe she’s worried about me. Maybe she just wants to know. The secret feels like currency—if I tell her, then she’ll feel even closer to me. Then she’ll kiss me again. Then I’ll record it.
