Reputation

by Sara Shepard

  I shut my eyes, grief pounding down on me again. I can’t ask Greg why he did this. I’ll never really know. His absence is surprisingly staggering. It also makes me want to smash things, because this is a person I was supposed to know well, but maybe I didn’t know him at all.

  I take a breath. “So now what?”

  Willa stands and slings her purse over her shoulder. “I’ll let you know soon, but I have to go. I’m late for something.”

  “You’re leaving? Why?”

  “Just . . . a meeting.” Two red blotches form on Willa’s cheeks, almost like she’s embarrassed. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

  She’s about to get up when her gaze lingers on something else on the TV screen. Aldrich Students Hint at Assault Allegations Post-Hack. The closed-captioning reads that a few e-mails have surfaced on the hack about things happening to girls at fraternity parties on Aldrich campus. Two girls have shared their stories on closed groups on Facebook, and the posts have quickly circulated.

  “Oh dear,” I say.

  But my sister doesn’t answer. She shakes her head with disdain. After a final glance in my direction, she zips up her jacket, and ducks her head. “I’ll see you later,” she says, and hurries out to the street.

  I watch her rush across the avenue, my head propped in my hand, my feelings all over the map. In the past week, I’ve basically found out everyone in my world is a stranger. I love Willa for doing this for me.

  But I hate what she’s figuring out.

  * * *

  After I pay my bill, I walk around campus. The sky is a cloudless blue, but the temperature hovers somewhere around the fifties, which, after the beautiful weekend, has thrown everyone into an impatient funk. Students hunch around in big coats with frowns on their faces. Two girls in running shorts shiver outside Starbucks. Everyone seems to have taut, tense expressions. Are they all affected by the hack?

  A stream of kids emerges from the science building, and I assess the faces, bracing myself for a run-in with Raina. But she isn’t there.

  I try to imagine Greg systematically Venmoing Raina cash for college tuition. If she’s telling the truth, it’s certainly a noble gesture on my husband’s part, and we had enough money that I didn’t even notice thousands of dollars going missing. But why hadn’t Greg just told me about it? Was he that afraid that I’d jump to conclusions and get the wrong idea? But if he really wasn’t having an affair with Raina, why would he hide it?

  Unless, of course, he was having an affair with someone else. Maybe he didn’t want to arouse my suspicions in any sort of way, and he figured it was better not to say anything about Raina, even if the whole transaction was innocent.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder and tense. Someone pulls me into an alleyway between the buildings. I let out a muffled cry, preparing to fight.

  But when the person spins me around, it’s Patrick Godfrey holding my forearms.

  “What the hell?” I wrench away from him. Light shines in from the street, but no one has seen him pull me into the alley. “W-Were you following me?”

  “I need to talk to you,” Patrick pleads. He’s wearing a dark gray suit and shiny loafers but no coat. “It’s important.”

  I step toward the sunlit sidewalk, stabbing a finger toward the building across from the bar. “Have you forgotten your wife works right up there?”

  “Come for a drive around the block with me, okay? It’ll take five minutes.”

  There’s something in his posture that tells me he isn’t going to take no for an answer. Unbidden, my thoughts flip back to our hot, hurried kisses in that elevator. I whisk the image away.

  “Fine,” I decide, hating myself a little for giving in. “Five minutes.”

  Patrick’s car, a white Acura crossover, smells like basil and fresh leather. I climb in tentatively and buckle my seat belt. Patrick’s hands tightly grip the wheel. He’s wearing a wedding ring today. The sight of it sickens me, even though I know it shouldn’t. At a stoplight, I consider jumping out. This is a bad idea. I need to keep out of trouble.

  Patrick grabs my arm as if he senses my hesitation. His eyes are pleading. “There’s this thing that I found out that’s been weighing on my mind. I feel like you should know.”

  I cast my mind about for answers: He’s going to say something about us. Maybe he’s leaving his wife. Maybe he’s never felt a connection like the one he felt with me.

  The light changes, and he hits the gas hard, shooting us back in our seats. “You know that benefit last week?” he asks.

  I almost laugh. “You mean the one I got home from and found my husband dead in my kitchen?”

  He tugs awkwardly at his collar. “Yeah.”

  I study the print shop whizzing by, then a sandwich place.

  “I was watching you,” Patrick goes on. “You seemed . . . well, you seemed drunk.” He holds up his hands in quick apology. “Not that I blame you. That night was a shitshow, and I’m sure my showing up there didn’t help any. So I left, figuring my absence might help. But now I’m just wondering . . . how much did you drink that night?”

  At first, I’m annoyed—what business is this of his? He doesn’t have any right to judge my life. But the question makes me uneasy, because I realize how specific it is. I stare at the blinking LED lights on the dashboard. “I only had one martini that night—well, that I can remember. I guess it hit me strangely.”

  “Does that often happen?” Where is he going with this?

  “No.” I peek at him. Is he trying to gauge if I’d been drunk when we kissed in Philly?

  “And did you get the drink yourself, or did someone get it for you?”

  A muscle in his jaw twitches. His eyes are on the road, but I can tell he’s steeling himself for my answer. “Your wife did, actually.”

  And then it’s like a light goes on—for me, and for him, too. Patrick looks crushed. When he turns to me, I think I know what he’s going to say before he says it.

  “Lynn put an Ambien in that drink,” Patrick says quietly. “I’m almost positive that’s why you got so drunk.”

  For a few moments, the only sounds are the rumble of the engine and the swish of the road. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to feel, either—betrayal, obviously. Embarrassment. Finally, vindication. I knew Lynn was a bitch.

  “Did Lynn tell you, or did you figure it out?” I finally ask.

  “She told me she gave someone Ambien, but she wouldn’t say who. I put two and two together.” The car halts again at a light, and he turns to me with a look so sincere I feel a flip in my chest. “She’s crazy, Kit. There’s always been something about her that’s off.” His throat judders as he swallows. “She could have killed you.”

  “Wait a minute.” My heart stops. “Do you think Lynn knows about . . . us?”

  Patrick shakes his head. “I doubt it.”

  “But you’re not sure. She could know. She could have known at the benefit, even. She could have been out to hurt more than just me that night.”

  His eyes widen at what I’ve just suggested. “Are you thinking maybe she stabbed your husband in revenge?” He runs his hands through his hair. “Jesus. I never thought of that.”

  We whizz through three green lights in a row. I almost want Lynn to be the murderer—then she would go to jail. Justice would be done. It would free up Patrick, too, though I feel dirty recognizing this silver lining.

  Finally, Patrick stops in a parking lot and shifts into park. About five minutes have passed since we got into the car—he is making good on his promise of not keeping me long. I feel disappointed. Maybe I’ve misinterpreted his intentions. Maybe he really is just trying to warn me.

  He reaches into the side pocket on the door of the car and pulls out a small, gray, handled bag from a jewelry shop whose name I recognize but have never visited. “This is for you. I saw it, and I realiz
ed you had to have it.”

  I back away as though it’s made of poison. “What are you doing? Don’t give me things.”

  He drops it in my lap. “Open it. Seriously. I’m not taking it back.”

  “You should be with your wife. Your family.” As much as I hate Lynn right now, I can’t take her husband away from her.

  “You’re going through a lot,” Patrick says. “And I feel guilty about what Lynn did. And . . . well, I’m unhappy, Kit. Miserable, in fact. I can’t stop thinking about you. Us.”

  “Patrick . . .”

  He leans toward me just as he did that day at the bar—with interest, with need. Maybe I’m too exhausted not to pull away, but if I am honest, he entrances me—his sadness, his wanting, the way he seems so bedazzled by me. So I lean in, too. Our lips crash into one another, and it is everything I’ve yearned for. I push harder into him, moaning, spinning, my heart thundering. When Patrick pulls away, I can feel tears on my face that I can’t explain. He looks at them worriedly, but I just wipe them away and laugh. I’m upset. I’m joyful. I’m ambiguous.

  When our phones start pinging, we look at one another mournfully. “Back to work,” I say quietly. I already feel the ache of his absence. By his expression, I can tell Patrick feels the same.

  He nudges his chin toward the jewelry box still on my lap. “Go on. See what I got for you.”

  I let out one more note of protest, but it seems clear that Patrick isn’t taking no for an answer. Slowly, I open the box. I gasp at all the diamonds twinkling at me and shut it tight, glaring at him. “Jesus,” I whisper. “Why?”

  He grins boyishly, grabbing the box from me and lifting the bracelet off the velvet. The chain is delicate, and the diamonds are plentiful and flawless. “It’s a bracelet fit for a queen. Didn’t you say you were part royalty?”

  I try to speak, but I have no words. Is it possible our coming together is fate? Can I allow my brain to go there?

  I reach for him, then pull away. Maybe I’ve been too burned. Maybe I need to sort out my feelings about Greg, which are still largely unexplored.

  Or maybe I should just take the leap. Maybe the third time is the charm.

  And so I stretch out my hand once more, and Patrick takes it. And then I lean toward him, living out the fantasy I haven’t been able to get out of my brain since the day we met.

  25

  RAINA

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 3, 2017

  That evening, I walk down a hallway of an old brick apartment building. The air smells like garbage. A light above me flickers, threatening to go out. A couple screams behind one of the doors; from another, I hear death metal.

  I find apartment 22 and knock. On the other side, I hear the metallic clink of a latch being undone. The door opens, and here is Alexis. Not a resident of Hudson dorm, as she first told me. Not even a student at Aldrich University, period. The Facebook page she created, the one I fell for hook, line, and sinker? It’s all a lie. Even her style has changed—today, instead of crisp Tory Burch and Burberry everything, she wears a ripped cotton T-shirt and threadbare skinny jeans. Her eyeliner is thicker, messier; her hair falls across her face. And yet I still find her hot. Even though she could ruin me.

  Alexis steps aside for me to enter. The apartment is dim and sparsely furnished. Dishes are piled in the sink, and there’s a rancid smell in the air. The blue couch is stained, the coffee table looks like it’s on the verge of collapse, and my eye goes to a framed picture of Alexis and some dude on the mantel. I almost want to point out that this dude isn’t Trip, until I catch myself.

  “Drink?” Alexis asks from the kitchen, a dingy little galley that looks infested with bugs. She unscrews the cap of a large jug of vodka and glugs some into two glasses. As she passes me one, she rolls her eyes. “Don’t look so miserable. So I caught you.” She flops down in the chair opposite me. “I should be the miserable one. You were supposed to be my meal ticket.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” I say bitterly, knocking back the vodka. It tastes like rubbing alcohol.

  I want to leave. Alexis is no longer the only person who knows what I did. I recall the fresh fear that went through me when Willa Manning cornered me on the street yesterday. Willa knew everything about me, down to the amount Greg had given me, down to where Dr. Rosen used to live. She’d even spoken to my mother. The fear shot straight to my bones. Everything I worked so hard for, everything I thought I could still achieve—was it about to be taken away? Willa held all the cards. It would be so easy for her to ruin me.

  But Willa was questioning me because she thought I killed Greg. The thought astounded me, but seeing it from her perspective, it isn’t so crazy. There was nothing I could do but tell her the arrangement Greg and I had. I didn’t want to be on her suspect list—having the police question me would blow my secrets wide open. And I came up with a good bargain to ensure Willa would keep quiet, too—I hated using Sienna’s whereabouts as bait, but after seeing my friend the day after Greg’s death and at that party where she was guzzling wine into oblivion, I had a feeling she was keeping secrets. By the way Willa snapped to attention, I assume she thought so, too. But the idea of Willa telling Sienna the truth hurts. I value Sienna’s friendship more than I realized.

  But I have no advantage with Alexis. Nothing to ensure she keeps her mouth shut. I’ve racked my brain all morning, but besides the wine we stole from that mansion on Tuesday, I don’t know anything about her.

  Alexis places her hands on her knees. “We’ll find a guy with money. We’ll seduce him. He’ll pay us off, and we’ll both get what we want—you’ll get to go to Aldrich, don’t worry.” She assesses me over her tumbler. “You’re good at this. You got Strasser to pay your tuition. I found out about your little deal with that doctor up north, too.”

  I bite my lip. “I’m guessing this isn’t your first rodeo, either?”

  Alexis shrugs noncommittally, her gaze returning to the laptop.

  “Are you going to tell me anything true about yourself?” I ask. “It’s only fair.”

  “Fair how?” She watches me, her long, slender fingers hovering over her keys. And then she laughs. “What, you’re trying to tell me you were your real self with me? Come on. You’re full of shit, too.”

  I pretend to study an ugly landscape painting hanging on the far wall. The thing is, I was honest with Alexis—about some things, anyway. Like what I told her about Aldrich. What I told her about how she and I should do everything together. And that kiss was sure as hell honest, unfortunately.

  The screen on Alexis’s laptop lights up, and she types something into Google. After a moment, a website appears. I figure it’s going to be the hack site—we could probably easily find out someone’s net worth and sexual proclivities through their e-mails—but instead, it’s a meet-up page. Naughty Pittsburgh reads a red, sexy font at the top. There’s an image of three women shot from the neck down in bondage gear, and a description talks about how the page is for people interested in BDSM and other naughty behavior to connect.

  “Okay . . .” I say, wrinkling my nose.

  “Oh, don’t be a prude.” Alexis clicks through to a login site. After keying in her user name and password, she’s into the group, and the page directs to a message board with post titles like Dom looking for a Sub and Pet looking for a Master. “This place is a gold mine to find people who are up to no good but don’t want anyone to know about it—they all use stupid code names. And I think I’ve found the perfect mark.” She clicks a message thread and scrolls down to a screen name: BigDaddy23. Some guy has written a post asking if there’s anyone near Aldrich College looking for “unusual role-play.”

  “There’s no way we can tell this guy has money just based on his post,” I point out. “For all we know, he lives in this building.”

  Alexis doesn’t seem amused. Then she looks back to the screen. “Lucky for you, I’ve already done some res
earch. Last weekend, I went to a munch.”

  I inch away from her on the couch. “What is that, a disease?”

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s a casual get-together for people into this stuff. The organizer of the meet-up reserved a back room at Ali Baba’s, and people dropped in to hang. It’s for people who are curious. To make the whole thing less scary. I didn’t talk to anyone, but I did a lot of watching. And I found someone. I looked him up, and he has a lot to lose—his reputation at his job, his wife, family . . .”

  “Do you have a picture?”

  She scoffs. “Uh, no, he wasn’t really up for a photo at a secret sex role-play get-together. You’ll just have to trust me on this one. He’s the real deal. Plus, he’s cute.”

  “So what are we going to do?” I ask warily.

  She clicks back to the meet-up page. “I’ve already put a post saying that there are two hot girls up for anything, ready to meet. A lot of people have replied, but I’m waiting for him to bite. It’s just a matter of when.”

  “So you and I are going to have to do something . . . together?” I say slowly.

  Alexis gives me a sly look. Slowly, her hand encircles my wrist. “That kiss we shared the other day? I know you want to do it again.”

  Heat rushes through me. I want to push her away. But she’s right. I push a lock of hair over my shoulder. “And you’re sure he’ll pay up?”

  “Positive.” Alexis leans back, but she’s still watching me. “You can’t chicken out.”

  I think of the papers I still need to write, the commitments I still have, even the intimidating questioning from Willa Manning this morning. I shouldn’t be getting into more trouble. Yet at the same time, how else will I get to stay at Aldrich? Without Greg, there’s no money coming in. My bank account is almost at zero.

  And if I can’t stay at Aldrich, that means . . . what? The answer is clear: If I don’t do this, how else can I work toward what I promised Greg I’d become—a different person?