by Sara Shepard
Turns out I was right: Greg and Laura e-mailed quite a bit, though it was mostly scheduling stuff, or sometimes a funny GIF. There certainly aren’t Lolita-esque missives between them. But I do notice something strange: Laura wrote something cryptic to Greg just days before he died. I’ve received your research. Definitely taking into consideration. But I have all I need for now—thanks.
Curious, I flip all the way back to a year and a few months before, around the time of the January snowstorm. Laura had written Greg a non-work-related note that day, too: Thanks for being there for me.
Three minutes later, Greg shot back, Always.
A frisson goes through me.
I stare at Laura’s message again. Thanks for being there for me. Was this a response to a friendly conversation they’d had in the break room . . . or was Greg with Laura that night of the snowstorm? Were they just friendly colleagues . . . or something more?
It would be too easy if Laura had just written in her calendar, January 10: Drinks with Greg. And when I flip through Laura’s e-mails from February and then March, I can’t find another e-mail to him besides bland administrative stuff. In fact, the only other e-mails Laura has saved from that time are a few notes from her mom, a few messages from her husband, Ollie—who mentions the police station, so this is the same person from the funeral—and a whole bunch from a site called BabyCenter. Congratulations, you’re pregnant! says the first one.
I click on it to find a lot of What to Expect When You’re Expecting nonsense. After that, BabyCenter sent her an e-mail once a week, updating her on her developing fetus’s progress. Each week, the fetus graduates to the size of a new fruit: Today, your baby is a blueberry! This week, your baby is a cantaloupe! I scroll all the way forward to late September, when the baby is the size of a watermelon. Happy due date! bleats an e-mail on October 3. According to your calculations, you are forty weeks pregnant today!
I frown. Calculations? Do most women know the exact day they conceived? I don’t recall Kit knowing, but then, I didn’t pay much attention.
I open a window in the Internet browser and type due date calculator into Google. A site appears that predicts when a woman will give birth. It seems you can calculate your due date from your last menstrual period, an IVF transfer, or an exact date of conception. On a hunch, I type January 10 into the search field. The night of the snowstorm.
The little wheel spins, and the results come up. I can’t even say I’m surprised when I see that Laura’s projected due date is October 3. But what does this mean? Laura’s married. It’s very possible Laura didn’t go out with Greg the night of the snowstorm but instead went home to her husband, lit some candles, and did whatever else people do to get in the baby-making mood. It’s possible I’ve got this all wrong.
But it doesn’t feel wrong. I can’t say why, exactly. Something nudges me at the edge of my consciousness.
I click to Laura’s sent messages, searching around October of last year. Bingo: Laura, sent out an e-mail to her friends shortly after her baby was born. Frederick Thomas Apatrea, eight pounds, six ounces, twenty inches long, it reads. A picture is attached. When the wrinkly, squinty-eyed newborn appears on my screen, I study him hard, suddenly understanding what has been nudging me. The baby has Greg’s same sloped nose and cleft chin.
But how to get more information? Should I call Laura? I’m a reporter, after all. I can lie about my motives. I can figure out what to ask her without giving too much away.
I click back to her received e-mails. Some Amazon purchases show that she lives on Armandale Street, which isn’t that far from here. From there, it isn’t difficult to find her phone number. I stab in the digits, then press the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” says a gruff, impatient voice on the other end. It must be her husband.
I straighten up. “May I speak to Laura, please?”
There’s a long, crackling pause. “She’s not here.”
“Any idea when she’ll be back?” I ask, my voice pleasant enough.
“Who is this?”
I frown, startled by his rancorous tone. “It’s Willa Manning. I’m—”
“I know who you are.” And then, almost imperceptibly, I hear him mutter under his breath.
Next thing I know, the line is dead.
I call back, hoping it’s a mistake. There’s the same gruff, annoyed hello—I say, “Sir, is there another number I can reach your wife at?”
“No,” he growls. In the background, I hear the faint sounds of running water, maybe a TV, and then a baby’s cry. “I don’t want you calling here, ever. Got it?”
He disconnects us once more. I stare at my phone as though it’s just given me an electric shock. I can understand Laura being unwilling to talk to me, but her husband? What stake does he have in this? Unless he’s covering up for Laura. And then a cold rush cascades down my back. No, that’s not it. Maybe he’s covering up something about himself.
I think of Laura’s husband’s towering height. His thick arms, his catcher’s-mitt hands. This kind of über-masculine man brings up old wounds for me. He’s the kind of guy who might not be able to handle the news of another man fathering his wife’s baby.
I rake my hands through my hair. I don’t want to make assumptions. And yet the lead feels more credible than anything else I’ve considered. There’s just one problem. I have no idea how to prove it.
30
RAINA
FRIDAY, MAY 5, 2017
Alexis calls me between classes. Well, between my classes, since I now know she’s not an Aldrich student. “It’s happening. There was another munch today, and I sidled up to our guy and asked if I could have his number. Then I AirDropped him some kinky photos of you and me, and he was into it. He wants to meet us tonight.”
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk so abruptly that a group walking behind me almost bumps into my back. “Where did you get a sexy picture of me?”
“I had one of your face, and then I did some Photoshop work. But it’s basically your same proportions, don’t worry.”
I start walking again, feeling shaky. “So what’s going to happen, exactly?”
“He and I got to talking about porn. Well, not talking—texting. You know. And anyway, our dude said his favorite plot in porn movies is when the woman’s in the house alone, kind of scared, and the burglar breaks in. But then it turns sexy, and the burglar’s totally turned on because she’s afraid, and she gets off, too, because almost being killed is sexy. In a man’s mind, anyway.”
“He’s going to pretend to rob us?”
“Not really. It’s all an act, though we’ll have to act afraid. But, I mean, we got off easy. He could have asked to do bondage stuff . . .”
I shudder. “Still. It seems . . . demeaning.”
“Most porn is demeaning to the woman, Raina. Don’t be naïve.”
“But don’t you think this hits a little too close to home? Someone broke into Greg Strasser’s house . . . and killed him. Unless he lives under a rock, this guy has to know that. It’s not kinky—it’s sort of sick.” And then another thought strikes me. “Are you sure this isn’t a trick? Like maybe he’s setting us up?”
“For what?” Alexis sniffs. “What we’re doing isn’t illegal. We’re all consensual adults.”
“I know, but . . .” So much dirty laundry has been aired recently that I’m paranoid all of our actions are being watched, even those that are off-line.
“So listen, he wants to meet us in this house near Aldrich at eleven P.M. He said he’s going to leave the door unlocked. I’ll go early and set up the camera.” I can hear the excitement in her voice.
I turn the corner to the Aldrich University green. In the daytime, this long, sprawling patch of grass is a buoyant hotbed of activity, but at night—and especially on Friday nights, when this part of campus clears out—it’s creepy. The streetlamps don’t
adequately illuminate the walking paths. The middle of the green is a vast thicket of darkness. Someone could be standing ten feet away from me and I wouldn’t know. I think about Greg’s murderer, still roaming the streets, and shiver.
“I don’t know,” I say. “This gives me the creeps. Maybe we find someone else.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Alexis sounds livid. “I already did all the legwork!”
“Well, then, maybe you find someone else. I’ll help out with the next guy. Surely you have some kind of underground network of skanky girls who’d be into this.”
“But we had a deal!” Her voice is shrill, and I hold the phone away from my ear. “Look. He really wants you. He made that clear—he has a thing for redheads. I’m not sure he’d be up for it if it was me and somebody else.”
I listen to the static on the phone, saying nothing.
“Do this for me, and we’re even,” Alexis says begrudgingly. “You’re off the hook. I won’t expose you, and I won’t make you do anything else.”
I lean against the cool brick of the science building, getting an idea. But I must take this very, very slow. “Okay, then I get a slightly bigger percentage. Sixty-forty.”
“What the fuck?” Alexis spits. “No!”
“And you tell me your real name.”
She snorts. I hear her breathing in like she’s about to speak, but then she changes her mind. Finally: “Why does it matter?”
“Because I want to know.”
Across the campus, the bells in the clock tower strike the half hour. The wind lifts the leaves from the brick-lined streets, blowing them in a circular pattern. There’s a discarded protest sign lying facedown next to some trash cans across the street: NO MORE SILENCE FOR RAPE VICTIMS.
Alexis breathes out. “Fine. Sixty-forty. And it’s Jane.”
“Thank you, Jane. See you soon.”
And then I hang up. A smile stretches on my face. I can still manipulate with the best of them.
31
KIT
FRIDAY, MAY 5, 2017
When Patrick and I finish making love, I roll over and listen to the Aldrich clock tower chime. We are lying in a king-size bed in the Kingsland Arms, an understated, modest hotel near campus. It isn’t the Duquesne Club or the Omni William Penn, which are the hotels a woman of my status would expect—or, rather, where a man like Greg might have taken me, but I’m beginning to feel a little turned off by status symbols. Where did they get me, after all? Wealth certainly didn’t make me much happier.
The blinds are thrown open, exposing a view of the river and the Pittsburgh Point. The sun is beginning to set, turning the room a dusty pink. Patrick leans toward me, and I feel the warmth of his body against mine. “You know that box you carry around containing the meaning of life?” he murmurs.
It takes me a moment before I get the reference—it was a detail from my Philly persona. “Mm-hmm . . .”
“I think whatever’s in there can’t be better than this.”
Just his touch makes me dissolve. I reach for him again. I want to never leave this bed.
Patrick’s phone buzzes. We’re still kissing, but I can feel him pull back. He rolls over, sits up, and reaches for the device. A tired expression comes over his face. It’s Lynn, then. She probably wants to know where he is. I lick my lips. I have every right to hate Lynn Godfrey for drugging me. I have every right to feel justified about doing this with Patrick—though that’s not why I’m doing it.
Patrick drops the phone back on the desk. “I have to go.”
I nod. “I understand.”
“I certainly don’t want to.” He touches my cheek. “I’d rather be flying into hurricanes with you.”
“Hurricanes,” I murmur. Right, right, he was the hurricane pilot. “Or even just lying here. For the rest of our lives.”
“Mmmm.” He leans over, his lips brushing my shoulder. His eyes are pleading and hopeful. “If I left her . . . would that be something you’d want?”
I blink. Do I want that? I barely know Patrick. But isn’t it also true that when you know, you just know? It’s an instinct I had with both Greg and Martin. Or at least I thought I did.
“I don’t know,” I say quietly. “I’d have to think about it.”
“But you wouldn’t rule it out.”
I lick my lips. “No. I wouldn’t rule it out.”
He takes my shoulders in his hands, lightly massaging my muscles. When we kiss, I close my eyes, letting him fill me.
A few minutes later, after he’s disposed of the condom we’ve used and we’ve taken a quick shower and dressed, we’re kissing again at the door. But as I move to walk with him to the elevator, Patrick touches my arm awkwardly. “Actually, I should probably go downstairs first. You wait here, if that’s okay.”
It gives me an oily feeling, but it’s not like I can argue. After enough time, I slip into the hall and shut the door behind me. The corridor is eerily empty. Even the lobby is deserted, the lone attendant at the front desk busy with something on her computer, though as my heels tap across the marble floor, she looks up and gives me a warm smile. After a moment, something in her eyes sharpens. I keep my head down. Can she sense what I’ve done? Or maybe she recognizes me from the news? I think of the lie I told Willa before I left: I’m at a work meeting. I picture what my daughters would think if they found out what I’m really up to.
The double doors open, and I emerge into the night. The sky is the color of a bruise. Lights twinkle atop buildings. The downtown street is as vacant as the hotel’s lobby, and I feel a chill. I wish Patrick were walking me to my car.
I turn left, then right, momentarily disoriented as to where I’d parked. I’m ultra-aware of my lone shadow gliding along the sidewalk. Is this a safe neighborhood at night? I’d thought so, but it isn’t like I come here very often.
I find the parking lot, a flat square of pay spaces usually guarded by an attendant, though it seems he’s left for the day. I rustle in my bag for my keys, then hear a click to my left. I raise my head, turn. Someone’s there.
A streetlight makes a lone gold circle at the edge of the lot. Far in the distance, a car alarm blares. I squint past the rows of cars, watching shadows and movement that may or may not be real. My fingers curl around my keys. Shakily, I hit the unlock button, and my taillights illuminate. I hurry to the driver’s door, but there it is again. A rustle. A footstep. I glance over my shoulder once more. Maybe Willa was right to warn me to be careful. My fingers clamp around my phone. Maybe I should call 911. Maybe I should call Ollie Apatrea, considering his open-ended offer that I could reach him at any time.
I wrench the door open, fall into the seat, and lock the car fast. My breathing is quick, and I can feel my pulse heavy in my throat. I glance in the back seat, remembering those horrible campfire tales of killers lurking there, ready to pounce on lone women. Nothing. I run my fingers through my sweaty hair. Maybe I’m losing my mind.
Buzz.
My phone buzzes in my palm. An unlisted number flashes on the screen. “Hello?” I answer, praying it isn’t a reporter.
All I hear is breathing. “Hello?” I say again. “Who’s there?”
“I know you did it,” says a voice. A gravelly voice, asexual and slinky like a snake.
“Did . . . what?” I ask. The hotel room strobes in my mind. My limbs entangled with Patrick’s. I think of the desk clerk’s eyes on mine, seeing me, knowing me.
“You killed him,” says the voice.
My heart drops. “What?”
“You know you did it,” it repeats. “And I know, too.”
There’s a click, and the line is disconnected. I let the phone fall from its cradle between my shoulder and ear. My fingers curl tightly around the steering wheel. You know you did it.
I glance out the window to the dark square of asphalt. Those clicks, those f
ootsteps—is that who called me? Is someone watching me?
I hit the start button, and the engine roars to life. The headlights illuminate the chain-link fence, the building next door, a line of dumpsters. As I back out, the headlights bounce off the cars, the attendant’s little kiosk, the pay machine. No one is there. No one is hiding, at least no one I can see.
32
LYNN
FRIDAY, MAY 5, 2017
It’s past nine by the time Patrick gets home. I arrange myself in a casual pose, but I feel anything but casual right now. My brain is a swarm of bees. My heart is like a hamster running frantically on a wheel. It’s Friday night. There’s no way Patrick can use working late as an excuse. He was with her. I can tell.
Patrick walks through the hall but stops when he spies me in the living room. “Hey?” He sounds uneasy. I’m sitting in the dark. Unmoving. Just staring.
“W-Where are the kids?” Patrick asks.
“Sleeping.”
“Already?”
I sip from my glass of wine. “I drugged them.”
“You what?”
I set the glass down on the table with a sharp clink. “With melatonin. It’s perfectly safe. I figured they wouldn’t want to hear this. And don’t look at me like that. You’ve done far worse.”
The grandfather clock, a gift from my parents for our first anniversary, ticks in the hallway. Next door, I hear our neighbor’s weed whacker—that psycho tends his lawn at the weirdest hours. I don’t like how caught Patrick looks. I want to say my heart is breaking, but I’ve become so convinced that Patrick is a shithead that I’m almost desensitized to all feeling.
“I know what you did to Greg Strasser.” My hand curls around the pocketknife I found in the drawer. I have it with me just in case. “You disgust me.”
Patrick’s mouth drops open. A choked laugh escapes from his throat. “Lynn . . .”
