by Sara Shepard
“But she’s a woman!” Kit cries. “How could she do this?”
“I don’t know. I guess not everyone sees it like we do. And all the victims I talked to said she could be pretty scary in person. Anyway . . .”—I glance at my father in the bed—“I had to know for sure that he wasn’t involved. That this was her secret, not his.”
Kit puts her hands on her hips, ready to defend him. I cut her off. “I don’t think he was. Not anymore. There’s nothing about it in his e-mails. Then again, there isn’t much from Marilyn in the e-mails, either—whatever she said, she said it face-to-face, and it wasn’t logged anywhere. I only know from personal accounts. Every woman told me Dad wasn’t involved. But I just—I needed to know for sure.” I clear my throat. “I didn’t tell Dad what happened to me, so I didn’t know how he’d handle it.”
“Why didn’t you tell him?” Kit demands.
“I just . . . it’s complicated,” I fumble. “I would have told Mom. I just . . . you know. She wasn’t there.”
The clock ticks loudly in the corner. In another room, someone’s monitor keeps dinging, a tone that’s impossible to tune out.
Kit shifts. “So you decided to hack the entire school because of that?” Kit’s voice is shaking. “Four whole universities?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I shake my head. “It was never my intention to expose anyone except Marilyn, if I could. But a few months ago, I was working on this story for ‘The Source’ about hackers, and this guy, Blue, was one of the people I interviewed. I still had his number, so I asked him to meet me.”
I remember the chrome sheen of the diner where we met. Blue, a short, thin man in a bomber jacket, who was no older than twenty, slid into the booth across from me with such an arrogant smile that I’d almost felt uneasy—it reminded me, I realized, of my attacker.
“I told him in vague terms that something happened to me at a frat house when I was younger—and that I was afraid it had happened to other girls, too, and that there was a cover-up. Blue said he could look into it for me. He said he hated colleges like Aldrich—he was thrilled to sniff out a scandal. He seemed so self-assured about how easy the Aldrich system would be to hack—which I guess it was.”
“So you asked him to hack . . . who?” Kit asks.
“Just some of the higher-ups’ e-mails. I told him that if he found anything, I’d pay him for his time.”
Kit looks crestfallen. “Oh, Willa.”
“I know. But worse, I heard nothing from him after that. I figured that’s the last I’d hear of it—so imagine my surprise when, a few months later, all of Aldrich is hacked. And it’s all out there on that server for everyone to see.” I feel the same stomach clench I did the day the hack broke. I’d been standing in my hallway, still wet from the shower; after reading the news on the TV screen, I’d vomited on the carpet. I prayed for it to not be too bad—for Dad, for Kit, for Sienna, for anyone.
Kit runs her hands down the length of her sweater. “How do you know it was even Blue who did it, then?”
“When I confronted Ollie in his office—crazy move, I know—he said the investigation led back to him. I don’t know how he’d have come up with that name otherwise.” I run my hands through my oily hair. “No money changed hands, but I still asked him to do it. There was still a verbal contract.”
Meaning I still could be held accountable. What would my punishment be for this? Would I be fired from “The Source”? Would I ever get another job again? These questions have swirled in my mind ever since the hack broke—though, hideously, it had felt good to push them to the back burner while we were figuring out what had happened to Greg. But now, Ollie had exposed everything. There was nowhere for me to hide.
Kit presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. “I can’t believe that Ollie was a link to your past.”
“I can’t either. But he was there. And he thinks it happened to other girls that same night. And he might know the guy’s name who . . . you know. Did it.”
Kit watches me, resisting asking the obvious question. I don’t want to know the guy’s name. It’s not because doing so will make it seem more real—I know it’s real. It’s more that I don’t want to give what happened any more importance. Knowing a name means I’ll inevitably look the guy up—see where he works, if he has a family, what he looks like. I’ll cling to what happened. I won’t be able to let it go. I’d rather he just be anonymous. That way, he matters less.
The bed creaks. I whip around to see my father’s eyes now open. He stares into the middle distance as though possessed.
“Dad?” Kit rises and scurries to his side. “Dad, it’s Kit. Willa’s here, too. You’re in the hospital. Do you remember?”
My father’s eyes land first on Kit, then Aurora and Sienna, and then me. His eyes narrow when he sees me, and my stomach clenches. He remembers what I’ve said. He’s furious.
“Dad?” I step a little closer, feeling tears well in my eyes. “I—”
He shakes his head to cut me off. “I didn’t, Willa.”
“What’s that?”
His voice is sandpaper-rough, the voice of a one-hundred-year-old. “I had no idea about the rapes. You have to believe me.”
Kit’s eyes widen. Sienna’s mouth falls open.
“No one ever told me. Not that that’s an excuse. It’s never an excuse. I should have been aware of everything that happened, bad and good. But I didn’t. You have to know that. I would have never let that happen.”
Shame rocks through my body. I bend my head so that it’s almost on the mattress beside his leg. “Okay.” There’s a lump in my throat. I shouldn’t have doubted him. Why had I doubted him? All at once, hot tears are on my face. “I’m sorry, Dad,” I blurt. “I’m so sorry.”
His machine beeps. “It’s all right,” he says quietly. “Maybe it’s good that the hack happened. There was so much going on. So much we needed to get rid of.”
“Don’t say that,” I insist. He can’t let me off the hook that fast. It feels too easy.
Feet shuffle behind me, and a tall, bearded, exhausted-looking doctor peeks into the room. He carries a clipboard, and his expression is guarded. “Miss Strasser?” he asks, glancing at my sister.
“Yes.” Kit straightens her spine.
“Dr. Stein.” He shakes Kit’s hand. Kit introduces him to the girls and me. Then he shifts awkwardly. “So. Your father.” He glances down at our dad, too, and his expression turns sober. “Something came up in the MRI we just ran. There’s a large mass in your pancreas, Mr. Manning.”
For a moment, I can only concentrate on details of the man’s face: the large pores on his nose, the gold accents on his glasses. Kit bursts out laughing. “Wait, what?”
“Cancer?” I ask quietly.
“Actually, yes. Not that we’ve had a chance to run any tests—but we did call around to other hospitals. Apparently, your father has been receiving pancreatic cancer treatment since January at Allegheny General? His oncologist team treated him with an on-site injector a few days ago—it helps increase white blood cells after strong chemotherapy, cuts down the risk of infection so a patient can go home instead of have to stay in the hospital?”
He says this like we’re supposed to know, but we all just stare at one another.
Kit smiles as if it’s a joke. “No. My father had a panic attack. He’s had a very difficult few weeks. It’s not cancer.”
“We think it’s likely that his incident in the police station was a side effect of the injector medication,” Dr. Stein explains. “It can cause lung issues, trouble breathing, and combined with stress . . .”
“Wait, wait.” I realize something. “Are you saying that our father received a strong dose of chemotherapy only a few days ago? When the hell would he have done that?”
“Right,” Kit says. “He was at Aldrich University. Dealing with the hack.” Then she
looks at me. “Wasn’t he?”
But how would I know?
Dr. Stein lowers his clipboard and regards us with sympathy. “Sometimes, patients conceal their diagnosis and treatment as long as they can. They don’t want to be pitied, or to be taken less seriously at their job. Many feel their reputation would be affected if people found out they were going through something so debilitating.” He glances at our father in the bed. “Mr. Manning didn’t lose his hair. He looks thin, but not that thin. He probably thought he was hiding it well. Has he suffered any memory lapses lately? Mood swings?”
I just stare.
“I can understand that this is a shock,” Dr. Stein says. “But we’re in touch with his medical team from Allegheny, so at least we know what we’re dealing with. We’ll be back in the morning with our goal for what’s next—I was told that this round of treatment was to be your father’s last. I’m not sure the therapies have been very effective.”
And then, after giving us a long, heartfelt look, he’s gone, the door swishing closed.
The light in the room seems to have dimmed. All of us stare at one another. There are tears in Kit’s eyes, but I’m too numb to feel much of anything.
Kit looks at our father. “Cancer, Dad? And Allegheny? That isn’t even a good hospital!”
“It’s fine,” our father croaks. “They’re very nice to me there.”
It feels like he’s just shot a bullet though the room—all of us recoil. “So it’s true, then?” Kit says. “You were having treatments? And not telling us?”
“It seemed easier that way.”
“Are you serious?”
“I didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want to be trouble.”
“What the hell, Dad?”
I place my hand on Kit’s arm to stop her. I understand why my father did what he did in not telling us about his illness. It’s the same reason I had to not tell my story, years ago. It’s easier not to be a burden. It’s easier for everyone not to know. Then, everyone would know.
Kit places her hands on the sides of her head. “I don’t believe this.” Then she looks rabidly at the group. “Does anyone else have a secret they’ve been keeping from me? Anyone? You’d better say it now. I can’t take much more than this.”
The room is silent. Even the A/C has clicked off. Suddenly, there’s a small, weak cry in the corner. Everyone whirls around to look at Aurora. She’s in her seat again, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her face has drained of color.
“What’s the matter?” Kit’s eyebrows shoot up.
Aurora glances desperately at Sienna. There’s that strange exchange between the two of them, and my skin starts to prickle. “Tell her,” Aurora pleads.
Alarm registers on Sienna’s face. She gives a slight shake of her head.
“Tell me what?” Kit asks, straightening, her tone verging on panic.
The girls watch one another. For a while, no one speaks—maybe no one even breathes. Finally, Aurora looks down and breathes in raggedly. “It was me,” she says softly, into her shirt.
“What?” Kit asks.
“It was me,” Aurora repeats. “I did it.”
“Aurora, stop it,” Sienna snaps. “Stop talking.”
Kit turns slowly so that she’s facing her daughters. “What are you talking about?” She whips back to Aurora. “What did you do?” She grabs the girl by the shoulders. “What did you do?”
Aurora shields herself with her hands. She’s bawling now. “It just happened! I read the e-mails, and they disgusted me, and I was just trying to protect her!”
Kit’s jaw goes slack. I’m so stunned I have to sit down. What is Aurora saying?
“Protect who?” Kit asks. She looks at Sienna, then back at Aurora again. “Aurora knew you wrote the Lolita e-mails, is that it?” Neither girl reacts. Kit keeps trying. “But why did you feel like you needed to protect Sienna? You didn’t want anyone to find out? You thought Greg was going to hurt her?”
All I can see of Aurora’s lowered head is her crown. She shakes miserably. “No. No.”
“No what?” Kit’s voice has risen to a shriek. She looks desperately at Sienna. “What is she talking about?” But Sienna is stricken, motionless in her chair.
“Sienna didn’t plant those e-mails,” Aurora mumbles into her chest. She sounds both angry and devastated.
We look back and forth between the girls. Sienna is hiding her face in her hands, her long, elegant legs crossed prettily at her ankles. Even though I can’t see her face, I can practically feel her shame. It oozes out of her the same way it oozed out of me. And then I think of what Sienna told me after Greg’s funeral, about why the two sisters were fighting: We had a fight about this guy . . . it’s dumb.
My skin goes cold.
I turn to Aurora slowly. “You thought the e-mails between Greg and Sienna were real.”
Aurora shrinks in the chair, but after a pained few moments, she nods. “I . . . I saw him, once. He touched her . . . inappropriately. And she didn’t pull away.” She glances up at her sister, and there is fear in her eyes.
“Is this true?” Kit gasps.
Sienna lowers her hands just a little. Her face is a mask of pain. “I couldn’t,” she whispers. “I couldn’t pull away.”
Kit’s body is rigid. “Those e-mails really were from him? You didn’t write both sides? The e-mails . . . were real?”
Sienna’s eyes flit to her mother’s for only a second, then lower again. “I can’t do this,” she blubbers, and then gets up and runs out of the room.
46
KIT
SATURDAY, MAY 6, 2017
For a moment, everyone is too stunned to move. Then I wrench away from the bed after my daughter. Willa catches my arm. “Wait. Just let her . . . decompress.”
“Decompress?” I run my hands down the length of my face. My heart is racing so fast I can hardly see straight. “What did she just tell us? Did she just confess something?”
Willa blinks. There are tears in her eyes. “I-I don’t know.”
I walk to the door, touch the knob, and then pull back. Pace around. Yank the door open and peer into the hall. It’s empty.
Is it really possible that Greg was involved with my daughter? But then I think of Lolita’s e-mails—in the beginning, they were fun and flirtatious, like she was enjoying herself. So Sienna played along, then. Sienna fell for him. Fell for my husband. Just like I did.
But then I think of how the e-mails shifted, Greg’s words becoming more aggressive and suggestive. All those dirty scenarios he presented. All that sex talk. I can feel the bile rising in my stomach. I stagger to the bathroom and throw up in the sink.
When I’m finished, I wipe my mouth and eyes. My father’s room is quiet. Willa is sitting on a chair staring, dumbfounded, at the blank whiteboard. Aurora is sobbing in a corner. I turn to her, realizing what she’s admitted to. It was nearly buried under Sienna’s horrible truth.
“Honey,” I squeak out. But I can’t go closer. It’s almost like I’m afraid to touch her. “Aurora. What happened that night?”
She shakes her head. “I . . . can’t.”
“You have to tell me. You have to tell me before things get worse.”
She glances up at me, terrified. “Worse how?”
How can she not know what might happen? The police will circle back to us. They’ll question everyone whose prints aren’t on record. They might even focus on Aurora first, being that she was at a neighbor’s house the night it happened. Hell, I’d thought she was home that night.
And she was, I guess. For a little while, anyway. And I guess she hid the knife in the garage, hoping—praying—it would never be found.
My thoughts, unbidden, turn to how it might have gone down. Aurora must have let herself into the house with her key, which explains the lack of a forced entry. And then . .
. what? She found Greg in the kitchen? Stabbed him in a blind rage, furious for what he’d done to Sienna? But I can’t quite buy that. Aurora is moody, but she’s not stupid.
I turn to her. “What happened that night?”
Aurora wipes her eyes. It seems to pain her to speak. “We . . . argued.”
“About what?”
“The e-mails.” She sighs. “I knew they were to Sienna. I felt . . .” Fresh tears spill onto her cheeks. “It’s gross, Mom.”
I’m nodding. There is a boulder on my throat, making it almost impossible to swallow.
“And then what?” I ask gently.
Her face breaks, and something inside me does, too. I guess it isn’t so hard to figure out what happened next, now that we have all the pieces. “I told him I thought he was disgusting,” she whispers. “I said I would make him pay. I never wanted him to touch her again. And then . . .” She takes a breath. “He lost it. He came at me. Started denying stuff, started calling me all these names . . . I didn’t know what to do.”
“You were afraid. You had to defend yourself.”
Aurora looks pleadingly at me, her eyes wide, her mouth small, her body curled so tightly in the chair. She’s so young, I realize. Younger than I was when I met Martin. Younger than Willa was when she was raped. Still so innocent.
“I don’t want to go to jail,” Aurora whispers between sobs. “Please, Mom. I can’t.”
I feel my life disassembling, piece by piece, until there is nothing left. Where can we go from here? What can I even tell her? This is the worst possible outcome. No lessons are learned here. No justice is done. It was a hideous thing that we don’t even entirely understand yet—and a child’s impulsive decision. My baby is going to be gone forever. It’s one thing if it’s me in jail, but it’s another thing entirely if it’s one of my daughters. There’s no way I can let that happen.
“I’ll go for you,” I say in a near whisper. “I’ll say I did it. The police already think so, anyway. It’s what everyone wants to believe.”
