Reputation

by Sara Shepard

  Willa frowns. “It’s not your prints on the knife. There must be another way.”

  Irritation rises inside me. Who cares about holes in the story? I just need to save my daughter. “No. This is the only way.”

  “I’ll take the blame.”

  My father is propped up a little in his bed and staring straight at us. A jolt goes through me—he’s been so out of it the last few hours that I keep assuming he hasn’t heard much of what we’ve said. But now, he stares at us with resigned intelligence. Even a little color has returned to his face.

  “I’ll take the blame,” he says again. “I’ll say I did it.”

  I blink hard. “You?”

  “You heard the doctor. I don’t have much time to live.”

  “But . . .” Willa sounds dumbfounded. “No, Dad. No.”

  “You don’t have to,” I interrupt. “This is ridiculous to even think about.”

  “They won’t put me in prison.” He breathes in raggedly. “I’m dying, girls. Where am I going to go?”

  He almost looks mischievous as he says this. I’m dumbstruck.

  “Dad.” I shake my head. “I’m not letting you confess to a murder you didn’t commit. It’s . . . preposterous.”

  “It’ll ruin your legacy,” Willa pipes up.

  He waves his hand, but his voice is suddenly full of remorse. “What kind of father doesn’t know that something terrible has happened to his daughter? That something has happened to his grandchildren? You are my legacy.”

  “Dad.” Willa shuts her eyes. “Stop.”

  “It’s true. I put Aldrich on the front burner for years, and that made me lose sight of keeping my children safe.” He shifts so he’s sitting a little higher. “Let me do this. Let me keep you safe. It’s the least I can do.”

  Aurora lets out a squeak. Willa stares at me with a look that seems to say, How can we stop him? Tears drip down my cheeks. My father looks so at peace with his decision. It’s all happening too quickly—realizing we’re going to have to say goodbye, and now hearing of the sacrifice he’s going to make for us.

  I walk over to Aurora and put my hand over hers. My heart is beating quickly, and I don’t want to get my hopes up that this could work, and I feel conflicted even considering letting him go through with it. I feel her press against me, her body shuddering with pain. Even if she isn’t going to jail for this, she’s going to have to live with it for the rest of her life, just like Willa has lived with her rape.

  And maybe that’s prison enough.

  EPILOGUE

  47

  LAURA

  FRIDAY, MAY 12, 2017

  Mother’s Day dawns warm, sunny, and fragrant, which is a delight. Last Mother’s Day, almost halfway through my pregnancy, I woke up to six inches of snow. Ollie and I went through with our picnic plans anyway, shoveling off a patch on the lawn of Phipps Conservatory, our fingers frozen as we sipped sparkling cider, the snowflakes landing on my slightly swollen belly. We were both so happy, though, the weather barely mattered.

  Well. Actually, I guess neither of us was. I was afraid. And Ollie was quietly, secretly furious.

  But this is my first official Mother’s Day as a mom. And as I swing into the car, I hear Freddie kicking at his dangling car seat toy in the back, and my world is filled with light and life. I understand the gift I’ve been given. That if things had gone differently, I might not have my son at all. I might not be alive.

  The day the police stopped me on the turnpike still comes back to me in horrific flashes. The cops took me into their cruiser, arranging for a separate vehicle to follow behind us with Freddie. I’d begged them to let us ride together, but they refused. The whole drive, I rocked with psychic pain, sensing Freddie’s lonely screams as though they were needles drilling into my skin. I was furious, too. What doctor had signed a bogus note that I was a danger to my child? How long in advance had Ollie planned this? What if Ollie got sole custody of my child? That’s what frightened me the most, I think—that my baby would be with a man who had it in him to kill.

  The drive back to Pittsburgh was excruciating. We finally pulled up to the station in Blue Hill, and the police escorted me to a small, isolated interrogation room and told me to wait. I strained to hear Freddie’s cries, but the office was as silent as a tomb. I pleaded with an officer who came to check if I needed something to drink. The baby still nurses, I urged. He’s going to need a diaper change. He’s got to be scared.

  But they didn’t listen to me. My paranoia spiraled. I went from thinking they’d sort out the mistake to being certain that I was never going to see my baby again. This was how far Ollie was going to go to ruin my life. I cried loudly, hideously, but no one opened my door.

  After what seemed like hours, a door swung open. I cringed, expecting more officers barging in with handcuffs, ready to haul me off to jail or court or the hospital. When I saw a female officer and a plainclothes woman, I lifted my head a little. Then I realized the woman was holding my child in her arms. I let out a relieved, broken little bleat, jumping to my feet and stretching my arms out for my child. “We’re sorry,” the officer said, her voice full of genuine regret. She handed the baby over. “Mrs. Apatrea, we are so, so sorry we put you through this.”

  I didn’t ask how they’d figured out what had happened. I didn’t care. I nuzzled Freddie, sobbing, grateful. After a moment, the officer said that they had Ollie in custody for assault. But I wouldn’t really grasp what had happened until much later.

  Now my phone dings. I muffle it, not wanting to wake the baby, and glance at the screen. It’s a reminder of an upcoming appointment tomorrow: Ollie, lawyer’s office. We’re meeting on neutral territory to sign the divorce papers. It certainly wasn’t difficult to schedule: Ollie was fired from his police position almost immediately after that showdown with Willa Manning. There are also charges against him that I filed—one for domestic assault, and another for lying to Child Protective Services and the state troopers. I don’t think he’s going to get that promotion anytime soon. I won’t let him back in the house; rumor has it he’s living with his mother on the other side of the city. He calls me regularly, begging me to take him back. Says he screwed up, says he forgives me for what happened with Greg. Says he misses Freddie. Still considers him his child.

  What’s crazy is that these phone messages tug at my heartstrings. But then I think about those last few days we were together. The fear I felt. And the betrayal, too—I had been so, so certain that Ollie, as impulsive and hotheaded as he could be at work, would never, ever be that way around me. For him to flip, for him to change—albeit provoked by my betrayal—it made me lose faith in almost everything. So I can’t take Ollie back.

  I’ve explained all of this to detectives and a new therapist. They said that I can file a restraining order that will legally forbid Ollie from coming within a certain distance of me—and Freddie. But I know how flimsy those things can be. I know that if you want to violate an order, not much is stopping you.

  It’s why, then, I have a plan.

  I flip on the radio, wanting to catch the news before I switch over to the nursery rhyme songs I’ve downloaded for Freddie. I find a local station, and someone is just finishing the weather report. Then, another anchor announces a new story: “Aldrich University president and self-confessed murderer is dead at sixty-nine.”

  A ball clogs my throat. I turn up the volume.

  “Alfred Manning, the president of Aldrich University and the murderer of Greg Strasser, is dead from complications with pancreatic cancer,” the voice goes on. “Manning was undergoing hushed treatments for the disease at an Allegheny Hospital branch thirty miles outside of town. He fell gravely ill shortly after the murder weapon was found on the premises of his daughter’s home. He regained consciousness after his medical episode and offered a full confession. Mr. Manning leaves behind a tarnished legacy not only with the murde
r of his son-in-law but also of his beloved school, which was rife with scandals that came out in the famous Aldrich hack.”

  I feel a wave of sadness. I’ve never met Alfred Manning, despite his being Greg’s father-in-law. In news clips, though, he always seemed like such a nice man. So gentle. I remember reading how he’d lost his wife suddenly, how hard that must have been. But I guess appearances can be deceiving.

  I glance at Freddie in the back seat. “Okay, enough of that.” And in seconds, we’re listening to “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep,” his favorite. The sun streams in through the windows. We wind through the old brick streets toward the park. I’m going to miss this neighborhood, I think, glancing around at the handsome brownstones. I’m going to miss Pittsburgh in general.

  But it’s almost time, and I am ready. A U-Haul will be here tomorrow night to pack up the simple furniture like Freddie’s crib, my bed, a table. The U-Haul I’ve arranged is the kind that will hitch to my SUV; I’ll be like a turtle, carrying my whole house around wherever I go. I’m not sure where we will go yet. Somewhere I won’t easily be found. I’ve made a few contacts that will get me the right paperwork to change my name, make my details untraceable, even online. Once your life is threatened, the world seems to change shape. You do what you have to do. Certain choices suddenly become easy. And this is one of them.

  “Ba!” Freddie exclaims from the back seat, and a smile spreads across my face.

  “Ba!” I say back, turning the wheel. “We have such a fun day planned, boo! The park . . . the aviary . . . but just a quick stop first, okay?”

  I have to rely on GPS in Blue Hill; despite having worked there, I never had much chance to drive through its back streets. I pass the hospital first, though I barely glance at it before driving by. It doesn’t bother me that I’ll be giving notice over the phone; there’s no one I really want to say goodbye to in person. Next, I drive by the museum where the benefit took place. It seems like a million years ago that I was there. I try to remember the fears that had gripped me that night. All the things I was trying to hold on to. All the things that had now changed.

  I drive on, coming to a street whose name I recognize. Hazel Lane. A red light stops me before I can turn, so I gaze down the long drive, spying Greg and Kit’s house a few lots down. There’s no more police tape around the front door. Rumor has it Kit moved back in, though someone else said she probably wouldn’t stay. Her porch light is on, though, meaning she’s home. My fingers twitch on the steering wheel. Do I dare?

  I feel like I owe Kit something. An explanation, an apology. Or maybe I just present Freddie to her, saying, here. Some kind of acknowledgment. And yet I’m not sure if this is what Kit wants. I know she knows about Greg and me—Detective Reardon explained that her sister, Willa, accused Ollie of Greg’s murder, having figured out about the baby herself. But it’s not like she’s reached out to me. I probably wouldn’t either, in her shoes.

  Maybe it would be better just to leave this be. Maybe, years from now, I can track her down, for Freddie’s sake.

  The light turns green, and I drive on.

  The GPS tells me to take another right, and then a left, and then I drive down a hill to a series of weathered apartment buildings in the shadow of the Aldrich University science lab. It doesn’t take me long to find a parking space, and I turn off the car and heft Freddie out of the seat. “This’ll just take a moment,” I murmur, adjusting him in my arms.

  The address I’ve been given is a building without an elevator. The corridors are dark, and loud music escapes from underneath quite a few of the doors. The third floor, his floor, has a beery stench to it, like someone held a party here the night before. I check my watch before ringing the bell. Is it too early?

  But I’m here, so I do it anyway. The bell has one clear note and one sour one. It takes a while for footsteps, but then I hear the click of latches and bolts, and the door swings open. When Griffin McCabe sees me, his forehead creases. “Hello?” he says tentatively.

  “It’s . . . me.” I realize I haven’t planned what to say. “Laura. The woman you . . .”

  His eyes widen. He looks from me to the baby, to me again. “Of course,” Griffin says. And there is that earnest smile, that helpful, hopeful light in his eyes. He looks both younger in this light and much older and wiser. He glances behind him, then at me again. “What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t want to come in or anything,” I say quickly. “I just . . . I was in the neighborhood. And I wanted to thank you. I never got to.”

  He waves his hand dismissively, like it doesn’t matter, but I shake my head because it does. My mouth opens, and I consider telling him everything—why I stood on that ledge that night, the despair I felt, the shame and entrapment. But then I shut my mouth again. My story of suffering is just another story in a sea of many. And anyway, maybe it’s not worth dwelling on.

  “Well, you’re welcome,” Griffin says after an awkward pause. And then: “How is everything?”

  I’ll ask myself that question a lot in the years to come. Sometimes, I’ll be far from okay. Sometimes, I’ll feel the same despair I felt that night on the bridge when I wanted to end it all. Those feelings will chase me, never quite evaporating completely, a faint film always on my skin. But I’ll fight through them. I have to. I press Freddie closer to me, hugging him as tightly as I can.

  “I’m getting there,” I tell him.

  48

  RAINA

  AUGUST 14, 2017

  Since I’ve moved off campus into a dumpy, suburban apartment shared by four people that I struggle to pay for on my brand-new salary as a coffee barista, it takes longer to get anywhere. I finally make it through the tunnel, off the bridge, and down the long boulevard, passing the history museum, the art center, and the huge Aldrich University library, where I still owe fines for overdue books. Near my stop, I press the button to get off. The bus huffs to the curb, and I hurry down the stairs. I’m late. Part of me worries if this is even for real. Maybe I’ve schlepped over here for nothing.

  The bursar’s office hasn’t changed since I was here last. Same red-and-gold Aldrich flags, same sticky door, same cranky women behind the desks. I feel a pull in my chest as I look around. She isn’t here yet. It’s a joke, then. I mean, of course it’s a joke—I should have known it the moment her e-mail came in last week. I should be arranging for scholarships, or maybe applying to other, cheaper schools, or speaking to my parents one more time to see if they have any more money stashed away under a mattress. We’ve been back in touch, a little. I got a good dose of perspective after that incident with that Patrick guy. I realized that my parents were just Podunk and uninformed, not bad people. Not like Alexis’s family. Not like Alexis’s life.

  But anyway, I should be planning and preparing for next semester, when my Greg Strasser funds run out—not following a wild-goose chase that’s only going to end in humiliation. Shouldering my bag, I pivot and head for the door just as it swings open and someone comes inside. She and I collide, and I step back, my breath catching in my throat.

  Lynn Godfrey appraises me, hands on hips. “Going somewhere, Raina?”

  My hand flies to my throat. “No. I was just afraid I was late, and . . .”

  “. . . and that I wasn’t going to show up?”

  Well, yeah, I want to say as Lynn walks to the first unoccupied partition window. I mean, yes, Lynn first reached out to me after that whole bullshit debacle went down; I guess she found the secret e-mail account her husband used to set up his sex-play trysts, and then got my contact information through Alexis. And yes, she spoke to me at length about what happened that night with Patrick, and if anyone had seen, and if I thought he’d done it with lots of others, and what I was after that night, anyway.

  I’d been honest with her back then. I’d even told her about my arrangement with Greg Strasser, which seemed, interestingly, to break the ice. I told her the only
thing I wanted was to continue going to school. But I didn’t think anything would come of it. After that, Lynn gruffly ended the call, and I figured I’d never hear from her again. But months later, she called me. Said she’d done some thinking and wanted to pay my tuition herself. I almost fell off my couch when I heard those words.

  “Help you?” the bored woman behind the window asks, eyeing Lynn and me.

  Lynn sits down in the chair facing the window and explains to the woman that she wants to set up an account to withdraw funds to pay for the rest of my schooling here. The woman slips her the appropriate form, and Lynn picks up a pen. Then she looks at me. “What’s your last name again?”

  “H-Hammond,” I stammer.

  “Date of birth?” Then she rolls her eyes. “Actually, here. You fill this in.”

  Lynn’s posture is straight. She stares rigidly ahead. I write in my important details—my student ID and social security numbers, the address where I’m now living, how many credits I have left, et cetera. At the bottom, Lynn provides a bank routing and account number for the bursar to use to make automatic withdrawals.

  She slides the completed paperwork back through the slot in the window, and the woman on the other side of the glass begins to type it into the system. Lynn places her sunglasses back over her eyes, preparing to go back outdoors.

  “Lynn,” I cry, my voice squeaking unpleasantly.

  Lynn eyes me coldly. Almost like she doesn’t like me—which, I mean, why would she? I swallow hard. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. You know I’m not going to say anything.” Exposing Patrick Godfrey would mean exposing myself. I thought Lynn understood that. After everything I’ve gone through, I still put myself first. I have to.

  Lynn snaps her handbag shut, a prim, no-nonsense expression on her face. “I’m doing it because my husband will hate it.”