Reputation

by Sara Shepard

  I blink.

  “He doesn’t want to be reminded of that night. This is my way of sticking it to him.”

  I stick my tongue in the gap where I had the tooth pulled, long ago. I’m not sure I like the idea of being a pawn in someone’s marriage. It makes my position precarious, like Lynn could take away the gift she’s given me when she gets tired of torturing Patrick.

  Her face softens. “And you remind me of me when I was your age. I did strange things for money when I was young, too. And my mother also wasn’t particularly supportive. But I don’t want you to do that stuff anymore. Because, I mean, my God. You could have been killed.”

  I lower my head. That bedroom in that house haunts me. The situation could have become so ugly. It’s something I could never do again. I wish I could say that things have worked out with Alexis, but we haven’t spoken since that night. I still think about her, though. I wonder if she thinks of me, too. I wonder if we’ll ever see each other again. Sometimes, I still think I see her on campus . . . until I remember. She was never a student here.

  But Sienna is. I’ve tried my hardest to be a shoulder to cry on. That’s not to say I’m taking the news about Alfred in stride. I never, ever thought that dude had it in him. In fact, something about it seems kind of fishy—could a man battling cancer really overpower someone as virile as Greg Manning? But that isn’t a question for me to ask. The old Raina might have tried to dig it up—and scam Sienna for it, maybe—but that’s not me anymore. I guess Greg was right: I really am trying to be a better person.

  “We’re all done,” the bursar officer says, passing Lynn a receipt. “Have a nice day.”

  Lynn folds the receipt and places it in the front pocket of her purse. “Just be careful, all right?” she says as we move away from the window. “You’re smart. I can tell. You’re going to be something someday. So I guess it’s about that, too. I’m making an investment in a future. Maybe someday you’ll cut me in on a business deal. Stock options before you go public. How about that?”

  “S-Sure.” And it’s not out of pity, either. She thinks I have a future. She thinks I belong here, at Aldrich. Maybe even more than Greg did.

  “Anyway.” Lynn checks her watch, then raises her chin. “I need to be somewhere.” She places a hand lightly on my arm, but then seems to think better of doing anything affectionate and pulls away. “Be good to yourself, Raina. And remember, I’m always watching.” And with that, she pushes through the door to the outside. I trail behind her. Lynn’s high heels clack down the sidewalk.

  The August sunshine beats down on my head. Has this actually just happened? I can feel the smile widening on my face. And then I revisit what she’s just said: I’m always watching.

  I bet she is. I bet she’s going to make sure I make good on my promise not to get into trouble. But you know what? I don’t mind someone watching out for me. I don’t mind that at all.

  49

  LYNN

  AUGUST 15, 2017

  And the oysters for monsieur and madame.” A waiter sets a beautiful plate of bluepoint oysters on the table. “Bon appétit,” he adds, and then discreetly backs away.

  I admire the shells for a moment, and then glance around the room to see if anyone is ogling our meals, too. It’s something I always do at restaurants—I always love to see what other people eat. Then I push the plate toward Patrick. “Here, darling. Have the first one.” I wink, adding saucily: “You know what they say about oysters.”

  Patrick eyes the plate, then picks up an oyster shell and knocks it back. I watch him chew and swallow. He pushes the plate to me. His movements are a little forced and wooden—if it gets any worse, I’ll talk to him about it later. I slide my foot up his leg under the table. I feel him flinch, but then he goes still, letting it happen.

  We’re at Lou’s, our old favorite. We try to do this once a month. It’s a date night of sorts, though we call it that only because that’s what husbands and wives do. It’s a nice shorthand; when I drop into conversation with colleagues or friends that Patrick and I have a date night coming up, they look at me appreciatively, acknowledging that I have an ideal marriage, something to aspire to.

  It feels good to be out and about. I recognize a few people, like Dahlia Root, from the Duquesne Club, which I’ve pushed Patrick to join. She sits at the bar across the room, and I give her a finger trill, mouthing that I’ll come talk to her in a bit. And there’s Frannie Waites, who’s on the board at Aldrich University—since my promotion after Kit left, I’ve been much more involved in such meetings. She’s sitting with a girl who looks like her daughter, by the window—I make a mental note that Amelia’s probably old enough to dine here now; perhaps we’ll do a mother-daughter date soon. And there’s Annette Darling, who lives down the street from us and has a girl in my daughter’s grade—not long ago, Annette drove past Patrick and me just as we were having a small argument on the street. Did she draw conclusions?

  I shift closer to Patrick and try to look loving and content. When I notice Annette turn my way and watch us for a beat, I fake a laugh at an imaginary thing Patrick has said. See? We’re all good.

  Patrick places his oyster shell on the plate and folds his hands in his lap. “Was it tasty?” I prod, my smile effervescent.

  “Excellent.”

  He doesn’t quite look me in the eye, and his smile is a touch soulless, but I don’t think anyone notices. As long as he’s sitting here with me, looking fantastic, as long as we give this public performance, I don’t care what sort of emotional maelstrom is happening inside his head. It’s just like old times, actually: I’m back to controlling his every move, making him do exactly what I want. And he’s keeping his life. We’re both getting what we need.

  What I have on Patrick is ruinous, after all. It’s one thing if I leaked his disgusting habits online, like I did with Greg Strasser’s affair. That would lose Patrick most of his clients. His respect. His life. But Patrick is far more indebted to me than that.

  The night I caught Patrick in that house with those girls, I’d made him tell me exactly what he was up to—every last disgusting detail, including the other times he’d done such things, which, unfortunately, horrifyingly, were numerous. Hearing that he wanted to playact a robbery, I was sure he was the murderer, but Patrick revealed his hideous alibi, saying he had many ways to corroborate it.

  “You have an illness,” I told him. “You need to see a doctor.”

  “I’ve tried therapists,” Patrick said miserably. “They’ve explained to me, again and again, that I just like the fantasy of becoming someone else. Even if that person is a bad person—like a burglar—I can’t get enough of playing a role.” He lowered his eyes. “It’s why I moved us to Pittsburgh last year. Not just the business opportunities—I thought that if I started over somewhere else, maybe I’d change.” He took a deep breath. “I mean, even with Kit Manning—that wasn’t real. We had fake identities. And I got off on it. I didn’t think of her as a real person. A wife, a mother. That stuff’s boring to me.”

  I stared at him, arms crossed. Was he seriously trying to rationalize Kit Manning? I wonder what she would think if she heard this theory.

  “And look—with those girls, in that house . . . I just need to control something, Lynn. To dominate. To feel like a man.”

  I’d laughed out loud. His words combined with his hangdog, pitiful expression—he really expected me to feel bad for him!

  I could have kicked him out that night. I could have deposited Patrick in some shitty motel where he would muddle through the rest of his days, sans wife, sans girlfriend, sans ever being able to see his children. But instead, I responded with kindness. “Look, I can’t let you ruin your life,” I said. “I’ve invested in you. I have a responsibility to get you back on track.”

  He’d looked at me confusedly. His eyes were bloodshot. His jowls hung down like a hound dog’s. “Okay,” he blurted,
sounding suspicious. “But what if I don’t want to get back on track? What if I want something different?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Like you’d ever leave your children.”

  A pained look flashes over his face, and I know in an instant I’m right. “There are . . . ways,” he said quietly. “I have rights.”

  “Well, for your information, I’m not talking about our marriage, Patrick—though I have no intention of granting you a divorce. No children of mine are splitting their time between two homes. I’m talking about your career. Or are you okay with walking away from that, too?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  At this point, I was enjoying myself. “You know, Patrick, it strikes me as funny that you’ve never wondered who your angel investor was, all those years ago.”

  Patrick blinked. “Angel investor?” he parroted.

  “You know. The anonymous person who invested millions in your company before we married. It’s so interesting you never cared about the person’s identity.”

  Patrick’s face was clouded in confusion, but all of a sudden—maybe because of my smug smile, maybe because I was literally vibrating with glee—the clouds began to lift. The blood drained from his cheeks.

  “You know?” he said slowly, trembling a little.

  “I do know.” My smile was catlike, satisfied. “Because it was me. That little marketing management business I ran? My friend who got famous got really famous? A big talent agency bought out my client list back in the day. I made quite a killing.”

  Patrick let out an incredulous laugh. “And you never thought to tell me?”

  I shrugged. “It was money I earned before the marriage. My lawyers insisted I get a prenup, but I didn’t want to emasculate you. And anyway, I poured quite a bit of that money into your company. Though I made sure to own a fifty-one percent stake in your business. Which means, actually, I already control your business. I can do with it whatever I want. Meaning I could fire you. But I’d rather keep you around.”

  Patrick’s mouth hung open. It wasn’t a very attractive look for him.

  “I’d rather give you another chance, allow you to shape up a little,” I went on. “I really think that if you listen to me, you’ll make all kinds of improvements.”

  Patrick fell heavily into a chair and stared blankly at the opposite wall. I’m not surprised he felt so blindsided—he doesn’t take the time to really look at people, really figure out what they’re hiding. I watched him look around our big, beautiful house, understanding that everything he thought he’d built was all actually mine. He was nothing without me. I could make him nothing again. Easy as that.

  I wouldn’t make things too hard for him, I said. All I needed were some public appearances. Some regular social media content. Family time. Sex, sometimes—I’d even indulge in his stupid robbery fantasy. I wanted a man on my arm. A dutiful father mowing the lawn on Sundays. You know, the works. The dream.

  It’s not like the status quo is even bad. Because look at us. Look at the stealthy glances people are sending our way. We are perfection, Patrick and I. We are going to rule this town, be the envy of everyone who lives here. No one will see our cracks. No one would ever imagine what we’re hiding beneath. I’m keeping Patrick in line, making sure he’s being a good actor.

  Because respect, envy, a good reputation? It takes a little work—but it’s so, so worth it.

  50

  WILLA

  OCTOBER 17, 2017

  Our homes are within walking distance of the surf break at Venice Beach, but because of all the equipment we’re hauling, it’s easier to drive. At this time of day—the sun just rising, the sky an ombré of pinks and oranges—the public parking lot is nearly empty. The only other vehicles here are banged-up Jeeps or Subarus of fellow surfers, also hoping to catch a few waves before the day properly starts.

  I drag our boards off the top of the car and drop them to the concrete with a thump. Sienna and Aurora pounce on theirs and slather them with wax so naturally, you’d think they’d been doing this all their lives. Their full-body wet suits are unzipped to their waists, and their long hair has become sun-streaked. They already look the part of California girls. It didn’t take long.

  “How about you, Kit?” I point to my sister. “Swim today?” But she shakes her head. She’s wearing shorts and a sweatshirt, as always. “Come on,” I goad. “The water is great. I promise.”

  “It just looks so cold,” Kit murmurs, shivering. “And what about sharks?”

  “Thanks for the mental image, Mom.” Aurora hefts her board and tucks it under her arm.

  “Oh, go easy on her,” I scold Aurora. It doesn’t really matter to me if Kit surfs of not—what’s more important is that she’s here, in California, with me.

  I still can’t believe Kit and the girls made the move, that they’re now living a few blocks away in a cool, small house along one of Venice’s canals. We’re so close in proximity that we can meet for coffee every day and have brunch on the weekends if we wanted, which we sometimes do. I can attend the open-mic nights Sienna started doing at a space in West Hollywood. I take Aurora to tae kwon do and therapist appointments. I take Kit to therapist appointments, too, and try to calm her down as she drives through the crazy city traffic.

  Basically, we’re a family again. And to think that it rose from the ashes of such tragedy and lies.

  Sienna hands Kit her phone. “Hey, can you take a picture of me? I want to send it to Raina.”

  “Raina, huh?” I say, surprised. Kit raises the camera and gets Sienna in the frame. “You guys are still texting?”

  “Here and there.” Sienna glances at me guiltily. “Is that weird?”

  Kit snickers. “A little weird, but probably not the weirdest.”

  I zip up my wet suit to my chin and slide on booties, humming to myself. I feel good. Better than I’ve felt in a long time. It’s hard to believe there were a few days back in April when I wasn’t sure if I’d be arrested. Finally, several days into our dad’s stay at the hospital—the cancer had indeed spread to other organs, including his brain, and because he’d confessed, there was now an armed guard sitting outside his room—the NSA agent who had taken over the hack case, a stout man with a perpetual five-o’clock shadow, named Carruthers, met with me, Kit, and my new lawyer.

  Carruthers said that the charges against me had been dropped. It wasn’t right that I’d had a discussion with Blue, and it wasn’t right that I’d put the idea to hack Aldrich into the hacker’s mind, but because no money had officially exchanged hands, I couldn’t be held accountable for everything Blue did. Blue had hacked the Ivies and Aldrich because he’d wanted to; he’d exposed the universities due to a vendetta he had against institutional learning as a whole.

  The news of Blue’s arrest would hit airwaves and the Internet the next day, Carruthers went on, but Blue and only Blue would be to blame. My involvement, including what prompted me to want to look into Aldrich’s files, wouldn’t be part of the story. I was free.

  And my story was still a secret.

  I paddle over the shallow breakers. Farther out, a few of the younger guys twist around and break into broad grins at Sienna and Aurora, who are only a few steps behind me. Nothing sexier than surfer girls.

  Cold, salty water splashes my face. We reach the break, push up onto our boards, and bob. A wave crests toward me, and I start to paddle for it, but the current’s too weak, so I stop midway through.

  Both girls wait back at the sandbar. Sienna meets my eye as I sidle up next to her. “So have you seen what’s been going on online?” she hesitantly asks.

  I spit out a column of water. “Another hack?” In the months that have passed, dozens of other businesses, institutions, political campaigns, and celebrities’ private photo albums have been hacked and released to the world. More reputations have crumbled. Mo
re people have been shamed. Practically every week, I cover another one at “The Source.” You could say I’m sort of the hack expert these days.

  Sienna shakes her head. “No. All those posts on Facebook. The MeToo stuff.”

  Out at sea, a pelican dives for a fish, coming up with the thing flopping around in its jaws. “Oh. Yeah.” The posts began popping up on my Facebook feed a few days ago. They’ve even been one of the meeting topics at work.

  “Have you thought about writing something?” Aurora asks quietly.

  The girls’ shoulders have broadened since they’ve moved to California. In the evenings, when I come home from work, I often find them hanging out in my apartment, wanting to show me a new poem they wrote, or a funny Instagram post, or to tell me about a new cold-pressed juice place they tried. It is hard to imagine I was afraid that after finding out I’d initiated the hack—and ruined so many lives—they’d never speak to me again.

  I stare into the sky, thinking about Sienna’s question. Water streams through my fingers.

  “I mean, it’s okay if you don’t.” Sienna’s response is quick, apologetic, like she’s spoken out of turn. “It’s your experience to post or not post.”

  Another wave breaks over us. A couple of guys to our right catch it and ride it all the way to shore, but I hug the board with my inner thighs to stay put. Aurora and Sienna know everything about what happened to me the night at the frat—I’ve even told them more details than I disclosed that day in the hospital. I haven’t quite known how much weight to give it. It’s certainly not something I want to glamorize or exploit. I want to be an empowering figure for the girls, not a tragic one. Too many women have been cast in that role already. At the same time, what’s the difference between what happened to me and what happened to Sienna? Not much. My situation was perhaps more violent, but we were both forced into corners—and into silence.