by Andrea Bartz
I dropped to my knees to scoop him up, and as I did something rushed up through me, something sharp and bright, and then it hit my throat and came out as a moan. I hugged Cosmo to my chest and he hung limply as my head and hands filled with crackly static and my heart beat so fast I thought it’d burst, juddering as if it wanted to shoot out from my chest. I gasped with the wild, unself-conscious panic of a toddler mid-meltdown.
Finally I found my breath again, blinked hard until the static lifted. “Eleanor,” I murmured, dropping my nose to the top of Cosmo’s head. He twisted his neck, blinked at me. “Poor Eleanor.” Cosmo wriggled free and sauntered off toward the hallway. I managed to leave Mom a voicemail, my voice quavering as I asked her to call me back.
I stacked the pillows I’d left on the sofa and attempted to fold the fluffy duvet. In the doorway, Cosmo watched me with his grasshopper-green eyes. As I headed for the bathroom, I paused outside Hana’s bedroom, and my eyes fell on the scrap of paper on her bureau. The note she’d mentioned, the numbers scribbled on top. It definitely hadn’t been on Eleanor’s big desk as Daniel unlocked the drawer below.
Another memory, an echo of dialogue that I’d tucked away for later: Tuesday night, while the three of us were still panicking in the hallway of a tapas restaurant, Mikki had said, “Who has Daniel’s number?” and Hana had raised her hand and dialed confidently. Why did Hana even have him in her contacts? A thought like a whisper: What else are you lying about, Hana?
I showered, torturing myself with a mental montage of beautiful, sparkling Eleanor and all the smiles she’d never shoot out. As shampoo foamed against my scalp I realized a suspect had been taking shape underneath it, a heady suspicion I could investigate on my own. Quickly, a plan stitched itself together in my mind. It was steadying, giving the grief and desperate exasperation something to cling to, like handrails in a shower stall.
Outside, the air was a little warmer, the sky silvery and swollen—probably around freezing, but it was a relief after all those stark, icy-blue days. I checked the weather forecast and groaned: a “wintry mix” was headed our way, and headlines despaired over the probable upending of holiday travel plans.
For now, at least, our Monday flight was still on time. I pictured the three of us in Kalamazoo, eating off the nice china in Mom’s dining room. It’d be an especially awful meal: Hana creepily pretending everything was fine, me scrabbling at my mounting anxiety, Mom complaining about what bad company we were being while subtly, expertly excoriating all of Hana’s life choices. If Mom didn’t call me back soon, she’d probably hear about Eleanor’s death on the news.
As would my agent, Erin. This time I’d be ready for her; in fact, I’d get ahead of it. I’d been close to calling the whole thing off: Last week, I couldn’t imagine defying Eleanor’s wishes, telling the world how she’d parachuted out of her perfect-seeming life. Implying judgment, sending the news vultures and TV and podcast crews scuttling after her to Guayabitos, in search of her casa. I couldn’t do that to her. But now? Now I was a snapping hound dog on a leash, more determined than ever. Eleanor deserved justice. On the subway, I emailed Erin, concluding with a promise, a vow, ripped from the parlance of bad action movies: “I’m not going to stop until I find the motherfucker who did this.”
At home, I pulled up my research file on Carl Berkowski, a Known Enemy of Eleanor. I remembered he was an engineer at Hopscotch, a stupid app that lets you check into a business to unlock discounts and freebies there. And I knew from my time as a tech reporter that start-ups expect every goddamn employee to use their product with the fervent devotion of a Scientologist. Bingo: Sixteen minutes ago, Carl had checked in at Ghost Cafe in the Financial District. I skidded off toward the subway, backtracked when I realized I’d left my phone on my desk, and then headed into Manhattan.
It was a packed little coffee shop, people chatting eagerly or gazing wide-eyed at their laptops, as if trying to prove to themselves that the din was energizing, not distracting. I spotted Carl at a table in the back: short brown hair, glasses, sloping chin, gray hoodie. Big Bluetooth headphones like my own. I pulled mine down to rest around my neck, tapped at my phone, and steeled myself, mentally raising a sword in the air and bellowing “For Eleanor!” Then I took the seat across from him.
He stared over the top of his laptop. “Uhhh …”
“Katie Bradley.” I thrust out a hand. “We were supposed to have a coffee last week? I was hoping we could—”
“What are you doing here?” He leaned in, his eyes shooting around, attracting far more attention than I had.
“I just thought maybe we could have that coffee now.”
“I could report you.”
“For being in a coffee shop?”
“For stalking me.” He slammed his laptop shut. “How did you find me?”
I blinked at him for a moment. Had he literally never considered the practical implications of his employer’s product? Oh, to be a white man in the world. “You checked in on Hopscotch. I just want to talk.”
“Why?”
Eleanor surged back into my brain, thwacking me with grief. “Why’d you stand me up?”
“I stood you up?”
“Yeah, I—I waited, like, a half hour, tried texting and calling, and you never showed.” A note of confusion crept into my voice.
“Oh, that’s rich. Nice try. We said we’d meet at four; when I got out of the Lincoln Tunnel I had a couple confused texts from you, and the diner was empty. I was livid. Really great use of my one day off, so thanks for that.”
“No, we said—” My voice faltered and I got that feeling, hot and cold at once, indignant but also maybe he was right and I’d messed up, didn’t we have it in writing?
Dramatically, he sighed. “So now you’re following me … why?”
I squared my shoulders. “You texted me about Eleanor last week.”
“That’s right—thanks for sending that detective my way. That made me super eager to text you back.”
“What’d you tell them?”
“Why would I talk to you? I didn’t even have to talk to her.” He crossed his arms. “I hate cops. Second time in two weeks the cops are asking me about Eleanor Walsh.”
I frowned. “Second time?”
“Yeah, after they called about—” He stopped himself, cocked an eyebrow. “I mean, I’m not the only person on the planet who doesn’t like her. You can’t automatically assume that any inconvenience in her perfect life traces back to me.”
I shook my head, still stuck. “What other inconvenience? Why did they contact you before that?” The week before last—that was right when I first set foot in the Herd … “Was it about the graffiti?”
“Graffiti? Do I look like a vandalizer to you?”
Vandal, I corrected him, silently. He smirked—he was enjoying this, having something over me.
Then the penny dropped. “It was about her phone.”
“The allegedly stolen phone, yeah. Which, if she can’t keep track of her shit, that’s not my problem. Where is Eleanor, by the way? Still hiding out from the messes she’s made of her two companies?”
Messes? Gleam and the Herd were both turning huge profits and bopping around the top of best-places-to-work roundups. “What’s your problem with her, really?” He started to groan and I barreled over him: “No, I’m serious. What has she done to make you mad?”
“What she did was illegal. Barring a demographic from a public space—that’s some ‘whites-only’ shit.” With every ounce of self-control, I leaned forward and nodded, and he went on: “She’s such a smug little bitch. She gets everything she wants without even trying. And she’s devoted her life to dangling that in everyone’s faces.”
“How so?”
His palms winged upward. “Are you serious? Her blog, her companies—her whole brand is basically: No Boys Allowed.”
I gazed at him. I thought of what I had to say next and sadness billowed in me, threatened to burst out from behind my face. Swallowi
ng, I flipped over the only card I had: “Eleanor’s dead, Carl.”
Three tiny movements, all at once: Shock whipped across his face, he leaned back as if to distance himself from me, and his hand shot to the back of his neck, settling on the overgrown tufts there. “Shit,” he finally said. “Dead how?”
A teakettle-like shriek as the barista steamed milk. “How about this: I’ll tell you something if you tell me something.”
“Oh God.” The eye roll returned.
“How did you find out she was missing? When you texted me last week, I mean?”
“I have my ways.”
“Illicit ways?”
“What, are you going to turn me in to the police for observing that she was supposed to speak at a highly publicized event and … didn’t? Oh right, you already did.” He sneered. “Anyway, my turn. What happened to her?”
“She was killed.” My stomach squeezed and I let it rush out: “Someone slit her throat.” I wanted to watch his reaction but I couldn’t; I felt lightheaded and tipped my head forward.
“Fuck.” He sounded uncomfortable. “I’m sorry.”
I inhaled wetly. “Is that going to end up on the Antiherd? If it does get out, I’ll know it was you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.” I hunched forward again. “I want access to the group.”
“No way. Not gonna happen.” He leaned back. “Look, I’m sorry about your friend, but … if you were friends with Eleanor, why would I help you?”
“Just a second.” I slid my phone out of my back pocket, then turned up the volume.
The voice leaking out of my iPhone was tinny and shrill: “… got out of the Lincoln Tunnel I had a couple confused texts from you, and the diner was empty. I was livid. Really great use of …”
His eyes bugged. “You were recording me?”
I touched the headphones still resting on my neck. “They make great built-in microphones these days. The sad thing is that in real life, unlike in movies, I can’t hit one button and have it play back the most damning sound bite. But I’m sure you remember it. ‘Smug little bitch,’ et cetera.”
He was beside himself. “But … but that’s illegal!”
“It’s not. And you should calm down—people are beginning to stare. Hey, your offices are down here, right? Rebecca Rosenthal?”
At the sound of the CEO’s name, his face turned coral-red, his ears like two plums. “This is stupid,” he announced. “You don’t have the balls.”
“I also have nothing to lose. Unlike you. With your job.” I leaned forward. “I won’t post in the Antiherd. I won’t take screenshots or share anything. I just—”
“So you’re playing kid detective? Just let the grown-ups do their job.”
A fuck-you rose up through me but I bit it back, rearranged my face into a blinky earnestness. “Carl.” I tapped his forearm and he recoiled. “You’re right. I know it’s stupid. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. And I really don’t want the cops to know I’m looking into this on my own. I just want to figure out who … who hurt my friend.” My voice wobbled and again, he reared away from me.
“Twenty-four hours,” he finally said. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours if you delete that audio file right now, in front of me. And then you fuck off forever.”
At home I flung open my laptop and logged into my new, male, fake Facebook account (Fakebook!), and then felt a surge of adrenaline as the notification appeared: You’ve been invited to join the Antiherd. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I started with last Tuesday, the day we reported her missing. Some useless general hate speech, things that turned my stomach, reminded me of the panicked feeling I got while reporting from rallies in Michigan. I crossed to the kitchen and pulled out a seltzer, breathing hard, then forced myself to keep reading.
A few minutes later, I hit gold: A dude with a police scanner had posted about the 911 call from her address (which, creepily, said user knew by heart); the “possible ten-fifty-seven” had led to much gleeful speculation that her sad, whipped husband probably skipped town to get away from her. Gavin K commented that maybe the bitch had seen the light and killed herself, and someone else—Ron A—replied that that was unlikely when she’d just announced she was going to make herself even richer: He’d linked an article about the Titan acquisition, which had gone up just a minute before.
I clicked on Ron’s name and scrolled through his most recent posts and comments; he hadn’t uploaded a profile photo, so it was pretty clear this guy had a secret account for his hate speech. (More Fakebook!) My heart seized up when I saw a photo he’d posted to the Antiherd a few weeks back: a faded shot of a female teenager … no, a child, maybe twelve or thirteen but struggling to look older in the awkward getup of circa-Y2K—flared jeans, platform sandals, budding boobs under a corseted crop top. The face was unmistakably Eleanor’s: pretty even then, but rounder, her eyebrows thinner, her skinny arms a deep tan. Above and below the photo were strips of diagonal grayish lines, zigzagging into short columns, and I realized they were the gluey backing of an old-school photo album; someone, somewhere, had cracked open a dusty old album and snapped this picture of a photo inside.
It was presented without comment, but other users had quickly jumped in: “Born a whore,” “A cock-teasing bitch even then,” “lol people probably hid from her on the playground.” How had anyone gotten their hands on this? The original photo—someone had snapped it, developed it, stuck it lovingly on a cardstock page and smoothed clear plastic on top. The only place where you could find similar pictures of Hana and me was in our mother’s living room, in the musty albums in our bookshelf. Maybe Eleanor’s parents kept something similar in their house. Who would’ve had access to it, what visitors or neighbors or … ?
Neighbors. The kids next door. I looked at the fake username again. Ron was typically short for Ronald, of course, but could it also be the tail end of Cameron?
Goosebumps rose on my arms as I scraped back through everything I’d learned about him: Ted’s older brother, Eleanor’s boyfriend both of her senior years, high school and then college. I searched for his Facebook profile—the non-fake version—and clicked through his photos. He gave the vague impression of a once-hot guy who’d lost his mojo and then felt bewildered by his dwindling prospects. His profile photo was of him in a Patriots T-shirt, his face painted, making a tribal yell in front of the open back of an SUV, all set up for a tailgate.
Outside, the snow was like a silvery mist filling the empty space around fire hydrants, trees, grimacing pedestrians. The thought was as hazy as the light: What if Cameron did hate Eleanor? He lived in another state, of course, but he knew people here … and he might have friends in this disgusting online community. What if he’d found someone to help him, or vice versa? The bubble letters from my first day at the Herd flashed before me: UGLY CUNTS.
I was still reading through jabbering vitriol, none of it useful and all of it jabbing at my gag reflex, when Erin texted: “Call me now.” Another text from my roommate, and then, as I was unlocking my phone to read her entire message, ones from Mikki and Ted. The calls and messages came like the snow had this afternoon—a few errant flakes, then steadier, and then suddenly a storm.
With shaking hands, I opened the New York Times homepage, and there it was at the top: Eleanor Walsh, Lifestyle Guru and Feminist Entrepreneur, Dies at 30.
Isn’t she thirty-two? I thought numbly. Another text from Erin: “You’re going to kill me.”
CHAPTER 16
Hana
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21, 8:25 A.M.
I stared out the window as my cab sped toward Daniel and Eleanor’s apartment. Just Daniel’s now—the thought was a bubble of sadness. Trash levitated and spun in the wind before smacking back into the sidewalk. The streets were already emptying as people headed home for the holidays.
What could Daniel possibly have gotten his hands on? It’s about what happened in 2010, he’d said
, his voice almost a shriek; and you don’t want police. The driver braked hard in front of the townhouse, and I pushed the car door open against the wind. My third visit this week—much more frequent than when Eleanor was alive. Something deflated in my chest as I looked at her home’s dark bay window, its empty stoop. On Tuesday night, I’d charged inside with the then-absurd notion that something had happened to her, something bad. On Wednesday, I’d come back to browse, fumbling around for some guidance, a clue. Some reassurance that our secret was still safe. Now Eleanor was dead and Daniel knew about 2010. For a shimmering second, I thought I would vomit.
I marched up the steps and rang the doorbell. A wreath was thawing out from the week’s deep freeze. The door swung open and a puff of warm air floated past me. Daniel looked awful: hair greasy and unwashed, skin sallow, eyes swollen. Both gaunt and puffy, somehow.
“Daniel, hey. I’m glad you called me.”
He closed the door behind me and I gave him a long hug. Before this week, I’d never seen him be anything other than cheerful and removed, a polite conversationalist at parties and events but what Mikki had called “a tough nut to crack.” Now misery wafted off of him in waves.
“I wasn’t sure what else to do,” he said. “I mean, your name was on it.”
“On what?” His eyes bugged, and I gave a brave little smile and gestured toward the living room. “Should we sit down?” We were still in the disorienting entryway of mirrors.
He gazed over, like he was working out what the words meant, then nodded. “I’ll go grab it.”
I pulled my coat off as I made my way into the living room. I had that rushing feeling, the sense that something irreversible was about to happen. Daniel clattered down from the second floor, his steps staccato, then presented me with a sheet of printer paper. It was creased in thirds, like it’d arrived in an envelope. I took it from him and blinked:
RE: MAY 7, 2010
