by Andrea Bartz
“Do you know for a fact that she rejected him?” Ratliff asked. “Was there an incident?”
“No, nothing like that. Forget I said anything.” Guilt whooshed up through me. Why had I sicced them on Ted?
“We’ll look into it,” Ratliff said. “Now I need you to do something difficult. Can you walk me through last night again, from the moment you went up onto the roof?”
I sighed, exhaustion and gloom filling me up from the inside, from my bones, but I squeezed my eyes shut and repeated it, frame by frame. When I got to the part about seeing the gash in her neck, Herrera jumped in.
“You saw a line cut along her neck?”
“Yeah, a line. At least, I think it was a line.” My brain cued it up, an image projected on a massive screen, and I felt a wild pitch of nausea and despair. “She keeps a knife in her office, you know.”
“We’re still looking for the murder weapon,” Herrera replied, and then he tapped near his Adam’s apple. “See, it’s actually less of a slash and more of a stab. We’re still waiting for the coroner’s report, but on sight he thought it looked less like a knife or scissors and more like a scalpel.” He punched his fist toward his neck.
“A scalpel,” I repeated. “Why would anyone have …” I froze. I knew exactly one person who worked in a medical center—a bustling, sprawling spot with stockrooms around every bend. I’d sat on his couch and sipped his water this very morning.
“Something like a scalpel,” Ratliff explained. “And scalpels are easy to get your hands on—you can pick one up at the Rite Aid down the street, believe it or not. But for someone to have been carrying it …”
“That would mean it was premeditated. You think someone went there to murder Eleanor.” My voice had swooped into hollow amazement, like I should punctuate it with a whistle.
“We’re still—”
“Exploring all possibilities, I know, I know,” I finished.
“Ms. Bradley, is there anything else you think we should know?”
I thought about it. “Maybe someone was bitter about not getting in? The Herd gets way more applicants than they have spots for. And women were really rabid about it, there were online forums about trying to get in and stuff. Maybe you’ll find something there.” I clicked my tongue. “Eleanor pissed a lot of people off. Just by being fabulous, by being an ally and a champion. And she was so calm about it, so brave. Took it all in stride. Never asked for … for support.” My voice cracked and I inhaled sharply.
“There are counselors available if you’d like to speak to someone,” Ratliff said. She was starting to gather her things. “Thanks again for your time. We’ll see ourselves out.” But still, I rose and ushered them to the door. I pointed them back in the direction of the elevators and wished them happy holidays. When I looked back, the snow outside had thickened.
My phone had more missed calls and texts than I could fathom. Mikki’s fought its way to the top: “CALL ME NOW.”
“Someone leaked the news about Eleanor to the press,” she said, her voice pinched with fury. “Eleanor’s parents hadn’t even had a chance to tell their friends yet.”
She directed me toward the Gaze article (“EXCLUSIVE”) that’d broken the news an hour ago, written by a reporter whose byline I didn’t recognize; it had very little information, the cause and time of death missing, but it did have the date and location of the discovery of her body. A whole wave of other articles had come out rehashing the same sparse details, and a showy obituary was on the homepage of The New York Times. I fought down a groundswell of nausea as Mikki’s righteous anger chopped itself up into profanities.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll call my contact at The Gaze,” I said soothingly. “I’ll figure out who did this. It could just be a crooked cop, someone trading secrets for cash.” I flopped back on the couch and glanced out the window, where a curtain of snow had smeared away the outside. Would every Christmas from here on out be haunted by visions of this one—Mikki’s disembodied sobs, Katie sniffling on the bed next to me, Eleanor’s boots poking out from behind the lounge chair, toes up like they belonged to someone admiring the night sky?
Katie was calling.
“Did you see the alert?”
The urgency in her voice poked at me—so unlike the milky sadness I’d just settled into.
“About Eleanor? I’m trying to figure out who leaked it.”
A beat. “I was talking about our flight. They just canceled it.”
“Shit.”
“What should we do?”
“Call the airline. Both of us.”
For seventy-five minutes I paced my apartment, intermittently tidying up and then crashing onto seats to stare out the window. I hated the hold music for a while, then got into it, nodding along involuntarily, and then circled back to hating it again. When I finally reached someone, the news wasn’t good.
“So we’re missing Christmas,” Katie wheezed into the phone.
“I mean, Christmas is occurring regardless,” I replied. “But I feel bad we’re not going to see Mom.”
“Me too. Plus I wanted to get away and curl up in my own bed and block everything out for a while. And now we can’t.”
There was something fluttering in me, mothlike: I was relieved. Not having to interact with Mom, to deal with her bright, fake laughter and needling criticism, not having to sit around a tree and sip cocoa and listen to old hymns while Eleanor’s unsolved death hung over us—there was something appealing about it, a bottle uncorked.
“I’m disappointed too,” I said, “but what can we do? At least we’re stuck here together.”
“I guess.” Katie’s misery was contagious. “Well, I’ll call Mom and let her know. She’s probably been watching the flight and already knows.”
That stung, deep in my torso. “Tell her I’ll call her tomorrow. And that we’ll talk on Christmas, obviously.”
“Tell her yourself,” she snapped—then three beeps, and she was gone. Outside, the snow churned and throbbed against the window, like something trapped in a glass cage and trying to get out.
Suddenly I realized what I was forgetting, the to-do that had been flickering in the back of my brain all day. It blared inside me, cranked up my pulse. On shaking legs, I walked over to the coat closet and pulled out the blackmail note, popping out the crease and swiveling my wrists to smooth it. I read it over one more time, although by now I could recite it by heart. The same page had been showing up in my own mailbox for a full year now.
With practiced hands, I ripped it in two and rolled the first into a tight cigarette. I crossed the kitchen and turned the stove on, four even clicks and then the boorrsshh of a blue flame.
As I had with three blackmail notes before it, identical but for the deadline at the top and the name on the envelopes they arrived in, I burned its halves one after the other. The ashes swirled like snow before coming to rest on the steel below.
CHAPTER 17
Katie
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21, 5:15 P.M.
I was grateful for the flight cancellation, in a way; for the ninety minutes I was dealing with it, groaning and texting and falsely thinking each intermittent “please stay on the line” was a human about to help, I didn’t have to think about what my agent, Erin, had told me earlier in the afternoon. Because I couldn’t think about it, couldn’t face it, the sixty-foot tsunami about to come crashing down all over me. Mentally I stuck it on my to-do list: Solve problem, save my own ass.
I called Mom, who picked up this time. I told her about Eleanor, my voice fracturing into sobs as I tried to answer her questions, and she kept repeating, “My poor baby, my poor baby.” Then I told her about our canceled flight, and she was as composed and soothing and deeply, deeply sad as I imagined she would be. She clearly already knew about the cancellation but feigned surprise, a long three-note moan between “awww” and “ohhhh.”
We were wrapping up when Hana called again.
“So I just got off the phone with Eleanor’s parents
,” she said. “You’ve met them, right?”
“Yeah, once or twice.”
“Well, I called to help them write their statement for the media now that some jackass leaked the news about Eleanor.” A puff of shame went through me. “And I kinda can’t believe this, but they invited us up to their house for Christmas. They have nonrefundable Amtrak tickets for Monday—for Eleanor and Daniel, but I guess he’s spending it with his family now. And when I said our flight was canceled, they insisted we come up.”
“They want us to take their dead daughter’s tickets?” I said. “That’s the most morbid thing I’ve ever heard.”
Hana let out a little oof, like I’d wounded her.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to … but don’t you think it’s weird?”
“I mean, I can see them not wanting to be alone in that big house on Christmas Day. They’re really warm people. They were always so nice to Mikki and me. And I guess Ted and Cameron’s parents kinda sucked, so they were like surrogate parents to them too.” She cleared her throat.
“Wouldn’t we be … imposing? Don’t they want to grieve privately right now?”
“I said the same thing. Asked over and over. They really want us to come, Katie. Mikki, too, assuming she can’t get to Asheville. They’re calling her now.”
We would go, obviously. This felt like a freebie: a perfect chance to see Cameron in the flesh, maybe even scour his and the Walshes’ home for a photo album with navy herringbone glue on each page. And, though Hana still had no idea I’d been talking to Ted, it wouldn’t be hard to sneak off and see him. But I knew she had to feel it was her call, so I said, “I don’t know, Hana. Maybe we should use the next couple of days to process instead of tiptoeing around and being polite guests, you know?”
She sighed. “I just want to feel like I’m … in a home, not my sad, sterile little apartment.” I hesitated and she added, “You’ll love them.”
“Even forty-eight hours after they found out their daughter’s been murdered?”
“Okay, they won’t be at their cheeriest. But we can keep ’em company, maybe even help out around the house for a few days. They don’t have other kids.”
“You’re sure it’s a good idea.”
“I have no idea if it’s a good idea, Katie.” There was a tremor in her voice and it sliced through me. “But I know I want to go.”
I swallowed. “What time is our train?”
Penn Station was miserable any day of the year, a Dante-esque cacophony of burnt coffee and pee smells and bad signage. On this particular Monday morning, it was worse than ever, since, with all flights grounded, trains were one of the only means for escaping the city. The masses were crabby and high-strung, unsure if they’d make it home in time. The scene reminded me of rallies in Michigan, where I endured jeers and boos on my break from nursing my sick mother. This hellhole was almost satisfying in its terribleness: an external match for my emotional interior, which in turn resembled Munch’s painting The Scream.
In the Amtrak waiting area, Hana was jealously guarding two seats, tucked between a pile of shrieking toddlers and a dude in a baseball cap loudly braying into his phone. Two wrestling kids tumbled onto my foot as I picked my way through.
“Oooh, heaven is a place on Earth,” I sang, jazzily sweeping my arm out. Hana glanced up and it was clear she’d been crying; I collapsed into the seat next to her. “Hi. I got us cinnamon-sugar pretzels. Self-care.”
“Thanks.” She gave me a side-hug. “How are you doing today?”
“Well, you know.” We’d both spent Sunday alone in our beds, binge-watching the same Netflix show and texting occasional commentary, ignoring the torrent of calls and emails from journalists seeking comment on Eleanor’s untimely death. She nodded and plucked open her greasy bag, then chewed thoughtfully.
We rushed down to the train the second the track was announced, arms and hips and children and suitcases buffeting us about as we Tetrised our luggage onto the rack and plonked into seats. I yanked on my headphones as we emerged from under the station and into a gray-white wonderland, the air still swollen with snow. There was something sad but soothing about our pilgrimage to Beverly. There, I wouldn’t have to worry about Mom and Hana snapping at each other. There, we wouldn’t need to act cheery or try to put into words who Eleanor was or what she meant to us. It was like a multiday memorial, a walking wake. Remembering Eleanor: The Experience.
“Hey, I meant to ask: What happened with Daniel on Saturday?” I said as we pulled away from a stop. “Was he okay?”
“Yeah, he just needed someone to sit and cry with him. Said he was numb when the cops told him the news Friday night, and then he didn’t sleep, so by the morning he was a wreck. But he was okay by the time I left.” Outside the window, an occasional sight pierced the white: a flicker of tree trunk, the flash of a red house. “What’d you do after I left?”
I thought back; she had no way of knowing I’d paid Carl a visit at Ghost Cafe. “Pretty much the same—I sat around and cried. Only with Cosmo, instead of Daniel.”
She regarded me for a second, then nodded. She got out her earbuds, prepared to seal off the conversation.
“Did you ever call Mom?” I asked.
“Ugh, I completely forgot. I will soon. How’s she doing?”
“Okay.”
We both went back to staring at the woolly world outside.
A few hours into the ride, Hana’s phone rang. She’d been dozing and I watched as she startled, then stared at the screen. I didn’t catch the name, but she answered in a low voice.
She listened, hunched over, piping up with the occasional, “I’m sorry, what?” and “Can you repeat that?” and “Are you sure?” The female voice on the other end of the line was fucking livid, and Hana turned to shoot me a barbed stare before standing and walking off toward the end of the car. It was the shocked, betrayed look a dog aims at you when you’ve pretended to have a treat and then opened your empty fist. My heart plummeted. It was over. As Erin had warned. Hana knew.
I sat there, bathed in that cold, rushing feeling. My teeth began to chatter and I wished there were an escape hatch, somewhere I could run and hide. Finally, Hana returned and sat down carefully, staring straight ahead.
“That was Aurelia,” she said, her voice soft and terrifying. “Katie, please tell me. That you did not tell your publisher. That you’d write a tell-all exposé about Eleanor.”
My jaw was chittering too hard for me to open it and speak. Slowly, slowly, she turned to look at me.
“Tell me it’s not true.”
“I didn’t call it a tell-all exposé,” I said with the voice of a five-year-old. She made me repeat myself and I knew I was fucked.
“Let me get this straight,” she said, lifting her eyebrows. “You told your editor you’d write a book about Eleanor.” I nodded. “And you didn’t ask for permission or come talk to me about it.” Nodded again. “And so you were secretly reporting out this book for a proposal, knowing full well Eleanor hadn’t and probably wouldn’t sign off on it.” I started to protest and she went on: “No, don’t even. Because I also know that you’ve been feeding your agent confidential information, and that—no, listen to me—that is the reason news of her death was leaked. Which fucked up the investigation and has made the NYPD furious. That’s what you’ve done.”
I knew I should apologize, should roll over and show my belly, but defensiveness barreled out first: “Okay, I had nothing to do with the leak. I told my agent everything we discussed was in confidence and she messed up, she let it slip to a coworker, who apparently passed it on. And I one-hundred-percent planned to talk to you—and, and Eleanor, originally—when the time was right. I hadn’t even started a proposal yet. I was just trying to see if I could report this out instead of my other book idea because that didn’t work out. But this was just deep background, and obviously that was before she went missing, and I would never—”
“Just stop!” Hana shot both palms out and I recoiled,
like she’d hit me. “Katie, stop. You’re not talking your way out of this. You’re not—actually, you’re doing exactly what you always do, using my connections and then making a mess of them and then trusting that ol’ Hana’s going to be here to clean it up for you.”
My jaw dropped. “What are you talking about? You kept—”
Someone shushed us, fiercely, and we both whipped our chins over to an elderly man across the aisle.
I lowered my voice. “You kept trying to hook me up with your fancy-ass contacts, and you know what? I didn’t take a single meeting. I didn’t take you up on a single goddamn thing, because I knew you would do this, you’d lord it over me and continue to tell yourself and everyone else that I can’t do shit without you, that I’m this useless little kid who can’t take care of herself—”
“Can you? I mean, look at yourself. You get all this money to write this amazing book, and what do you do? You throw it away. And what do you mean that other idea ‘didn’t work out’?”
“It’s not—I wasn’t trying to—”
“And anyway, my God, I am so sorry for trying to help you. For trying to get you into the Herd when there are hundreds of women dying to get in.” This was disorienting, this was churning around in a dangerous riptide, which way was up, who was this Hana? It wasn’t like my sister to be cruel, to go for the throat.
“Hana, I—”
“You ride on my coattails and then you’re shocked, shocked, when shit blows up in your face. Well, guess what, this bomb managed to take a bunch of us out with it too. I hope you’re happy, Katie. Even I can’t swoop in and fix this.”
“I ride on your coattails?” I tapped furiously at my collarbone. “I force you to deal with the real shit? Answer me this: Who the fuck moved to Michigan when Mom got her diagnosis?” I sat up straighter. “Who ran off to California with Dad and left her ten-year-old sister behind the second shit got tough? You think you’re the one who has to deal with real problems? You know what, fuck you. I know I’m supposed to be grateful that you deigned to let me into your life at Harvard, just like you’ve deigned to help get me into the Herd. But guess what: Mikki and Eleanor liked me too. They wanted to be my friends and you hated that.” I leaned my face close to hers. “I’m sorry to break it to you, but I’m not just your fuckup, piece-of-shit little sister. I’m a real person, and honestly? People seem to like me better than you.”
