Appealed (12 page)

I remember seeing her—her eyes wild and wounded. I didn't know what had happened, and she wouldn't talk to me.

“You looked so horrified, Brent. So devastated—and when you wrapped your jacket around me, I almost believed you really didn't have anything to do with it. But then Cashmere came up, offered me a tissue, and pretended to be so sympathetic. I could see in her eyes that she was laughing, but she sounded really convincing. So I knew you must have been a part of it too.”

I can still hear her, her voice a raw whisper when she told me,
“You're sick. There's something wrong with you. Stay away from me. Just . . . stay away.”

“Then Vicki and Brian came and took me to the infirmary, then back to our room.”

And there it is.

Rage makes my hands shake on the table. So fucked up.

Did I say sometimes kids are assholes? No—sometimes they're sociopaths. And apparently I was dating their queen.

“I should have followed you,” my voice scrapes out. More than anything, I want to go back in time and kick the shit out of my seventeen-year-old self. “That night—I should have gone with you to the infirmary. I've always regretted it.”

She says nothing.

“When I went to your dorm the next morning, you were gone.”

“Claire came to get me,” she answers quietly. “She tore into Headmaster Winston on the phone and convinced him to let me finish my classes online.”

“I waited for you—all summer, I kept going to your house. You never came home.” It's important that she knows I looked for her.

“Claire and I spent the summer in Europe. The whole thing actually made us closer.”

“I didn't know.”

Her head tilts to the side and she shakes it in doubt. “Brent, come on . . .”

I just barely keep myself from shouting. “Why would I lie? After all this time—all these years, what could I
possibly
have to gain from lying to you now? I wouldn't do that to you.
I didn't know
.”

But still Kennedy's not convinced. “The messages—they came from your school account.”

“It had to be Cashmere. She was always in my room, and she knew all my passwords. She was the only one who . . . would want to hurt you like that.”

There's never a good reason to lay your hands on a woman. But if my ex-girlfriend was here now, I'd have a hard time holding to that.

Kennedy's face is blank as she examines the evidence from all angles. “How did she know about the kiss on the roof? I didn't believe it was really you, until that moment.”

I rub the back of my neck; the muscles are tight and knotted. “Maybe I told her about it at some point? Or during one of the stupid Truth or Dare drinking games we used to play. Somebody probably asked me about my first kiss.”

Her eyes soften just a bit. “You considered me your first kiss?”

The corner of my mouth quirks. “You were a girl, your lips were on my face—so yeah. I've always remembered it that way.”

She nods.

Slowly I reach out and cup her jaw, holding her. “Do you believe me? I need you to believe me, Kennedy.”

She searches my eyes. “I don't know. All these years, I was so sure. Now . . . talking to you . . . what you say makes sense.” Her jaw goes tight. “But I won't be anyone's fool ever again.”

I drop my hand, drain the rest of my beer.

Kennedy's silent for a moment. Then she says, “I'm ready to call it a night. Can we get out of here?”

I hear her. Revelations are fucking exhausting. I feel like I've taken a sledgehammer to the chest. Bruised and drained.

“Sure.” I throw the bills on the table, slide my chair back, and hold out my hand to her.

Out on the sidewalk, I offer to grab Kennedy a cab.

“My place is only a few blocks away. I'll walk.”

“Okay, then I'll walk you home. Lead the way, Lassie.”

She cracks a smile and pushes her hair behind her ear. “You don't have to—”

“Yeah, I really fucking do, okay? Just . . . let me do this. Please.”

She looks at me, eyes crinkling, nose scrunching up, like I'm a puzzle she's trying to figure out. It makes her look younger—cuter.

“All right. I'm this way.”

We walk side by side in easy silence, and about ten minutes later, we arrive. The house looks like a Victorian dollhouse, with a rounded tower on one side, a wraparound second-floor balcony, arched windows, and a spiked wrought-iron fence framing the roof. The same fencing surrounds the big corner lot. The house needs a paint job, new shutters, new steps where the old ones are sunk and uneven—but there's so much potential. With a little love, it could be magnificent.

“I'm having it restored—which is about as miserable as it sounds when you're living here,” Kennedy says. “But it'll be worth it. My Aunt Edna left it to me.”

My head turns sharply. “Aunt Edna died? Shit, she was cool. Why didn't anyone tell me?”

Kennedy nods. “You were on a skiing trip—I overheard someone talking about it at the wake. Your mother probably forgot to mention it when you came home.”

I look back toward the house. “I'm glad she left it to you.” Then I grin, easily imagining her as a kid in that big old house with its cobwebs and secrets. “I bet you had a blast going through the attic.”

Her eyes widen. “I did, yeah.” Bull's-eye.

Because people really don't change when it comes to qualities like that. A love of adventure, of exploration, even if it's of the past. She hasn't changed.

“Maybe you can give me a tour sometime?”

She still looks a little wary, distrustful of my intentions. Old habits die hard, and this one's gonna go down screaming.

She unlocks the front door, then turns. “Good-bye, Brent.”

I run my hand down her arm, 'cause I just can't help myself. “Good night, Kennedy. I'm . . . I'm glad we talked. Cleared the air. And if I didn't say it before, I'm really fucking glad you're home.”

Her smile is small—but it's there.

“Me too.”

I give her arm a gentle squeeze, then walk down the front steps toward the gate. Halfway there she calls, “Brent?”

I turn around.

“This doesn't change anything. About the case, I mean. On Monday, I expect you to come at me with everything you have. If you go easy on me it'll mean you don't respect me—that you think I can't handle it. And I'd never forgive you for that.”

I give her a quick nod and she goes inside, closing the door behind her.

My eleven-year-old self was right: girls are weird.

•  •  •

I wake up earlier than usual on Saturday, with the echo of Kennedy's words in my head. Curiosity rubs me raw, like two jagged sticks sparking a fire. So I skip my morning run and spend an hour in my home office doing online research.

It's amazing, and kind of fucking frightening, how much of our personal information is floating around out there, and how simple it is to access. After I get the info I wanted—an address just an hour outside of DC—I tap the address into Google Maps, then I head out.

When I knock on the door, I hear muffled voices inside, then the sound of walking feet.

And then the door opens.

And Victoria Russo, Kennedy's old boarding school roommate, stares at me. “Brent Mason?”

I nod. “Hey, Vicki.”

She looks good, almost exactly the same. Her laugh lines are a little more pronounced, but her shoulder-length hair is still jet black with a streak of bright blue, her nose is still pierced with a diamond stud, and she still has that sharp, no-bullshit-taking shine in her eyes. The last time I saw her she tried to kick me in the balls.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

I look her straight in the eyes. “I need your help.”

T
en minutes later, Vicki sets a coffee cup down in front of me at her kitchen table. She has a nice house—a family house—in a development with green lawns and brick-paved driveways and swimming pools in yards lined with arborvitaes to have some privacy from the neighbors. Her kitchen's huge, with mauve-colored walls and cream cabinets. There are framed pictures all around—some of dark-haired little girls, some of Vicki and Brian Gunderson.

Brian was a student at Saint Arthur's too. A tall, lanky kid who sagged his pants, listened to Snoop Dogg, and attended on scholarship. I remember seeing them together around campus—he was her date the night of the senior dance . . . and it looks like they're married now.

In the den off the kitchen, there's a cluster of book covers with shirtless men in various stages of embracing equally hot, half-naked women. And the author is V. Russo.

“You're a writer?” I ask, sipping my coffee.

“Yeah. I write romance.”

I glance at the pictures again. “Brian's a lucky guy.”

She chuckles. “Yes, he is.” Then her expression turns thoughtful. “A romantic hero with a prosthetic leg would make for an interesting story.”

“Well, if you need a technical advisor, give me a call.” Then I ask, “Do you still talk with Kennedy?”

She lifts one perfectly penciled brow. Then calls down the hallway, “Louise! Come here please.”

A tiny little thing, maybe about five years old, with long black messy hair walks into the kitchen and stands next to Vicki. “Yes, Momma?”

Vicki crouches down next to her. “Louise, this is an old classmate of Mommy's—Mr. Mason. Can you say hello?”

The little girl smiles, not at all shyly. “Hello, Mr. Mason.”

“Hi, Louise.”

“Can you tell Mr. Mason your full name, honey?”

“Louise Kennedy Gunderson.”

I nod in understanding. “That's a beautiful name.”

Vicki pats her daughter's shoulder. “You can go back and play now, baby.”

As Louise leaves the room, Vicki raises her coffee cup to her lips. “Kennedy's the godmother to all our girls. And she gets full custody if we kick the bucket, even though I have two married brothers and Brian has a sister.”

That's going to make this conversation slightly more complicated, but it shouldn't be a problem.

“I assume Kennedy's told you about our court case?” I ask.

“The case where she's wiping the floor with you? Yeah—heard all about it.” She smiles a little too broadly for my liking, but I let it go.

“She also told me about your chat last night. How you proclaimed your innocence.” There's a bite to her words at the end.

“I didn't have anything to do with what happened to her at the dance.”

“You had
everything
to do with it. Your girlfriend and her friends made life hell for Kennedy because of you—and you did nothing.”

“I didn't know it was that bad.”

“You knew enough.”

And I've got no comeback. Because she's right. It's easy to look back, with the knowledge and confidence of an adult, and see everything that we should have done differently.

My words are strong and demanding. “That's why I'm here. I need you to tell me what else I don't know.”

She tosses back, “Why?”

My hand runs through my hair. “Because I don't think she will—not all of it. Because I want to make it up to her. Because, I feel like a black-out drunk who just sobered up, and I need to hear about the chunks of time I'm missing. Because . . . she was always the one.”

Vicki rolls her eyes. “The one? Seriously? I'm a romance writer and even I'm about to gag.”

I shake my head, trying to be clearer. “Didn't you ever have someone that you compare every other person against? This one's nice, but not as nice . . . that one's smart, but not as smart . . .

“She's always been in my thoughts, even when I didn't realize it. The one every other woman has gotten compared to, and fallen short. And I . . . I've missed her, Vicki. I want to know her again.”

She stares me down, biting the inside of her cheek. And then she nods.

“Okay.”

•  •  •

For the next hour, Vicki Russo recounts two years of psychological and emotional torture. Some of it was schoolyard stuff—dirty looks and shoulder bumps. Some of it was more sinister—notes slipped under dorm doors telling her to kill herself, calling her ugly, freak show, worthless. It was calculated, organized, and relentless.

“Why the hell didn't she complain? Report Cashmere to the headmaster?” I ask, frustration in every word.

Vicki shrugs. “Lots of reasons. Call it the Pretty in Pink Syndrome—Kennedy didn't want Cashmere to think she'd won, that she'd broken her. Plus the bitch had her pack of mean girls behind her—if it came down to their word against mine and Kennedy's, who do you think the headmaster would've believed? And if she had reported it and the school sided with Cashmere, it would've gotten so much worse. Things like that always do.”

Jesus fucking Christ

Somebody needs to burn Saint Arthur's to the ground. Scorch the earth and never rebuild.

My fists clench on the table. “Why didn't she tell
m
e
?”

“Because your head was so far up your girlfriend's snatch, Kennedy didn't know if you would've cared.”

I pin her with my eyes. “I would have.”

“She was embarrassed. You have to understand . . . you were everything to her, Brent. When you started to drift away . . . even if she couldn't have your friendship anymore, she never wanted your pity.

“It messed with her head for a long time,” Vicki says. “I mean, Kennedy knows who she is, but it knocked down her self-confidence. How could it not? And her ability to trust—after what happened to her in college—that was obliterated.”

I look at Vicki warily. “What happened in college?”

She flinches, not meaning to have said it.