Where They Found Her (11 page)

“Oh, that sucks,” Sandy said. And now she felt like an asshole.

She wasn’t trying to make Aidan feel bad about his deadbeat dad. She could be too casual about dads in general. It was because she’d never had one of her own. He’d been a marine Jenna had dated for a few months before he died in a car accident on his way back to his base. Jenna didn’t find out she was pregnant until after the funeral.

“Whatever,” Aidan said. “Fuck him.”

“Yeah,” Sandy said. She wanted to make it better, but she had no idea how. “Listen, I should go. Your mom’s going to be home soon.”

“Whatever. Fuck her, too.”

“Easy for you to say. I’m the one she’ll bitch-slap.”

But it wasn’t what Aidan’s mom would
do
that worried Sandy. It was the way she’d look at her. Like she was a piece of shit. People looked at Sandy that way a lot. That included the men who wanted to fuck her and the women who wanted her to go fuck herself. Hard to say which was worse.

“Why do you care what she thinks?” Aidan said.

“Right, and you don’t? Seems like you want me to stick around just to piss her off.” Sandy hoped that wasn’t what Aidan was doing. She’d been trying to stop herself, but she’d already started liking him. “Tell me something. What the hell’s so bad about all of this?”

Aidan had surveyed his room for a minute. “Looks can be deceiving,” he’d said finally, his face serious when he turned back to her. “You should know that better than anybody.”

Sandy read Aidan’s text again. He wanted to meet, but seeing him wasn’t what she needed right now, no matter how much easier it would have been to pretend that it was.

Stay in class
, Sandy wrote back.
Text me when you’re done.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” someone said.

When Sandy looked up from her phone, the guy with the fancy watch was looking at her, his brown eyes catching the light from the front windows. He wasn’t as young as she’d thought, but she’d been right that he was good-looking. In a dickhead kind of way. The look on his face as he stared at Sandy made her want to take a shower. “What did you say?” she asked.

“I said it’s terrible, isn’t it,” he repeated, nodding toward the TV over the bar.

Sandy looked up. Police cars on the midday news. Maybe a car accident? Sandy told Jenna all the time not to drive when she’d been drinking, but she did it anyway. Jenna did so many dangerous things. And their car was such a piece of shit. The brakes had been making this fucked-up noise for weeks, and they didn’t have the money to get them fixed.

“You need something else, friend?” Monte asked, appearing out of nowhere.

He didn’t like strange guys talking to Sandy. Anytime anyone tried to chat her up in Blondie’s, Monte would turn up like magic. That was usually enough. He was a huge guy. He had a way of scaring people away without saying a word.

The dickhead seemed to get the message loud and clear. He held up his hands and ducked his head. “I’m good, thanks,” he said. “I was just about to leave.”

Sandy turned back to the TV, to the police cars in front of all those tall trees. Suddenly, the camera panned backward to the Essex Bridge. And Sandy felt the earth beneath her give way. She wrapped her hands around the brass bar rail to steady herself. “What happened, Monte?” she asked.

“Ah, they found a baby in the woods up near Cedar Creek.” Monte looked up at the TV and shook his head. “Poor thing. The world is filled with goddamn animals. That’s why you got to be careful, kiddo. Like I told you.”

“Hey, Pop!” Dom called to him from the other side of the bar. “Come here for a sec.”

“You call us if you need anything, kiddo,” Monte said, then glanced in the direction of the dickhead. “You know you’re like a daughter to us. No, you
are
a daughter to us. And we take care of family.”

“Thanks,” Sandy managed, her eyes moving back to the TV as soon as Monte headed back to the other end of the bar. She wanted someone to turn the volume up. Wanted to hear exactly what they were saying. The dickhead said something once Monte was out of earshot, something Sandy caught only a piece of: “like her.”

When Sandy looked away from the TV, he was swallowing the last of his beer and dropping some money on the bar. Finally, he pushed himself off the stool, straightening his jacket as he stood. “I guess I
should
be going,” he said to no one in particular.

“What did you just say?” Sandy asked, wondering if she’d imagined it.

“That I’ve got to be going.”

“No, what did you say before?”

“Oh, that.” He took a step closer to Sandy, then leaned in to whisper in her ear. “You look just like Jenna.”

Here are the chatters in your area. Be kind, follow the rules, and enjoy the ride! And if you don’t know what the rules are: READ THEM FIRST! You must be 18 to Chat with the Frat.

I think it’s Sadie Cresh. She’s been getting seriously round in the belly.

Fat, I didn’t even think of that. Why don’t they just round up all the fat girls and test them or something?

1 reply

Because there ARE too many!

What about Ellie Richards and Jonathan Strong? They’d definitely kill a baby before they’d risk not going to Harvard together.

2 replies

Jonathan Strong is totally gay.

He grabbed my ass in the locker room.

You guys, it’s Harry Trumble with the candlestick in his mom’s room. Have you seen her? She’s hot as shit.

You are all disgusting pigs.

3 replies

I agree. I can’t believe I know you people.

Pretentious bitch.

You are some sick shits. Funny as hell but sick as shit.

You know you’re supposed to be in COLLEGE to be on this thing.

1 reply

Fuck off, loser.

I think it was Aidan Ronan. His baby. He killed it.

9 replies

I heard he did some fucked-up shit in his old school.

And have you seen his mom? I heard she fucks everybody. That probably messed him up.

I saw him last week with some skanky bitch downtown.

I’ve seen him with her, too. Total crack ho.

I heard he once tried to kill his little brother.

I heard that, too. Choked him so hard he had to go to the hospital.

That’s bullshit. He’d be in jail.

Not bullshit. His parents lie for him all the time.

I heard he got kicked out of St. Paul’s for bringing a hunting knife to school.

APRIL 17, 2013

Justin and I had our first argument today. The first since we lost the baby. It was stupid, about dinner plans for our anniversary that I don’t even care about.

Lost the baby. Lost the baby. Lost the baby. I’m supposed to keep writing that in here. Not supposed to—Dr. Zomer never tells me what I’m “supposed” to do. But she says I need to normalize the experience.

But how to make killing your own baby normal? Because I know what happened is my fault. Who else’s fault could it be? I was the one who was supposed to keep track of how often she was moving. I was the one who was supposed to notice the second she stopped.

And I didn’t. I didn’t notice a thing. And I let myself get so stressed out the night before. That whole weekend. So stupid when I think about it now. The doctor made a point of telling me that none of that mattered. That it wasn’t my being upset that made her heart stop.

But how can they know that for sure when they don’t know why it DID stop?

The saddest part about my fight today with Justin was how relieved he seemed. So happy to have a regular old fight. Like the ones we had before. Before we lost the baby, before we had Ella, before there was even really an us. Because that’s where we are: a place where a fight is the best hope we’ve got.

When I arrived at Ridgedale University’s main administration building, I spotted Deckler, the Campus Safety officer from down at the creek. He still looked weirdly muscular, now in a long-sleeved lemon-yellow spandex shirt and the same snug black bike shorts. He was standing next to the building’s front steps, hands on his hips, like he’d been expecting me. Or maybe he’d just been expecting someone like me. There were several news vans parked around the green, and I’d seen notepad-carrying people milling around in town, pointedly avoiding eye contact. Like if they pretended they were the only one covering the story, they’d beat everyone to the headline-grabbing punch. Surely this was only the beginning. How big the story became depended entirely on how salacious the details.

“I wondered when you’d get here,” Deckler said.

“Oh, hi,” I said, hoping I sounded glad to see him even though I was not. “Deckler, right?”

“Yes, Molly Sanderson from the
Ridgedale Reader
,” he said in this odd robotic way that was maybe supposed to be funny but was extremely creepy.

“Yes, that’s right.” I forced myself to smile. “That’s me, Molly Sanderson. And what did you mean that you wondered when I’d get here?”

He shrugged. “You’re a reporter who’s going to cover all her bases. Campus property and all that.”

That wasn’t it. He’d meant something else that he wished he hadn’t hinted at. He was wrong anyway. Coming to campus hadn’t been my idea. Erik had suggested it after I’d updated him about Rose.

Univ. student in the hospital. New mother. Hospital refusing release
, I typed away, wanting to tell someone, not fully considering the implications.
Might be related
.

Okay
, came Erik’s quick reply.
Follow up on campus. Get her story. Try dean of students. He usually comments without referring to Communications Department
.

As a reporter who’d stumbled onto a lead, I knew that was the natural thing to do: follow up. But I did feel conflicted. It had been easy to say that I wanted to find out what had happened to the baby, to get at the truth. But what if that truth implicated the baby’s mother? And what if she’d been one of those desperate terrified women I knew all about? Not to mention that it felt wrong pointing a finger at Rose when I didn’t know for sure that she was an official police suspect. That was one thing the arts beat had going for it: no moral complications.

But asking a couple questions about Rose on campus was hardly the same thing as running a headline calling her a baby killer. It seemed likely that the police already knew about her, and soon others would, too, including the press. I could at least poke around, see what there was to find out, and commit to reporting whatever it was, if and when the time came, with great care.

“I’m surprised they let you leave the creek,” I said, trying for friendly chitchat with Deckler, even though there was something about him—the weirdly intense way he had of looking at me, perhaps—that made me genuinely uncomfortable. “With all that ground to cover, I’d think they’d want every available set of hands.”

“
Let
me leave?” Deckler asked. “
I’m
surprised they didn’t run me over with one of their ‘cruisers.’” His fingers hooked the air dismissively. In the Ridgedale Police’s defense, I found it hard to take Deckler seriously, with that baby face and tight bike-cop outfit.

“Sounds like you don’t think much of the local authorities.”

Deckler shrugged. “It’s a club, and some of them have been in it a long time.” He stared at me pointedly. “They treat all of us on campus like we’re second-class citizens, even though we’ve had the same training and passed the same damn tests. Plus, we get paid about twice as much and get free housing.”

“Sounds like a good deal to me.”
So why do you seem so pissed off about it?

“It is,” Deckler said, eyeing me like he was trying to figure out if I was mocking him.

“Okay, well.” I took a step past him toward the building. “The dean of students’ office is in here, right?”

“Why?” Deckler asked protectively.

Why
, indeed. I shouldn’t have mentioned where I was going. It had been something to say, an excuse to leave. “I have some questions about a former student.”

“Who?”

Why did I keep saying things that led to more questions? I wanted to tell Deckler that it was none of his business, but there was a chance I might need his cooperation later. A change of subject seemed a better tactic than confrontation. “Actually, there’s something I was hoping I could clarify with you first.”

“Oh yeah?” Deckler looked intrigued. “What’s that?”

“You mentioned there were some crimes that you dealt with entirely on campus. Did you mean they don’t get reported to the local police?”

I suspected whatever gap there was between Steve’s assertion that all crime on campus got reported to the Ridgedale Police and Deckler’s implication that the opposite was true had everything to do with the enormous chip on Deckler’s shoulder. But I did wonder whether Rose Gowan, whose last name Stella had given me somewhat reluctantly, could have been sexually assaulted by the father of her baby—maybe
the
baby—and whether Campus Safety would have a record of it even though the police did not. Ridgedale certainly wouldn’t be the first university to prioritize the confidentiality of an accused student over a full and fair investigation.

“Life on campus can be complicated that’s all. These are all just kids,” he said, and with this look like I was supposed to get what he meant. “But if you want details about our procedures, you’ll have to talk to our director.”

“You must know what happens when you’re the reporting officer, though. From what you said before, it sounded like there are all sorts of procedures in place. Is one of those calling the local police?”

Deckler narrowed his eyes at me. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but if you think I’m going to be the one to start speaking on behalf of the university about a thing like this, then you must think I’m as dumb as Ridgedale’s finest do.”

Guess where I am?
I texted Justin as I waited inside the dean of students’ suite for his bulldog of a secretary to see whether he was available. It had occurred to me that I should have warned Justin that I was on campus, headed to speak with the dean of students, or at least trying to. Justin didn’t report to him, but this dean probably had a close relationship with the dean of faculty and the university president, both of whom Justin did report to.

There was no response to my text. No ellipses signaling an answer on its way, either. I checked the time. I was pretty sure Justin was in the middle of office hours. If he was in a meeting with an advisee, he’d never notice his phone.

I tried again.
On campus. Interviewing dean of students
. Waited. Still no answer.

“Ms. Sanderson? I was told you wanted to speak with me?” When I looked up from my phone, there was a long-haired man standing in front of me in a sport jacket. He had a hand outstretched. “I’m Thomas Price, the dean of students.”

He was
much
more attractive and younger than I’d been anticipating. Dashing, that’s how I would have described him. My thinking that would have made Justin gag. He didn’t like Thomas Price very much. He’d mentioned that more than once. Seeing Price, I understood why. In general, Justin wasn’t fond of dashing men, found them too precious and pretentious. In addition to being good-looking, Thomas Price had an air of easy sophistication—an excess of money and education that probably went back for generations. I always thought Justin and his family were so fancy until I met someone like Price, who was actually fancy.

“Yes, thank you so much for seeing me.” I reached out to shake his hand. “I imagine you’re incredibly busy.”

“You are correct,” he said with a warm but tired smile. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band. I felt a guilty thrill that I’d noticed. It had been a long time since I’d been capable of registering such a thing. Price waved me toward his office, checking his watch: large and silver and expensive. “I have a meeting soon, but I have a few minutes.”

Thomas Price’s office was spacious and bright, a large, paned window filling most of the back wall. Through it was a view of the athletic center and the hospital beyond and, in the very distance, the woods that led to Essex Bridge.

“Please, have a seat.” He pointed toward two red wing-back chairs facing his desk.

“Thank you,” I said, admiring the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. “Your library is amazing.”

“And thank you for not immediately dispensing with common courtesy. You’re not the first reporter I’ve spoken with today, but you are certainly the most pleasant,” he said as he sat behind his beautiful mahogany desk. “I suppose it’s the nature of this situation, but I don’t recall reporters ever being this aggressive. You wouldn’t believe the number of people who have threatened to park themselves on campus if they don’t get answers immediately. Answers we don’t have. Answers I don’t believe anyone has yet. In any case, if even a small fraction make good on their threats, it will be quite crowded around here.”

“Well, I bet none of the other reporters has a husband who’s a brand-new professor here,” I said. “Having your spouse’s livelihood hanging in the balance tends to encourage good behavior.”

“Sanderson, of course,” Price said, pressing a palm to his forehead. “You’re Justin’s wife, right? He told me that you were going to be working at the
Ridgedale Reader
. Welcome to town. I know you weren’t convinced about leaving the city—and that’s understandable—but Ridgedale is a wonderful place to live. I’ve only been back for a few years, but I also lived here when I was in high school; my father was a professor in the English Department. I apologize for not making the connection immediately. It’s been an extremely long day.”

“All the more reason for me not to take up too much of your time.”

“Yes, the university president just called to summon a group of us to discuss the problem of the police being on university property.” Thomas Price took a deep breath, his body sinking into the chair as he rubbed his hands over his face like someone trying to rouse himself from sleep. He seemed so genuinely overwhelmed that I felt disarmed by the intimacy it had given our conversation. “How exactly he expects
us
to make this very big, very bad problem go away is another matter entirely.”

“That sounds stressful.” And it did, but the words came out awkward, canned.

“Stressful, indeed.” Price smiled at me, holding eye contact for an extra beat as if he were noticing something for the first time. What was it? That I was pretty? Once upon a time, men had often responded to me that way. Maybe they had never stopped even though I’d certainly stopped noticing. Price added, “I’m sorry, here I am complaining, and you came to ask me questions.”

“There was a student here named Rose Gowan,” I said, stumbling to get back to the reason I’d come. “Do you know why she withdrew this past year?”

He frowned. “This is connected to the baby?”

“It’s part of a broader set of circumstances we’re investigating.”

Good. That didn’t expose Rose unnecessarily, and it wasn’t a lie. It was simply what I hoped would be true.

“In other words, you don’t plan to tell me?” he asked, eyes locked on mine.

“No, I don’t.” I held his stare.

“Fair enough,” he said, smiling a little, as if enjoying our push-and-pull. “I suppose that would be inappropriate. I’m afraid it would also be inappropriate for me to answer.” Thomas Price narrowed his eyes, considering, then turned to face his computer. “But because you have been so nice, and because you are part of the university family, as it were, let me see what I can find out for you here.” He turned to point a finger at me. “This is off the record, however. I’ll claim you broke into my office and rifled through my files before I admit to having told you.”

“Understood,” I said. Erik probably wouldn’t have agreed to “off the record.” But what choice did I have?

We sat in silence for a minute as Price clicked through various screens on his computer. “Ah, here it is. VW,” he said finally. “Voluntary withdraw. That doesn’t tell you much, I’m afraid; it could be for personal reasons, socioeconomic, almost anything. But it does mean that Ms. Gowan would be welcome back at Ridgedale University anytime. She wasn’t asked to depart for academic or behavioral reasons.”

“And is there any record of her filing any complaints against another student?” I asked.

“Not here,” Price said. “But there wouldn’t be. This is solely her academic record. Complaints like that are handled confidentially. The security office would have those records, not that they should be disclosing them.”

I waited for him to ask why I wanted to know. He didn’t. Instead, he looked down at his watch. “And now, unfortunately, our time is up. I assure you, I’d much rather stay and chat with you, but the president is expecting me.” He held my stare again, long enough that I felt another little twinge. He was . . . well, not quite flirting—noticing me. Price smiled almost bashfully, as though he knew I’d noticed his noticing. “Feel free to send an email with more questions.”

Respectful, too. Not come
see
me again. Because that would be inappropriate. He knew I was married.

“I definitely will. Thank you,” I said as he showed me out.

“Good,” he said. When he shook my hand, he held it for an extra second. “And send my best to Justin. The three of us should get together. I used to live in the city, too. We could reminisce.”

When I came out, Deckler was waiting for me in the hall.

“The director of Campus Safety will see you now,” he said, as if we’d had a whole conversation about my wanting that very thing. “Ben LaForde. His office is right there.”

“Meet with me about what?”

Deckler was blocking my way, pointing to an office a few doors down from Price’s. I did need to speak to LaForde. Still, I had the distinct impression that I was being sent to the principal’s office.

“You had questions about campus crime reporting. He’s the one who should answer those. He’s waiting for you.”