Eight-thirty now, Adams Bay would be coming to life. Certainly the press would arrive on news of Trey, and the spinning that came so naturally to Edward Tarrant would be under way. He’d manage, with eloquent sorrow and oh-so-deeply-felt regret. Avery’s murder was “solved,” thanks to Sasha’s quick thinking, and as she’d explained, in the after-hours conversation that bound her to him forever, it wasn’t really murder.
So now there was nothing but smooth sailing ahead. Trey was out of the picture one way or the other, Brinn would never know about Avery, he and Sasha were protected by mutually assured destruction, and all was right with the world.
What Sasha Vogelby wanted with him—some “future”—that was yet to wrangle. But he could keep her quiet, too. No matter what he had to do.
Edward swirled the last of the amber oolong in the delicate china cup, the scrolled handle almost too small for his hands, but he used it almost as a tribute. Part of a gift from a grateful family, a bequest, given in gratitude for his compassionate advice about the delicate situation in which their daughter had entangled herself. It had come with a check, made out to “Cash.” Which it soon had become. Off the books.
“You make your own bed,” Edward said out loud, to no one, taking the last exotic sip, the comforting morning silence of his office, his second home, surrounding him. He’d come in early, putting off the clingy and questioning Brinn, pleading the complicated “firefighting” that was certain to come. Those cops, reliably morons, had arrested Trey Welliver. Had to admit, Sasha’s idea was delightfully clever. Trey was guilty of rape, of that Tarrant was certain—the idiot boy had bragged about it. If Tarrant had turned him over to authorities for that last May, his punishment would not have been much less harsh than it would be now. Trey was guilty, so who cared guilty of precisely what?
He heard the door to the outer office open. Must be Manderley, here early for once. She’d be gone when the fall semester started next week, and he’d hardly miss her. She probably would want a recommendation. Pretty enough girl, but no commitment. No spark. Pity.
His intercom buzzed. “Mr. Tarrant?”
Who else would it have been? “Yes?”
“May I speak with you, briefly?”
“Come,” he said. The recommendation, no doubt.
Edward stood, went to his casement window, the double tall panes sliding open to the summer morning. He let the air conditioner continue to hum, a waste, he supposed, but the school could afford it, and there was nothing like the glorious hubbub of Kenmore Square waking up, the sunshine on his face, this window, higher than some of the treetops, the scurrying colors of the pedestrians below.
The office door opened. Manderley. And—he narrowed his eyes—another student, a girl. And another one. Elaine something, maybe.
“Mr. Tarrant,” Manderley began.
“Ah. Do you all have an appointment?” Tarrant was certain they didn’t. There were, what, four of them now? Girls, Manderley fronting a trio of others, Elaine, that was right, then a skinny black girl in a Yale sweatshirt, and a wacko with pink hair. He remembered her now, too, Rochelle, or Michelle. Rochelle.
“We don’t exactly,” Manderley was saying. She’d stepped into his office, the others following her, and they stood, in a row, facing him.
What was this?
“Do you remember me?” Rochelle.
She better not have decided to go public with her “case,” he thought. Her parents had been particularly kind.
“To what do I owe the—”
“I said—do you remember me?”
“Or me?” This one was Elaine, he was fairly certain.
“Please take a seat,” Tarrant said, stalling. If he went behind his desk it would give him more of the power position, but it didn’t seem appropriate to move. It might seem weak, as if he were barricading himself from them. An edge of floor-length linen curtain caught in a sudden breeze, nudged him, and he stepped away from the window.
“You’re…” He tried to look sheepish. Held out his hands, so apologetic. “Forgive me, so many students want—”
“We’ve come to chat with you,” Manderley actually interrupted him. “About what you’re doing to us.”
“To the women who relied on you. Who trusted you.”
“We came to you.” Elaine. Right. “When we were raped.”
He gasped at the word. It sounded so harsh.
“Raped,” Yale sweatshirt repeated. “I was eighteen years old. I will never, ever, ever be the same. And you—”
“Covered it the hell up.” Rochelle again.
“And we are going to tell.” Manderley took a step closer to him, and he backed up a bit, had to. His phone was on his desk, but no need to call security, what could these silly girls do? Let them talk it out. He could handle it.
“Moreover, we know about the others.” Manderley pulled out a notebook, flipped it open. “I listened to every one of your phone conversations this summer. Every one,” she said. “And Sarah—you remember Sarah? Your last semester’s assistant. She listened, too. Starting in May. When Trey Welliver bragged to you what he’d done to poor Isabel Russo. We know she told you, too. But what did you do? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”
“Listened to my conversations?” Edward tried to process this, remember what he’d said. And to whom. Although he knew full well, knew every parent and every student, every word. Every result. Not only assaults, but how many harassments, drug deals, illicit pill sales, shopliftings, and dorm thefts had he smoothed over this year? Seven? Eight? More? Still. The audacity. “How dare you!”
With one swift motion, he’d done it: grabbed the notebook out of Manderley’s hand and flung it, with one wide sweep of his arm, out the window. The girls pushed forward, watched the pages of the spiral notebook flap and flutter, sixteen stories down, to the sidewalk below.
“Thank you, Mr. Tarrant.” Manderley had not moved. She stood, hands on hips, smiling.
Smiling?
“Because, Mr. Tarrant, that one action proves you are guilty, proves you are complicit, proves you—”
“Are the biggest asshole in the history of the planet,” Elaine said.
“And, Mr. Tarrant,” Manderley said. “First of all, that’s not the real notebook. Don’t you watch TV?”
Tarrant’s guts were beginning to churn. His face … he could feel it reddening with a rush of blood and fear and the struggle to stay calm, stay in control. Fight this fire.
“Sit down, ladies.” Tarrant gestured them to his chairs, his beautiful chairs, and wondered how this would all end. He’d handled more difficult things. Maybe.
“Screw you,” pink-haired Rochelle said. “You’re going to come clean. You’re going to call the police. You’re going to tell them all you know. We are not victims. Our friends aren’t either. Not anymore.”
“Agreed,” he said. Okay, this could work, he would manage this. It was a negotiation. He’d negotiate. He felt his muscles relax a bit. There was light at the end. They’d never want their stories to go public. He’d use that. Use their fear of having to tell their pitiful stories to the entire world, to reporters, in open court. Use their secret fears of being branded damaged goods. That’s why his plan had worked in the first place. Such humiliation would be unbearable. “Please, have a seat, and we’ll talk like civilized people. Talk about what’s best for you.”
The girls did not sit. Did not move.
“And to be clear, Mr. Tarrant.” Manderley was not as pretty as he’d once thought. “I mean I have listened to all your phone calls. I know about Avery Morgan. What you did, the two of you. Where you were. Where your wife thought you were. Where your father-in-law thought you were.”
“Tell the rest, Man,” Yale said.
“And of course the…” Manderley gestured at the room, her motion taking in the rug, and the china, the books, his pen, his shoes. His sport coat carefully hanging on its molded mahogany rack. “The money. The gifts. From grateful parents.”
“Like mine.”
“Like mine.”
“Like mine.”
Each voice, a bullet.
“Does your father-in-law know about that?” Manderley asked. “He’s our next visit, by the way.”
“No,” Tarrant said. “Stop. Don’t do that.”
“No? Stop?” Manderley laughed. “Oh, please.”
“You mean it, don’t you? Because when you say no, the other person is supposed to stop, aren’t they?” Rochelle’s smile was a sneer. “But sometimes, guess what. They fricking don’t.”
“Unless…” Elaine held up a cell phone, as if offering it to him to make a call. “Unless you can come up with a better solution.”
These bitches. These little fucking bitches were not going to ruin his—no. It didn’t matter. He could handle them. He could deal with this. They were teenagers. Students. He was the dean of goddamned students. And they’d better get out of his office.
“After that, we have an appointment with your wife.” Manderley again. “Trey Welliver wasn’t the only one taking photos at Professor Morgan’s party.”
“You little—” He took a step forward. He could take them all. His fists clenched. “If you don’t—”
“Oh dear.”
Manderley actually laughed. Laughed at him!
“More violence on campus.” She turned to the others. “Interesting reaction, don’t you think? Did you get that, Elaine?”
She held up her cell phone again. “Rolling and recording,” Elaine said. “I got it all. When he told us ‘No,’ and ‘Stop,’ that was my favorite part. So far.”
“Or maybe we should just call your wife from here?” Manderley said. “I have her private number. Should we do that?”
His head throbbed, and his arm throbbed, and maybe he was having a heart attack? But no such luck—it would have made everything so much easier—but no, he was enraged, and furious, and fuming, but alive, and backed against the wall. There was no way out. Brinn, and his father-in-law, and the humiliation, and the headlines, and the wrath of the entire …
He blinked, looking at the finally silent line of attacking girls, thinking about what they knew, and what they planned, and what was inevitable. But he could still fix it.
“Will you give me until this afternoon?” he said. “Say, three? And then … I’ll be in touch.”
The four exchanged glances. A raised eyebrow. A shrug.
“Whatever,” Elaine said.
“Sure,” Manderley said. “And, Mr. Tarrant? I have my video with me. And there are copies.”
The door closed behind them.
Tarrant was alone. Alone.
He turned, and without a look back and without another word, his decision was made and done and there was no other way. He felt the brush of the filmy curtain and the grit of the wrought-iron balcony railing, looked down, down, down, and saw Manderley’s spiral notebook, its pages flapped by the unseen hand of a curious breeze. He felt the humid morning air and the last of the summer sun, and height, and space, and a touch of wind.