Edward Tarrant savored this part of the day, the edge of twilight, when he could be alone. He watched his newest student assistant close the inner office door as she left—she was here only for the summer, another silly cipher who worked in the Adams Bay dean of students’ office as a way to offset her tuition. As if a soon-to-be junior—from Connecticut, was she?—could provide any actual help beyond getting lunch and coffee and making sure he wasn’t disturbed unnecessarily. Manderley, her ridiculous name was, could barely make a decision about which calls to put through to him, let alone suspect what some of them were about. So his life worked. As indeed, he felt, it should.
The mahogany door latched itself behind her. Finally he was by himself, his office humming with the purr of his computer and the low rumble of the air conditioner. The plush carpeting that he’d installed last year had stayed pristine, the carved dark wood bookshelves were polished, the leather covers of the books they held were dusted and more than presentable. None had been read recently. He was more of an Internet fan these days.
Manderley. She’d be gone in two weeks anyway, when the fall semester started and the new recruits arrived. Fine, he thought, clicking closed the online issue of Campus Security. It was preferable to have someone who skated through the job without asking any questions. Someone who was two steps smarter might be a problem. Manderley had no idea about anything. Edward had a crew of others who did. But that was all information coming in, not going out.
And now it was quiet, his e-mails answered, the day’s fires extinguished, including the visit from those two television women, Jane Ryland and the other one. Unavoidable. It was clearly more prudent to agree to an interview than to protest. He was savvy enough not to be labeled (and ridiculed) as one of those “refused to be interviewed” chumps. He’d handled it. In the end, sadly, oh so sadly, he’d declined, for privacy reasons, to go on camera. Then ushered the two zealots out the door. They’d tried to pretend they were objective, even sympathetic. Bosh. He’d never met—never even heard of—a reporter he could trust. He’d handled them.
Just like he’d handled yammering students complaining about their unfair and life-ruining Cs. Or about the roommate who was too dumb or stoned or noisy or quiet or rich or poor or whatever. These were college kids, for God’s sake. They had to learn that life wasn’t fair. Unless their parents were ready to join the endowment list. Then lives could be made a little more fair.
Today he’d had a triumph. He licked his lip, took a last sip of coffee from his ceramic mug. “Adams Bay College ABC,” its decal read. With a predictable-looking school crest and the motto Cras principes committitur hodie. “Tomorrow’s leaders start today.” He’d secretly decided it meant “Crass principles.”
Anyway, the triumph. The parents of an obviously hyper-hormoned coed who were threatening to take their precious daughter’s tale to the “real police”—he stopped his recollections again, his memory tripping over the hated description. Real police. Please. He ran a tight ship, as his father used to say. And his helpers provided another layer of protection. Real police. Ha. They should have such connections.
But back to savoring the triumph. Yes, that was worth remembering.
It was always the girls blaming the boys and the boys blaming the girls for their own drunken or drugged-up escapades. Everyone needed to take a little responsibility. He’d used his most convincing arguments this afternoon for Rochelle’s family.
Peer pressure, he gently reminded them. Advised them that Rochelle’s life would never be the same if word got out. That it might be in her best interests—he always put it very gently—to keep silent about what she alleged had happened. Otherwise they might face investigations, inquiries, questions. Trials.
He’d used the same words with parents so many times, but he always tried to make the ominous litany sound spontaneous. A gift of knowledgeable and heartfelt information from a person who only had the student’s best interests at heart.
When he questioned, he’d put a catch in his voice, a hesitation, as if he were taking a chance, risking embarrassment. Had your daughter been … drinking? Using drugs? What was she wearing? Maybe she’d be thought of as a liar. Those words, he’d whisper.
He waited through a thick parental silence this very afternoon, wanting to see how the family would respond. Sometimes there was a high-pitched refusal, a firebrand mother demanding justice or a swaggering father demanding revenge. Those, he sent right along to the “real police.” And whatever they did, they did. Adams Bay had a few of those unfortunate incidents. He shrugged. ABC had a … a typical record. It’d look strange if it were perfectly clean. If that was how the family wanted to work it, fine.
But often, after the silence, after some anguished consideration, sometimes after a hushed little heart-to-heart with the girl—today it was Rochelle—the families would agree.
You’re so wise, he’d assure them, to say no more about what may have happened between your daughter and the young man. I’ll take care of her. I’ll watch out for her. She can always come to me.
How can we thank you? they’d ask. Often, by this time, they were crying. However you like, he would say. He never needed to say more than that.
Almost before the phone had settled in its cradle today, he’d contacted young William’s family to make sure they understood the trouble their son might be in—if he, Edward Tarrrant, didn’t protect him. And, like so many others, he knew they would likely be so immensely grateful, they’d make it worthwhile. Again, not that he ever specifically asked for any reward. Of course not. But often, relieved and appreciative families could not resist making his life a little more pleasant. He looked at the shiny Italian leather of his new shoes. Nice. Appropriate for a man of his stature. He’d certainly earned them.
It was a bit of a—how would one put it?—a bit of a tightrope walk.
He smiled as he stepped to the window of his office and looked out over Kenmore Square. He could see one corner of the big Citgo sign, turned off this summer to save energy. Sixteen stories below, the bustle of the Fenway crowd and the swirl of students from Adams Bay and monolithic Boston University. He always raised a derisive eyebrow at BU, the megaschool next door. Adams Bay was in its shadow, architecturally, academically, geographically.
But Edward was a big fish in the Adams Bay pond. He liked it that way, he decided, looking out over his domain. If BU called him? He’d say no.
Cars battled across the three-pronged intersection, choosing the direction of Fenway Park, or Brookline, or The Reserve. He imagined a conversation, yet again, where he’d turn down BU. Cordial, polite, even magnanimous. “Happy to be considered,” he’d say. “But Adams Bay needs me. I’m their fireman. When there’s a public relations fire, I put it out.” He would chuckle, and they would agree, and with regret they’d hang up, knowing what they were missing. Knowing they should have chosen him in the first place. They’d had their chance.
His phone buzzed. He looked at his watch. Approaching seven. It wasn’t a lawyer, he reassured himself, taking the three steps across the carpet to his desk. Lawyers didn’t work this late. He swiveled into the leather chair, got to the receiver before the second ring.
“Yes?” He recognized the answering voice, pictured the young man, one of his “helpers,” as the young man delivered his news. Edward’s eyes blurred, his book-lined office going almost out of focus as he assessed what he was hearing.
WILLOW GALT
If only she’d been taking a nap. If only she’d been watching TV, Willow thought, or in the shower, or in a million other places, anyplace but her own bedroom looking out the window. But no. No matter how you tried to create your story, how you tried to smooth the center and tuck in the edges and square the corners, life always took its own messy turn. She paused on the second-floor landing, hearing the bing-bong of the doorbell again, followed, again, by the knocking. She took a few more reluctant steps down the carpeted stairway, and as she got closer to the entry hall, heard the voices, too.
“Boston Police,” one called out. Not Come out with your hands up. Or We have a warrant.
“Yes?” She stepped to the threshold, opening the front door only partway. Tried to make her body language say, Go away. Tried to think—Do I need a lawyer? But how did you ask that without making it sound as if you already knew the answer?
“Boston Police,” the taller one said. He was so tough-guy, with that leather jacket, all angles, way taller than the other one. Hair unruly over one eyebrow.
“I’m Detective Jake Brogan, ma’am,” the shorter one, the handsome one, said. He smiled, so she figured he must be the good cop. He wore a leather jacket, too, even in August. Probably a gun under it, she thought. She had done nothing wrong, though. She’d made the conscientious choice. She simply couldn’t talk much about anything other than that. Anything at all.
“We’re investigating an incident in the neighborhood,” he went on. “May we come in? We’d appreciate a few moments of your time.”
She felt the weight of his scrutiny, the way he noticed her hair, and her neck and her fingernails, and her bare legs, her bare feet. He was trying to look over her shoulder, too, inside the house. Not doing a very good job of hiding his curiosity. Maybe on purpose?
“What happened?” Willow figured that’s what someone would ask, and it was true that she wondered. She knew the result of “what happened.” But not what led up to it. Not exactly.
“Maybe we could talk inside?” The detective looked back over his shoulder, and Willow saw two blue-and-gray police cars, looking blocky and alien, like uninvited visitors who’d blundered out of their territory. There were no lights anymore, no sirens. She and Dunc—Tom—had been assured The Reserve was private, with “neighborliness” essentially frowned upon. If you have to introduce yourself, they don’t want to know you, she’d been told. Someone—her heart lurched, remembering who—had teased her, saying that was The Reserve’s motto.
Now here were the police, asking to come in, and there was nothing she could do. Tom. She could feel her entire being call out to him. But he wouldn’t be home in time to rescue her, not today.
“Is everything okay? Is there danger?” She used her moment of looking over the officer’s shoulder to search for inquisitive neighbors, still strangers, already gossiping about why two police officers were at her door. The dominoes, Tom called them, and if the dominoes started falling … it might be a good thing their cardboard boxes weren’t all unpacked yet. She honestly yearned for answers. But these two, doing their job, could not be expected to give them. “Officers? Is there danger?”
“I’m sure there’s not, ma’am,” the tall one said. “And it’s ‘Detectives.’ I’m Paul DeLuca, this is Jake Brogan.”
“Homicide,” Brogan said. He stood on the brick front porch, next to the white ceramic pot of multicolored daisies. She’d planted them herself, insistently cheerful. A couple of green flies buzzed past. A door slammed somewhere.
Homicide?
“Homicide?” She said the word out loud. “Oh, I—of who?”
She saw the two exchange glances. Clearly they had some shorthand, and whatever they were communicating meant Willow had no more time to stall. She had to decide, right now, what she knew, and when, and why, and whether they knew she’d called 911, and there was no way to do that, there was no way to know what they knew, and no way to anticipate. There were too many silences, all hers, and she could not decide how an innocent person would behave, even though she hadn’t done anything wrong and it should be easy.
“Ma’am?” Detective DeLuca had taken a step closer.
She held her ground.
“Did you call nine-one-one?” Brogan asked.
“We’re willing to talk out here on the front steps,” DeLuca added.
“Though I’m sure the neighbors will be curious,” Brogan said.
“So did you call nine-one-one?” DeLuca asked it this time, and there was no way out of it now.
“And what’s your name, please?” Brogan said.
Willow had made her bed. And now she’d have to … whatever the rest of it was.
“I’m Willow Galt.” She felt their words pushing her, felt them closing in and the air closing in and the relentlessness of the outside world, and how you could never be in control, not at all. She’d thought she’d done a good thing.
“Come in,” she said. Now she’d have to handle it.