After twenty minutes in the car, we arrived in Cambridge and turned onto Memorial Drive, which ran along the Charles River past Harvard and then MIT. I gazed out the window at the full moon shining on the Charles and wished that we were just going out like normal girls to see a band somewhere or to party at Hong Kong, a Chinese restaurant in Harvard Square that turned into a dance club after ten o’clock and was notoriously lax about fake IDs. I wished we weren’t on a mission.
Lexi performed an expert parallel parking maneuver on a narrow street just outside of Kendall Square, and we walked up to the address Farah specified: a tall apartment building with a lot of huge windows and terraces on the upper floors. A banner on the front advertised renovation and luxury living in Athenaeum Lofts.
Lexi whistled. “This is where he lives?” She dropped her head back to gaze up at the top of the building. “A lot of dark windows.”
Farah pointed to the sign. “Guess there are a lot of unoccupied lofts.”
Instead of a doorman, there was a portly man with a gray beard sitting behind a desk inside the front door, with a bank of security cameras behind him. Farah gave him an apartment number, and he lifted a phone and asked for her name.
“Mad Judy,” Farah said. Lexi and I, standing behind her, exchanged a glance, but after the security guard repeated the name into the phone, he hung up and nodded at us, pointing to an elevator bank.
Lexi barely managed to hold it together long enough for the elevator to arrive. Once the doors slid closed, she burst out laughing. “Mad Judy?”
Farah folded her arms. “It’s a Buzzcocks song,” she said. “It’s my handle. It’s the only name Mr.—this guy knows me by.”
“Wait,” I said, as Lexi kept laughing. “Does that mean you only know this guy’s screen name?”
“Yes,” said Farah. “It’s safer for everyone that way. Most of the work he does is not exactly legal.”
“So what’s his name?”
Farah blushed. “Mr. Grieves.”
That set Lexi off again. “Mad Judy and Mr. Grieves. You’re like a comic strip!”
“It does kind of sound like a Jimmy Stewart movie,” I admitted, chuckling.
“It’s a Pixies song,” Farah said to me. “A good one.”
“I take it you like punk rock,” I said.
“I like loud music, whether you want to call it punk or hardcore or just rock or whatever. Those classifications were only ever just labels on racks in music stores. They’re essentially meaningless in the era of digital music formats.” Farah gestured at her messenger bag, which was covered with patches for bands, some of which I’d heard of, like NOFX and Fugazi, and most of which I hadn’t: Secret Trial Five, Black Blood, The Kominas, Liberty or Death, Agnostic Front. I didn’t say anything else. I was obviously out of my element—aside from a handful of girly folk CDs left over from my sister’s college years, I just listened to whatever was on the radio.
The elevator dinged as we arrived on the eighteenth floor, and Lexi stopped laughing. We stepped into a vestibule and looked around. The chrome elevator bank faced a leather settee and a huge abstract painting. The hallway was off to our left, ending with a window of black sky. There were three doors, spaced far apart. Our feet were silent on the gray wall-to-wall carpet, and no voices or TV sounds came through the walls. I began to feel nervous.
“This is a really nice building,” murmured Lexi. “Mr. Grieves doesn’t—I mean, this has to be his parents’ place, right?”
Farah smiled a small, satisfied smile, and it occurred to me that Lexi probably wasn’t easily impressed. Farah straightened her shoulders. “Just follow my lead.” She marched down the hall and knocked on the center door, 18D. After a pause came the clicking sound of some number of locks.
“Paranoid much?” hissed Lexi, but I could tell she was nervous, too.
A tall guy in his early twenties, with olive skin and shaggy black curls, stared at us. He wore a black T-shirt that exposed his skinny-but-muscly arms. FRAK ME was printed on it in white block letters. His black eyes rested on each of our faces in turn: Farah, then me, then Lexi, then back to Farah.
“You didn’t tell me you were bringing people,” he said, like she’d brought bedbugs. Farah looked nervous just for a second, until the guy followed up with, “What is this, a Miley Cyrus fan club?”
Then her cheeks flamed pink and her eyes got big and she busted out a flirty little grin. “I think I deserve a little more credit than that.” She pointedly hitched up her bag and the guy’s eyes traveled to her band patches.
“Anyone who shows up at my door with two cheerleaders in tow, their cred is officially under review. Actually, anyone who shows up at my door with unannounced guests is on sudden-death probation. It’s a house rule. But you might as well come in,” he stepped back and opened the door a few more inches. “If you were Feds, you’d have a more effective cover.”
“Feds?” Lexi mouthed at me as we walked through the door. I shrugged. We had obviously entered The Twilight Zone. Lexi was piqued at being called a cheerleader. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Lex—”
“I don’t want to know your name,” said the guy—Mr. Grieves. “Why’d you bring civilians here, kitten? I thought we were discussing business.”
“We are.” Farah pulled out her laptop and sat down at the glass-topped table that separated the kitchen area—white tile, brand new appliances—from the living space. It was surrounded by four tiny white leather stools that looked terribly uncomfortable. Except for a large leather chair at a worktable with a widescreen monitor on it, all the furniture looked uncomfortable and too coordinated, like a showroom or a catalogue spread. The ceiling was at least twenty feet high, and the outer wall was entirely glass, exposing a spectacular view of the Boston skyline. An iron spiral staircase led to a large loft over the kitchen and doorway.
“You didn’t think I was going to show up at the apartment of some dude I met online without backup, did you?” Farah asked, without looking up from her computer screen.
Mr. Grieves blushed, just a bit. “I thought we’d established a little trust,” he muttered, eyeing Lexi and me doubtfully. He slapped Farah’s laptop closed. “You have PGP encryption?”
“Obviously. I’ve sent you encrypted emails.”
“You’re still not running this thing here until I’ve installed some of my own security programs.” He picked up the laptop with one hand and walked over to the worktable, which had a series of hard drives stacked underneath. He picked up some cables from the floor and plugged them into Farah’s computer.
“This apartment is awesome,” said Lexi. She was looking around curiously, and tugged open the refrigerator doors.
“What are you doing?” I asked quietly.
“Junk food,” she answered. The fridge and freezer were side by side, and together contained several red, single-serving boxes of frozen French fries; an economy-size bag of miniature tacos; half of a moldy lemon; and a cardboard six-pack of fancy beer with one bottle left. Lexi closed the fridge and turned to Mr. Grieves. “This is your own place?”
“Yeah.” He stopped tapping and glanced at Lexi, all sarcasm. “I’ve got squatter’s rights.”
“What are squatter’s rights?” I asked.
Mr. Grieves looked at me with undisguised disdain. “I’m joking. I own the building.”
“Oh, come on,” said Lexi. “You don’t own this whole building. We’re not that stupid, and you’re not that much older than we are.”
“Lexi!” snapped Farah. “You’re being rude.”
He leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. The tendons in his forearms flexed. “Yeah, I do own this building. I’ll withhold judgment on your stupidity, but I’m sure you…” He cast an appraising eye over Lexi. “…think small. You can’t help it,” he held up one hand when Lexi opened her mouth to protest. “You’re from Belknap. You’re in high school. You’ll probably go to college.” Like college was a pep rally. He shrugged. “I’ve been a freelance security consultant for five years, and I’ve been working off the books for even longer. Real estate is a good investment, and this way I have control over who lives nearby.”
Lexi gaped. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen.” Mr. Grieves went back to Farah’s laptop, and I caught her with that same funny smile she’d had in the hallway. “Now what is it you need from me, Mad Judy? Your Facebook page get hacked?”
“Don’t be a dick,” said Farah. “We need to get into someone’s phone.”
“Why? Your boyfriend texting some other girl?” asked Mr. Grieves. He crossed the room and gave Farah’s laptop back to her and then returned to the desk, where he began typing faster than I thought was possible.
“Do you really think I’d come here for that?” asked Farah. “Give me a little credit, Grieves.”
“This guy dump one of you?” He cast a derisive eye over all three of us, and I saw Farah cringe a little. “Ask you to prom and then hook up with the school slut?”
Farah looked at Lexi and me, and we looked at each other, having a silent conversation.
Should we tell him?
“Something like that,” Farah told Mr. Grieves, with a wry twist to her mouth.
“You know he’s out with Molly Winslow right now,” I blurted to Lexi. I don’t know why. There seemed like some kind of grim, ironic parallel between the cheesy soap opera Grieves imagined we were in and the fact that Hugh was, at that moment, charming his way into a younger girl’s pants, or at least her bra.
“What?” Lexi’s eyes were suddenly enormous. I could see the whites all the way around the hazel irises, which made her look a little bit nuts. “This rapist is out on a date with that innocent little—I mean, she’s a little full of herself but—Courtney, how could you not do anything?”
She had grabbed hold of my wrist and squeezed while she spoke. On top of that, my chest was tightening and my face felt flushed and hot. Because Lexi was right: Molly was out there somewhere with Hugh, and whether they were at the football game or Bertucci’s or a party, at some point he was going to get her alone in the dark. A fresh wave of self-loathing crashed over me, and I thought I might faint.
“Lexi,” I whispered. “You’re hurting me.”
She held up my wrist in her hand and looked at it uncomprehendingly.
“Did I hear you say this dude is a rapist?” asked Mr. Grieves.
Lexi dropped my arm and blinked, muttering, “Sorry.” She turned to Mr. Grieves. “Um, yeah. He’s got this poor sophomore out on a date right now.” She glared at me.
Mr. Grieves swiveled his big chair around slowly, like a villain being revealed in a Bond movie. “Is his car a 2009 model or later? You know his license plate number?”
“No,” said Lexi. “What do you need that for?”
“Wait,” I said. “I might.” I fumbled through my bag, nearly dropping it I was so relieved to be able to do something helpful, even if I had no idea what Mr. Grieves was up to. But I had realized that if Hugh did something to Molly that night, I’d never forgive myself. “His car’s from last year, I think.” I walked across the room, away from Lexi, who I was worried would never forgive me for having kept Molly’s date with Hugh to myself. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the pictures. The first week of school, before extracurriculars and athletics were in full swing, we’d hung out in the senior parking lot every day, goofing off. I had more than a dozen pictures of my friends perched on each other’s cars, clutching soda cans and mugging for the camera.
“Here.” In one shot, Hugh’s license plate was partially visible, half obscured by Lindsay’s long hippie dress. She was laughing at Ted and Hugh, who’d been caught with sitcom-worthy expressions on their faces, as if they were both saying “This guy!” and rolling their eyes.
Grieves glanced at the phone and punched the four digits he could see into his computer. “Good enough, if you can give me his last name.”
“Marsden,” I said. “What are you doing? Tracking them with GPS?”
“Better,” said Mr. Grieves, tapping away. “All these luxury cars with their computerized assistance systems have cameras in them so the operators can see what’s happening if there’s a wreck and the driver’s unconscious.” I flinched as music suddenly burst out of a set of hidden speakers, the cheesy dance club schlock to which Hugh was partial.
“—don’t call me kid,” Molly’s voice carried over the music, and she and Hugh appeared on Grieves’ monitor. We were staring straight at them; the camera must have been in the rearview mirror. She was flirting, her lips in a pout. “I hate that. I’m only two years younger than you.”
“Holy crap,” said Lexi. She stood next to me and peered over Mr. Grieves’s shoulder.
“Exactly. You’re a kid.” Hugh teased Molly.
“Yeah,” Mr. Grieves said to Lexi. “They’re in a car in Concord somewhere, according to the GPS.” On screen, a map of Belknap and the surrounding area appeared below the video feed, and he pointed to a gray dot.
“Wow,” Lexi said softly.
“This isn’t my first time to the rodeo, kitten,” said Grieves.
“I bet he took her to Le Hibou Jaune,” I said. This was a restaurant off the Concord town square that was decorated like a crazy grandmother’s attic, with pinball machines, tin signs, pink velvet armchairs, and various curios. The waiters were really French, very good looking but mean, bitter they were stuck in Concord instead of making better money in Beacon Hill or the South End. At Le Hibou Jaune, everyone always ordered steak frites, which were served on low mahogany tables under a huge crystal chandelier. It was a Belknap Country Day boy’s idea of a Big Date.
“If the girl is about to get assaulted, we’re not going to sit here and watch it.” Mr. Grieves frowned. “I guess I can go downstairs and get Bernard to call 911 on a burner—”
“Grieves,” said Farah. “There’s a reason we came here instead of going to the cops in the first place.”
“Well, if you three can sit here and watch a live snuff film, you’re a lot more evil than regular teenage girls. That’s pretty fucking evil.” Mr. Grieves was pissed.
“We’re not going to do that,” said Lexi. “But shut up for a minute. They might go to a party or something. If they’re on their way back to Belknap right now, he’s going to be driving for at least fifteen minutes. If they park or go to a party, we’ll have enough time to make the call. If they’re not…I don’t want him to know something’s going on. Not yet.”
We all leaned forward and stared fixedly his computer.
“So,” said Hugh, with his half smile. I wanted to punch his smug face. “Anyone else tell you I’m a bad, bad man today?” His voice was slick as shit.
“Actually, Courtney Valance apologized to me yesterday for talking trash about you,” said Molly. “It was weird.”
“I was not talking trash,” I muttered. I had hoped Molly hadn’t told Hugh I’d tried to warn her away.
“Well, C’s a drama diva,” Hugh said. He sounded almost affectionate. I felt ill, and caught Lexi looking at me out of the corner of her eye. “She’s, like—”
“Unpredictable?”
“Yeah.”
“I cannot believe they’re talking about you,” said Lexi. “What a little bitch.”
“Well, I did try to tell her to break up with her cool older boyfriend for basically no reason, as far as Molly knows,” I said. I was relieved she didn’t seem pissed at me anymore.
“Still. Why would you lie about that?” Lexi crossed her arms.
“—sister’s still not talking to me, though,” Molly was saying.
“She’s just jealous,” Hugh said, joking. “I’m tellin’ ya, Molly, it’s tough to be such a stud.”
“Shut up,” Molly giggled.
“Do girls actually fall for this crap?” asked Mr. Grieves.
“Seriously,” said Lexi.
“She’s a sophomore,” I said.
“Well, this dude’s taste in music alone calls his judgment into question,” said Mr. Grieves.
“Sssshhh!” said Farah.
“You sure you don’t want to come to McKinley’s party with me? It’ll be fun, and I swear to God I’ll have you home by your curfew,” wheedled Hugh.
“Trust me, I want to,” said Molly. “But I’d be so dead. We can park for a few on my street, though.” The tone of her voice made me think of the first time I made out with Ted. She was trying to sound like she sat in dark cars with boys all the time, but even on the grainy, low-res video stream, her eyes were bright with fear and excitement. I remembered the pounding of my heart, the smell of his Abercrombie cologne, the new upholstery in the Rover, and the roses wrapped in cellophane in my lap. Every crinkle had seemed eardrum-shattering, and I’d known he was going to kiss me but wasn’t sure where to put the flowers. I wondered if my innocence had been as obvious to him then as Molly’s was to me now.
“Ugh,” groaned Lexi.
“I like the way you think, kid,” said Hugh.
The dot on the map stopped moving. We all stared in horror as Molly and Hugh leaned into each other over the emergency brake, and heavy breathing and the soft, moist sounds of lips meeting came over the speakers.
“What are we doing?” whispered Farah, as one of Hugh’s meaty paws dropped from Molly’s shoulder to her breast. She flinched and murmured a little, but they kept at it.
Mr. Grieves opened a drawer under his worktable and pulled out a disposable cell phone. “I’m going downstairs. This is messed up.”
“Wait,” I said. “What if we get the cops there and it’s not what we think?”
“How can it not be what we think?” Grieves stood up and gestured angrily at the screen. “Every second we sit here, that girl’s in more danger. If what you said about this guy is true.”
“It’s true,” Lexi said. “But Courtney might be right. He does prefer his girls a little wasted.”
I turned to Grieves and put a hand on his arm. He twitched just a little and gave me a strange look, and it occurred to me that he was not a person used to being touched. “Can we text her? And make it look like it’s from another number?”
He gave me the eye, but he sat back down at the worktable. “What are the numbers, and what do you want to say? Something that will stop this, I assume.”
I had Molly’s number on the cast contact list that Mr. Gillison had handed out at the first rehearsal for The Crucible.
“Can you get into her phone and access her contacts?” I asked him. “The text should come from her sister, Elaine.”
“This is taking too long,” Grieves muttered, but a moment later he grunted, “Got it. What do you want the text to say?”
“Get inside now or I’m sending Dad out,” I said.
“What if Elaine’s not home? Or their dad’s not?” asked Lexi.
I shrugged. It wasn’t just a stab in the dark; it was a stumble in a pitch-black cellar.
“Who picks up a text when they’re fooling around, anyway?” barked Grieves, but he pressed a button, and we heard Molly’s phone beep over his speakers.
“Shoot,” she said, and pulled away from Hugh. I had never been so glad to see two people come up for air in my life. And I had seen plenty of sloppy make outs at Melissa’s parties. She opened her little clutch for her phone.
“I’ll be damned,” Grieves said.
“It’s my sister,” Molly told Hugh. “Crap, I’ve got to go.”
“Really?” Hugh pleaded. He brushed her hair behind her ear. It was a strangely familiar gesture; I could almost feel the sensation of his fingers.
“Um, unless you want to meet my dad. Right now. In his pajamas.” Molly put a hand to her face like she could just die at the prospect.
“I’d rather see you in your pajamas,” Hugh nuzzled her, and she giggled.
“This is sickening,” said Lexi.
Hugh locked his arms around Molly, but she wasn’t trying very hard to get out of them. “Hugh, I have to go.”
“I’ll only let you go if you promise you’re coming to Revelry with me.”
“Excuse me?” giggled Molly. “You haven’t even asked.”
“I don’t need to,” Hugh said. “I know you’ll say yes.”
“God.” Lexi closed her eyes. “’No’ really doesn’t exist in his universe, does it?”
“Well, I guess,” said Molly. She thought she was being coy. “I mean, if I don’t get a better offer.”
“What?” Hugh laughed and pretended to be offended as she got out of the car. We watched him stare through the passenger window, probably at Molly as she made her way up the walk to the Winslow’s front door. Then he started the car, and his music pounded over Grieves’ speakers once again.
I breathed out and felt all the tension go out of my shoulders, the way I did when the curtain dropped after the bows at the end of a show. “He’ll do it at the Revelry after-party.”
“You’re sure she’s safe tonight?” asked Mr. Grieves.
“What’s the deal with Elaine Winslow?” asked Lexi. “Molly said her sister didn’t want her dating Hugh?”
“That’s all I know,” I shrugged. Elaine hadn’t come out and said it when she’d spoken to me, but it definitely seemed possible that Hugh had done something to her, too.
“All right,” Grieves leaned forward and hit a couple of keys, and the map of Belknap disappeared. “So what do you want off this guy’s phone? Texts?”
“And emails and voicemails,” Farah leaned forward. “We want everything. Will you show me how you get in without the service provider picking up the breach?”
While they conferred, Lexi and I stood by the window and stared out at the glowing skyline. “I’m sorry I got so aggro about Molly,” she said softly. “But it’s just like…you, me, Farah, maybe Elaine—how many girls do you think he’s done this to? How many more will he go after before he graduates?”
“I get it,” I said. “I try not to think about it. Some days that’s the only way I can get through the school door, you know?”
“Yeah, I do. That’s why we need to get him kicked out.”
“How do we do that?” I asked. “I mean, if Farnsworth is willing to ignore a rape accusation for the hockey team’s record, what could Hugh possibly do that Farnsworth couldn’t brush under the rug?”
“Something public.” Lexi fiddled with the end of her braid, brushing it against her lips. “Something with lots of witnesses.”
“Thistleton Hall?” I suggested, thinking of the Panopticon. “A slanderous website?”
“You guys, come over here,” said Farah. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s from his notepad app,” added Grieves.
It was a list of dates, in reverse chronological order. Near the top of the screen, I saw “9/23/13.”
“This is the date of Melissa’s party,” I said. “The night he…” I swallowed my words.
“That’s mine.” Lexi pointed to 9/4/13. “Do you think this is, like, a record?”
“It has to be,” I said. “It can’t be a coincidence that both dates are here.”
“What do you mean, both dates?” Grieves asked.
I felt the blood rush to my face, and Lexi cleared her throat. Grieves looked back and forth between us. “Holy shit. Both of you?”
“We’re here,” Lexi said meaningfully, gesturing at Grieves’s humming computers and the guy himself. “You must have known we had a good reason.”
“Sure, but—” He looked at both of us again and interrupted himself. “All right. I’m waiving my fee on this job, and I’ll have my guys throw in a little bonus work. Delete his homework off his computer and flag his license plate so he won’t be able to drive two feet without getting pulled over for unpaid parking tickets, that kind of thing.”
“Thanks, Grieves,” said Farah. “But we need to do more.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Revelry,” Lexi said. “Getting drunk at the dance. If everyone knows, then Farnsworth will have to make an example of him.”
“I hate to break it to you,” I said. “But Hugh already drinks at dances. He’s always got a pint of Jack Daniels in his jacket. He knows exactly how drunk he can get and still hide it.”
“Then we’ll spike his whiskey,” said Lexi, with her naughty smile. “Isn’t that sort of fitting? Roofie-ing a rapist?”
“You are insane,” said Mr. Grieves.
“I don’t know,” said Farah. “Where would we get roofies? And wouldn’t that just make him pass out?”
“I don’t know,” mused Lexi. “Maybe I could crush an ecstasy tablet? Or doesn’t acid come in liquid form? I’ll figure it out. The point is, if he’s wasted, he’ll end up with Farnsworth calling his parents, or maybe even the hospital. He won’t be at the after-party with Molly. And with most of the junior and senior classes at the dance, Farnsworth will have no choice but to follow the school rules to the letter. He’ll have to expel Hugh.”
“How would we do it?” I asked. I wasn’t convinced we could drug Hugh, but Lexi seemed so determined, I didn’t want to let her down. “Where would we even get ecstasy or acid?”
Lexi put one hand on her hip and drummed her fingers against it. “Hmm. Marian’s only good for weed and Adderall. Benji gets mushrooms sometimes. And there’s a sophomore named Finn who sells Oxy. But none of that is ideal.”
“Is this really the way you want to go?” asked Mr. Grieves. “I know he’s done awful things and deserves whatever might happen to him. But drugging a guy…” Mr. Grieves shook his head. “Do you want to be the kind of person who does that?”
He didn’t mean it as an accusation, but of course it felt like one. I saw Farah staring down at her lap, her cheeks burning. Lexi dropped her braid and looked at me, a harsh expression on her face. Was I the kind of person who could roofie someone else, take away his grasp on reality and his ability to control himself, if only for a few hours, for a decent cause?
I thought of Hugh in the bathroom, the can of soda hitting my foot. His finger at the neckline of my shirt. My hipbones bruising against the edge of the sink.
“Listen, Grieves, or whatever the hell your real name is. I am that kind of person,” Lexi said evenly. “The kind of person who will punish people who hurt her, who hurt her friends. Maybe Hugh made me that way when he raped me. Or maybe I was that kind of person before. But I am, and I will, and if you don’t want to be involved, that’s fine. But it’s not going to stop me.”
We all stared at her. I felt a strange flash of fear mixed with admiration. Mr. Grieves opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “I’m not going to stop you. But if you’re going to do it, we might be able to find something legal that will suit your purpose. You’d be surprised what you can learn from researching chemical vendors.”