Josh got up at his usual 5:45 a.m., surprised to find Nicole already at the breakfast table, drinking coffee. “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “My job was to keep her safe, and now she’s dead.” She grew quiet, wondering once again how she could have saved Mary Ellen.
Josh put his arms around her, and she leaned against him. “You did everything you could,” he murmured into her hair. “She chose to leave. There was nothing you could do.” He was silent for a bit, then added, “Why don’t we take a run? Maybe that will make you feel better.”
“Maybe it would,” she said, “but I’m too wiped out.”
Josh fixed breakfast, and they sat at the table without their usual morning banter. A toxic mix of emotions—guilt, grief, and regret—churned in Nicole’s stomach, making it impossible to eat. She kept seeing the photos of Mary Ellen: her dull, staring eyes, the blank expression death had left on her face.
Josh seemed to understand. He cleared up the dishes while Nicole sipped her coffee and stared out the window. “Why don’t I stay home?” he said. “We could go for a drive and take your mind off what happened.”
“It’s sweet of you to offer,” she said, “but I know how much work you have. I’ll be all right.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
The moment Josh left, Nicole’s feelings of grief and guilt came rushing back. She decided that keeping busy was the only way to get through the day. She started in on her email, which she hadn’t looked at since the night of Mary Ellen’s disappearance. Her inbox was filled with what looked like hundreds of new messages. Aside from the usual junk mail, messages had come in from friends and acquaintances who’d seen Nicole in the news and expressed either sympathy or curiosity or both. These she read without answering. Maybe later, she thought. There was an even larger number of messages from people she didn’t know. She guessed they were reporters or curiosity seekers who’d found her email address on her company’s website. These she deleted.
She was about to turn off her computer when a new message arrived. It was from Veronica Smith, yet another person she didn’t know. Her cursor was hovering over the delete button when she noticed the email address. It ended with Oceanside.edu, which meant it had come from someone at the university. She opened it and read:
“You don’t know me, but I was Mary Ellen Barnes’s roommate. I saw that item about you in the news and know you spent time with her before she died. I need to talk to you. Please call me at 424-462-8906.
Veronica”
It was early, not quite 7:00 a.m. But the message had just come in, which meant the sender was awake. Nicole tapped in the number. A young woman answered with an upbeat “Veronica here.”
“It’s Nicole Graves.”
“Nicole! Thanks for getting back to me. How soon can we meet? I’ll come to your office, if you like.”
“Can you tell me what it’s about?” Nicole said.
“Not on the phone. But it’s really important. I promise.”
Nicole thought about it. This Veronica could be a reporter or someone else trying to set her up. But the Oceanside email gave her a certain amount of credibility. “Okay,” Nicole said. “I’m off work today. Why don’t I come out to the campus and meet you there?”
“That would be great,” said Veronica. “I’ll be in the main room of the student center, say about 1:00?”
“Sure,” Nicole said. “How will I recognize you?”
“I have curly red hair in a ponytail. I’m wearing a black-and-white striped tunic with ripped jeans. You can’t miss me. Besides, I saw your photo on XHN. I know what you look like.”
After they hung up, Nicole checked Veronica on the company database. Her parents lived within the posh confines of the Malibu Colony, their house valued at a cool six million dollars. From Veronica’s social media pages, Nicole gathered that the girl had gone to one of the most expensive private high schools in L.A. She’d had no brushes with the law, at least none that were public record.
With this information in hand, Nicole felt reassured that Veronica was who she said she was. The rest of the morning was spent on household chores. The prospect of driving to Malibu had refocused her thoughts. What did this young woman have to tell her? Before leaving, she called Josh to let him know she’d be out. She didn’t want him getting upset if he couldn’t reach her at the house. He didn’t pick up, so she left a message explaining she was going for a drive, and he’d be able to reach her on her cell. She didn’t say where she was going, much less why. He didn’t want her involved in the case—but why did he even have to know?
She had plenty of time, so she took the scenic route, heading south, then onto the freeway to where it ended in downtown Santa Monica. She had to fight her way through city streets clogged by construction projects and road work. Once she turned onto Pacific Coast Highway, however, traffic was light, and she lowered her car window. The ocean breeze was invigorating. The road wound its way along the coast. On her left was the water, reflecting the blue, cloudless sky; to her right, the stratified cliffs of Pacific Palisades. The water looked calm, although wind was ruffling the fronds of the palm trees along the beach.
Eventually, the cliffs gave way to rolling green hills, and Oceanside University came into view. The campus sprawled along the crest of a hill overlooking the highway and the ocean. The university featured a picturesque series of white stucco buildings with red tile roofs. From the highway, it resembled a Greek hilltop village, a vivid contrast to UCLA with its high rises and mashup of architectural styles.
Nicole turned onto the road leading up to the school. Before entering the campus, she stopped at a guard station, where a young man gave her a pass to display in her window. When she explained she was headed for the student center, he told her how to get there, marked “X” on a map, and handed it to her.
She found a spot in the parking lot and was getting out of her car when she heard loud male voices punctuated with laughter that marked the approach of a group of young men, students by the look of them. Most were big and muscular and their demeanor gave the impression they’d been drinking, even though it was only midday. She locked her car door and stood next to it, waiting for them to pass. As they drew level with her, one of them caught sight of her. “Hey, you,” he said, “Smile!”
It was a command she was familiar with, a way for men (usually young) to intimidate or harass women in public places. She looked around the parking lot. There was no one else in sight—just her and these muscle-bound specimens of raging hormones. She wasn’t afraid of them, not exactly, but she decided the best course was to remain silent and stand her ground.
A second young man chimed in. “Yeah. Give us a little smile, baby. No need to look all sour like that.” A third veered in her direction. “I know how to get a smile out of her,” he said. He paused at a spot near her car and leered at her. Finally, he turned and hurried to catch up with his cohorts, who’d moved on between the rows of cars. “Did you catch that look on her face?” he said. Whether they had or not, they seemed to find this highly amusing, laughing as they stumbled along. Nicole waited until they were out of sight before making her way uphill to the campus.
Close up, the buildings were much larger than they appeared from the highway. Students were everywhere, walking to and from classes. They were homogeneously clean-cut; most were white or Asian, she noticed, although she did see a few Latinos and one African American who looked big enough to be a football player. She made her way to the student center. Once inside, she didn’t see anyone who matched the description Veronica had given her. She sat down to wait.
The main room of the student center was large and high-ceilinged, furnished with clusters of red-and-orange upholstered couches, as well as white tables and chairs. Sunlight streamed in through floor-to-ceiling banks of windows. Those facing west offered a view of the ocean. The room was bright, cheerful, and inviting. Most of the seats were taken by students reading, working on laptops, or socializing.
When Veronica walked in, Nicole spotted her instantly. Veronica was beautiful, slender, and stylish. Her “tunic,” as she’d described it, looked expensive, and the “ripped” jeans had come by way of a high-priced designer. Her curly red hair was tied in a side pony tail with a black ribbon. She wore bright red lipstick and a generous amount of eye makeup. On someone else, the getup might have looked ridiculous, but Veronica had the panache to pull it off.
“Hi,” the girl said. “I’m Veronica. You’re Nicole Graves. I’d know you anywhere. I followed that murder case you were involved in. Pretty sensational stuff!” She paused to smile, then added. “Your photo was all over the tabloids.” Veronica’s voice was low and throaty, with an edge of sarcasm that might have been intended as humor. Her tone seemed to say, “Yes, I may sound like I’m being snarky, but it’s all in fun.”
Nicole had known girls like this in school, queen bees with a sense of entitlement and uncanny talent for dominating their peers. A girl like Veronica would always be the center of attention, and her followers would do her bidding, afraid of falling out of favor. Nicole could never figure out this social dynamic, how it worked or why.
“Let’s go somewhere we can talk,” Veronica said. “It’s too crowded in here.”
Veronica led Nicole to a bench in a patio just outside the building. It was deserted, perhaps because it was in the path of a frigid breeze.
“I have some things of Mary Ellen’s,” Veronica said. “A journal she kept and a Bible she made notes in. I found them a couple of nights ago—they’d fallen between her bed and a bookcase. The journal might have something important, you know, like a clue to the murder. I couldn’t make out her writing in the Bible. You’ll see what I mean.
“Anyway, I called the sheriff’s office. I thought they’d want it, but they never called back. When I saw your name in the paper, I remembered you from that murder case awhile back. I figured you’d know who to give them to.”
“The sheriff isn’t involved,” Nicole explained. “Mary Ellen was killed in Santa Monica, so the Santa Monica police are in charge.”
“No wonder I never heard back,” Veronica said. “Can you take her stuff and turn it over to the right person?”
“Of course.”
Veronica got up. “I forgot to bring them. They’re in my room. Do you mind walking over there? It’s a bit of a hike.”
Her curiosity buzzing, Nicole followed the girl up and down several of the rolling, grassy hills. Veronica walked effortlessly, her long legs keeping her well ahead. Nicole scurried to keep up. By the time they reached Richardson Hall, she was sweating. This building, like the rest of the campus, was white stucco with a tile roof. Inside, it was much nicer than Nicole’s dorm at UCLA. Veronica’s room had a black-and-white motif that looked like the work of a decorator: Matching black-and-white print spreads covered the twin beds, each adorned with artfully arranged pillows. The room was beyond neat, not a book out of place, not a closet door open.
“What a lovely room!” Nicole said.
Veronica smiled. “Decorating is one of my things.” She pointed at the bed against the wall. “That’s—I mean, that was Mary Ellen’s. When she first moved in, she wanted to use an old, faded quilt as a spread. It looked ridiculous. I offered to buy her one like mine. She said she preferred the quilt because her granny made it. I had to insist.”
Veronica gestured toward a striped loveseat, and the two of them sat down. For a long moment, Veronica was quiet, staring at her lap, as if pondering what to say. When she looked up, her expression was somber. “You know, we weren’t a good fit, Mary Ellen and me. Now, after everything that’s happened, I feel really bad about the way I treated her. I should have been nicer.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Nicole said. “When someone you know dies suddenly, it’s natural to feel responsible or wonder if you should have done more. I was supposed to keep Mary Ellen safe. She was my responsibility, and she died. Imagine how that makes me feel.”
“You don’t understand. I was really unfriendly to Mary Ellen; I barely spoke to her. Sometimes I was downright mean. She seemed like—” Veronica paused, searching for the right words. “I’m going to be brutally honest here. She came off like a clueless hick. Her cornpone accent got on my nerves. And—get this—right from the start she was trying to convert me. Me!” Veronica let out a snort of laughter. “Can you picture me as a born-again Christian? I mean, a person can only put up with so much. We’d only been roommates a few days before I told her to zip it about the religious stuff.
“I shouldn’t have been such a bitch,” Veronica went on. “I could have, you know, helped her fit in. Taken her under my wing. Given her a makeover or something.”
Poor Mary Ellen, Nicole thought. Veronica had reason to feel guilty.
“Well, none of us can rewrite history,” Nicole said, “but we can try to do better in the future.”
“You’re right. I’m going to be a better person. For one thing, I’ll request a freshman for my roommate next semester. I’ll make her my project.”
“That’s an idea,” Nicole said. She wondered if Veronica would really be doing her next roommate a favor. What if she took a perfectly nice girl and turned her into a copy of herself? But there was no point in thinking about it. Her only thought was to get a look at Mary Ellen’s journal. “Those books you mentioned?”
Veronica got up and opened a glass bookcase under the window. She pulled out a hefty black volume and a notebook with a marbled black-and-white cover. Nicole took a moment to examine them. The Bible was a handsome leather-bound copy of the King James version with Mary Ellen’s name stamped in gold on the front cover. The book’s margins were covered with tiny, penciled notes that were almost illegible. In the notebook, which Mary Ellen appeared to have used as a journal, her writing was messy, but not as hard to make out. Turning to Veronica, now seated beside her, Nicole said, “Tell me what you know about Mary Ellen. Did she have friends? Boyfriends? Living with her, you must have picked up on what she did with her time.”
“Boyfriends? That’s hard to picture, but I wouldn’t know. We hardly ever talked. She didn’t have much to say, especially after I yelled at her for trying to convert me. Later, when news of the rape got out, I was sorry to hear what she’d been going through. I wish I’d known, but ...” Her voice trailed off.
“I understand,” Nicole said. “She told me she was being blackmailed. Someone had a video that she was terrified would be posted online. Did you hear anything about it?”
“Mary Ellen?” Veronica shook her head. “That’s hard to imagine.” She paused and thought a bit. “Wait a minute. I just remembered. She’d been going to Bible study meetings the last few months. It’s in the student center, a room reserved for nerdy campus clubs. You know, stamp collectors, anime fans, astronomy freaks, that kind of thing.”
Veronica was silent, tapping her cherry-red lips with a matching, cherry-red fingernail. “The guy who runs Bible sessions is Jonathan Lyons, the school chaplain. He’s super hot. I mean, he’s the reason all those girls are dying to take up the Bible. And there’ve been rumors—” By now Veronica was grinning, as if she was telling a joke and about to deliver the punch line.
“Like what?” Nicole said.
“He has an office in the student center where he counsels students.” Veronica made air quotes with her fingers when she said counsels. “Word has it that this counseling goes way beyond spiritual matters, if you get my meaning.”
“Has anyone reported him?”
“Not that I know of. He’s also declared war on Oceanside’s athletic program, especially the football team, which he says leads to ‘idolatry,’ whatever that means. And he says sporting events condone violence and team members lead immoral lives. Translation: He hates minorities, who make up most of the football team.”
“Wow,” Nicole said. “He sounds like a real piece of work.” She flashed back to her own student days. Blackmail, murder, a randy, racist chaplain—if things like this went on, she’d never heard about them. Oceanside, tiny by comparison, seemed a hotbed of scandal and a much more hazardous place for young people to get an education.
Veronica wasn’t finished. By now she was almost gleeful. “I almost forgot,” she said. “I don’t know if he was a boyfriend, but Mary Ellen definitely had a crush on somebody.”
“Was it the chaplain?”
“No idea. She left her journal open one time when she left the room. I got a look at what she’d written: It was about how thrilled she was because some hot guy had chatted her up.”
Veronica took the journal from Nicole’s lap and leafed through it until she found what she was looking for. “Here it is: ‘All the girls are crazy about him. I never thought he’d even look at me. But today he came over to say hi, and we talked a bit. I was so freaked I could hardly speak.”
Nicole took the notebook and glanced at the passage. “But you don’t know who this was.”
“No. Mary Ellen came back and caught me with her journal. After that, she hid it. I never saw it again.”
Nicole stood up. “Well, thanks for calling me. I’ll make sure the police get these. If you remember anything else, let me know.”
“Will do,” Veronica said. “Here. I’ll give you something to carry them in.” She reached into the closet and pulled a striped book bag from a hook.
“Thanks,” Nicole said. “I’ll mail it back to you.”
“No need. I’ve got tons. I’ll show you where Lyons’s office is. I have to go back to the student center anyway.”
While they walked, Veronica kept up a steady chatter about her extracurricular activities. Besides cheerleading, she was involved in fencing, model senate, debate team, and the women’s rowing team. By the time they reached their destination, Nicole, who usually wanted to know all about the people she met, felt as if she knew a little too much about Veronica.
Once they were in the student center, Veronica pointed to a staircase. “Lyons’s office is up the stairs and to your left. Nice meeting you!” She gave a wave and headed toward a group of similarly well-dressed girls. At the sight of Veronica, several of them screeched with delight, or a good imitation of it. Nicole found herself remembering high school and thinking that some things never changed.
When Nicole got to the second floor, she took a left and looked for Lyons’s office. Each door had the occupant’s name and position painted on the frosted glass window. Jonathan Lyons, Chaplain, was at the end of the hall.
Nicole knocked. There was no response, but she could hear the low murmur of voices inside. She waited patiently until a girl came out. Her face was flushed, and she looked as if she’d been crying. She wiped her eyes with a tissue while she held the door open for Nicole.
“Come in, come in,” Lyons said. He was seated at his desk and didn’t get up. He was indeed handsome in a square jawed, old-fashioned, movie-star kind of way. She guessed he was in his mid-forties. His voice was deep and resonant. “Welcome,” he said. “Close the door and have a seat.” He paused while she did this, then went on, “How can I help you?”
Nicole introduced herself and explained why she was there. Lyons listened attentively, but there was something about him that made her uncomfortable. Perhaps it was his aggressive use of eye contact. It was as if he was trying to draw her in and, if such a thing were possible, hypnotize her. She found herself having to look away once in a while.
“Mary Ellen Barnes, that poor young woman,” he said. “Such a tragedy. Such a terrible thing for her family and for our community of young people.”
“I understand Mary Ellen came to your Bible sessions.”
“Yes, indeed. She was a very dedicated student.”
“I wonder if you could tell me anything about her. Maybe she asked you for advice about a problem she was having?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss my counseling sessions with an outside party. I can’t even say whether or not she sought counseling. These communications are confidential.”
He paused before continuing, “But what about you? Why are you really here? I sense that you’re troubled in your own life. That you’re searching for something you haven’t yet found. Am I right?”
Nicole was taken aback. Where was he getting this? “You’re mistaken,” she said. “I’m just trying to figure out what happened to Mary Ellen.”
“It all goes back to God’s plan, doesn’t it?” Lyons said. “As they say, He works in mysterious ways. Just look at how He led you into my office this afternoon.”
Nicole was getting goosebumps. This guy wasn’t hot, as Veronica had put it. He was creepy. She stood up. “I gather you won’t be telling me anything about Mary Ellen then. Thanks for your time.” When she reached the door, she turned back. “Do you want me to leave it open?”
Once again his eyes locked on hers. “My door is always open. When you decide you want help, I’ll be waiting.”
She left the door ajar and walked quickly away. The girl who was in his office earlier had come out crying. Nicole wondered why. She couldn’t understand how anyone would be taken in by Lyons’s Svengali stare and mind-reading act. As for her, she couldn’t wait to get away.
As she left the student center and walked down the hill to the parking lot, something occurred to her. Was it possible Lyons was the killer? According to Veronica, he’d declared war on the school’s athletic department, and Doshan was its biggest star. But would a man like him commit murder to discredit a member of the football team? It seemed preposterous. She was letting her imagination run wild.
Reaching the row of the parking lot where she’d left her car, she was surprised to see a young man kneeling next to her rear tire. He was running his hand around the edge, as if he were feeling for something.
“Hey!” she shouted, hurrying toward him. “What are you doing? That’s my car.”
Startled, the young man jumped to his feet. She didn’t recognize him as one of the group she’d run into earlier. He had a baby face and looked as if he should be in high school. She could tell by his expression that he‘d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
She repeated her question, softening her tone. “What were you doing?”
“Uh,” his eyes were darting about, as if he were trying to come up with an answer. “I was checking your tire.”
“Checking my tire?”
“I thought you, like, had a flat.” He was visibly sweating and looked as if he wished he were anywhere else.
“A flat? Let me see.” Nicole studied the tire and then checked the front tire for comparison. “It looks fine to me.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “It’s fine.”
Only then did it occur to her that he might have been about to let the air out of her tire. But why? She didn’t know him. Still, his guilty look told her he’d been up to something. Maybe it was fraternity hazing. Perhaps some frat boys had ordered this kid to let the air out of tires in the public lot during broad daylight, figuring he might be caught and get in trouble.
She pulled out her keys. “All right, then,” she said. “Thanks for checking my tire.” He swallowed hard, bobbed his head, and walked quickly away.
She’d started the car before she noticed a piece of paper tucked under her windshield wiper. She turned off the engine and got out to retrieve it. It was a sheet of paper folded into a square. She unfolded it. In large, hand-printed block letters, it said:
IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU, YOU’LL MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.
She read it over several times. The threat was vague and could have been directed at anyone, but she had the feeling it was meant for her. She stepped back from the car and looked around. The young man had disappeared.
When Nicole left the campus, she headed in the opposite direction she’d come. No one left the parking lot after her. She drove a mile or so. Then she took a left into one of the beach parking lots, turned the car around, and headed home. She was watchful all the way, but as far as she could tell, no one was following her. Still, the note troubled her, giving her the feeling she was being watched.
§
Once she was safely in the house, Nicole leaned against the front door and thought about her last glimpse of Mary Ellen as she ran away and disappeared into the darkness. Nicole put her hands over her face and gulped back tears. She was never going to get over this, she thought. Mary Ellen’s ghost would always be with her.
At last she went into the bathroom and splashed her face with cold water. Then she got the Bible and notebook from where she’d left them on the hall table. She settled on the couch with the Bible in her lap and checked her watch. It was after three, and Josh wouldn’t be home before 5:30 or 6:00. She had plenty of time.
She started with Mary Ellen’s scribblings in the margins of the Bible. As Veronica had pointed out, they were hard to decipher. Mary Ellen had penciled in tiny notations to fit in the margins. Nicole read some notes at the beginning of Genesis, then flipped through the book, reading comments at random. From what she could make out, they all seemed to be about the scriptures, questions about the meaning of certain passages, and brief exclamations of agreement. Mary Ellen had noted things like, “For Bible Study,” and “Have L explain.” There didn’t seem to be anything of a personal nature.
Next, she picked up the journal. Here, in much more readable form, was the sad story of Mary Ellen’s life in the months leading up to her death. The girl’s mother was working two jobs, barely managing to support herself. She was divorced from Mary Ellen’s father, but he regularly stopped by the house drunk, looking for a fight that often turned physical. Mary Ellen complained about her overwhelming load of homework and the fact that her grades were so low she was in danger of losing her scholarship. She also fretted about her run-ins with Veronica and her failure to find friends at the university.
After her first finals, Mary Ellen wrote that she’d barely passed. She started off the next quarter with the news that she’d joined the Bible studies group. Soon after, she wrote, “I saw him close up for the first time. He is so handsome I could die. My parents would have a fit if I had anything to do with this guy. But I don’t care. As my roommate would put it, I ‘have the hots’ for him. I’ve always been the goody-goody who never gives in to her feelings. I took that stupid oath about saving myself for marriage, but now I’m taking it back. Why can’t I let go of those stupid rules and have fun like everybody else. ”
Nicole wondered if the unnamed crush had been Doshan. Mary Ellen had said she’d met him in Bible study. The journal entry went on to list her strategies for attracting his notice. It sounded like she was all but stalking him.
Her last long entry was mid-January, about five weeks before her sexual encounter with Doshan. After that, there were only a few entries. Mary Ellen seemed to have lost interest in keeping the journal. For the next few weeks, she just noted events and times, but nothing of a personal nature. The rest of the book was blank.
Nicole glanced at her watch. It was almost 5:30 p.m., and Josh could be home any time now. She took the books upstairs and put them on her night table. She’d call Detective Martinez in the morning.
She thought of the note she’d found on her car telling her to mind her own business. It was a moot point—she had no intention of poking into the murder investigation again. She was leaving it to the police this time. But what if she had to testify? One step at a time, she told herself.
Nicole tried to focus on the evening ahead with Josh, but she couldn’t shake off her sense of regret and dread. She had the feeling that, while this tragedy had all but crushed her, something else was about to happen, something bad.