THE HORROR
The dean is waiting for me in her attic garret. She looks terrible. I’ve been so caught up in my own drama with the tap and Becca’s advances and the aftermath of Camille’s death that I haven’t stopped to think about the adults. How they might be suffering. Camille’s mother, who is threatening to sue the school—oh, yes, we’ve all heard about the threats—seems to be more litigious than heartbroken.
But what do I know of these things? If my child died suddenly without a decent explanation, perhaps I, too, would want to burn down the houses of all who knew her.
Though her eyes have dark circles beneath them and her skin is pale, Westhaven’s hair is in a perfect chignon, and she’s wearing pearls and a cashmere twinset the color of sunset. I’ve never seen her polished facade looking quite so mature before. She’s always been elegant, but there’s a fragility around her now that’s becoming. It suits her, pain.
She greets me with a limpid smile. “Hello, Ash.” Then a much more concerned, “Are you well?”
“I’m fine, Dean.”
She doesn’t believe me, but whatever. I’m too tired to care about keeping up appearances. I slump in the chair across from her little desk. “What’s this room for?”
She glances around as if it’s the first time she’s ever been inside. A small, private smile crosses her face. “It’s my thinking space. I practice speeches—I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t particularly care for public speaking.”
Her confession surprises me. She looks so young at this moment. Young and tired and overwhelmed by the past few days of scrutiny on her and the school. It’s very like a child to ignore the needs and desires of their parents—I’ve never stopped to consider what it must be like to be riding roughshod over two hundred unruly girls. One hundred ninety-nine now. I’ve been much too busy existing in my own strange bubble.
“I didn’t. You always seem so self-assured.”
“Ah, that’s the practice. If you’re ever afraid of something, Ash, you must face that fear head-on. Experience it, live it, breathe it, lean in to it. If you do, you’ll conquer it. Let it run your life and you will always be its slave.”
And if that fear is embodied in a sixteen-stone hulking mass who likes to hit? Not feeling the “lean in” to that, Dean.
“I also write here, sometimes.”
This intrigues me. I’ve heard the dean is a frustrated writer. Giving up dreams to do the right thing; now, this is something I understand. I play it coy. “Letters?”
“I’m working on a novel, actually,” she continues. “I thought I’d be living in New York, the toast of the literary circles by now. Instead—”
“You’re stuck here, headmistress to a lot of ungrateful young women.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. You’re not ungrateful.”
Oh, lady, if you only knew. “No, I’m very grateful. But you know what I mean.”
“I do.” She moves to the desk, rests three fingers on its battered surface. “Don’t get me wrong, Ash. I love my job. I love this school. The students. All of you. But sometimes, it’s very hard. I escape up here for a little quiet, someplace comfortable, and I work or think. Every woman should have her own place to escape to.”
“‘A room of one’s own.’ We’ve been studying Woolf with Dr. Asolo. I agree completely.”
She smiles. “You must be wondering why I’ve asked you here.”
“I assume it’s something to do with Camille’s death.”
“Yes and no.”
“Did the autopsy find something?”
“Not exactly. Well, yes. I can trust you, can’t I, Ash?”
“Yes, of course.” What the hell is this? Why is she trying to give me agency, now of all times?
“Camille was still pregnant. They’re doing DNA to find out who the father is.”
This strikes me as so sad. What a waste. “I’m sorry. Dean, Vanessa and Piper, did they come to you? Tell you?”
“What would they have to tell me?”
“I think they know who Camille was seeing.”
The dean’s demeanor changes. Her face shutters, that pained, scared look reappears in her eyes. “Oh. Oh. Thank you for telling me, Ash. I did speak with them, and they assured me they don’t know.”
Figures they were lying.
“Now, I have a little favor to ask. I received an email from a stranger, and I’d like to know if you can tell me where it came from.”
“Dr. Medea—”
She hands me a piece of paper, a full header from the email that she’s printed out. “I’d like to keep this between us girls, if that’s all right with you.”
There’s no subject. I can tell there were attachments, several of them, HEIF, the file type Apple uses. The images came from an iPhone.
I look closer, tracing the head. It’s come from a throwaway account, totally anonymous. But the IP address, it’s generated from Canada. Odd. The last time I set up my VPN, I hooked into a Canadian server farm.
Whoosh.
Oh, bloody hell. Was this email the one that was in my draft folder when I opened my program? The phantom Send?
I go back to the beginning of the head. Memorize the thread of numbers. My email should be untraceable.
I think.
I’ve backstopped everything, but I hadn’t planned to send any anonymous emails to the dean of my fucking school.
And why has she come to me instead of Dr. Medea? What sort of trap is she laying? Is she handing me the tools of my own destruction? A way to get out of everything?
I can’t see the details, but I can’t help but wonder who is sending the dean images. And of what? I take a stab in the dark.
“What are the photographs of?” I ask.
Her face drains of color. Bingo. “You can see there are photos?”
“Yes, Dean. At least six attachments, all HEIF.” At her blank look, I continue, “High Efficiency Image Files. Helps with compression and... Hey, are you okay?”
Her hand flutters to her throat. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Only...someone is playing a cruel joke, I’m afraid.”
“There seems to be a lot of that going around.”
“You can’t decipher who sent it?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. It’s from an anonymous, throwaway account. It’s probably already been deleted. It’s an easy thing to do.”
“Can you tell if it was sent from inside the school?”
Careful...
“That’s trickier. Origins can be traced if given enough resources, but off the top of things, I’d say chances are it comes from outside. If it was inside the school, the intranet signature would be here, on this line.” I point to the spot. “It’s missing those designators. As a matter of fact...” I make a point of reading it again. “I believe this was sent from a mobile device, not a computer.”
She blows out a breath, and I do, as well. She’s not trying to trick me. Seems we both have something to hide here.
I don’t have a phone. I’m safe.
“I appreciate your help, Ash. Yes, someone sent me some photos, of one of our students, and I want to be sure we handle this carefully. It would be good if you didn’t mention this to anyone.”
“Will you show this to the sheriff?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think it has bearing on the case. Like I said, this seems to be someone playing a cruel joke. I think I’ll delete it and we’ll all move forward.”
Good idea, Dean. Really good idea.
“Oh, one more thing...tell me, is there any indication this email was sent to anyone else? Or only to me?”
“I don’t see any other addresses. Yours only.”
The bells toll, the deep tenor clangs of the tongue against the brass especially loud in this space. Moments later, the dean’s mobile rings. She glances at it. “Ah, this is Melanie. I need to go. And you’re expected in English now, aren’t you?” She smiles, benevolence incarnate. “Go straight to class, Ash. We don’t want Becca finding you in the hallways, do we?”
See? I told you they are in on it.