Wrecked(52)

“If you mean would I try to pull something over on you, no,” Richard said. “But I’ve definitely handed in some fairly lame papers.” They both laughed. It occurred to Richard that this was friendlier than it needed to be.

And no accident.

“So, why do you think you’re not on his witness list?” Dean Hunt finally asked. In his back--to--business voice.

“Probably because I wasn’t around that night.”

“Where were you?”

“At my girlfriend’s. She lives in Out House.”

“How long were you there?”

“All night. I didn’t get back to Taylor until the next day.”

“And your girlfriend is . . . ?” Dean Hunt waited.

“You want her name?”

“Sure.”

“Carrie Mason.”

Dean Hunt stilled. “Why is that name familiar?” He leaned forward, shuffled through the stack.

“She’s sort of a campus activist. Everyone knows her.”

Dean Hunt found what he was looking for.

“She took the initial call reporting the rape,” he said, his eyes scanning a sheet he’d pulled. “She’s on the college’s Sexual Assault Response Team.”

Richard nodded.

“Have the two of you discussed this case?” Dean Hunt asked sharply.

“No,” Richard said. “Actually, we broke up. I haven’t spoken to her since the night of the party.”

“You broke up the night of the party?” Not even bothering to mask the skepticism in his voice.

“Well . . . the morning after.”

“May I ask why?”

Because I joked that she raped me, Richard managed to not say.

“Does it matter? We were always fighting. Things came to a head, now it’s over. Why do you care?” He felt himself getting annoyed.

“I don’t care about your personal issues with your girlfriend. But I do care about connections. That’s what an investigation is all about: connecting the dots. Putting the pieces of the puzzle together. And now I’m told the best friend of the accused is seeing the SART leader who counseled the victim? I’d say it matters.”

“For the record: he is not my best friend. We’re housemates. That’s it.”

Dean Hunt shook his head, as if he were trying to clear his thoughts. “We’ll get back to your . . . uneasy relationship with Mr. Bockus. For right now, I want to know: did you and Ms. Mason discuss this case?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Think carefully, Richard. Pillow talk is a tricky thing.”

A harsh laugh escaped Richard. “Carrie’s not the pillow talk type,” he said. “Listen, Dean Hunt, she and I hung out at her house that night, fought in the morning, and broke up. We didn’t have a chance to talk about the case. Jenny didn’t even report it until days after the party, and Carrie and I were long past speaking terms by then.”

“And you know that . . . how?” Dean Hunt asked quietly.





. . .


The room moves. It swirls. It whirls. Like an amusement park ride that doesn’t stop.

“Do you want to dance?”

Tall Boy, in her ear. His lips brush her ear. Jenny looks up at him, staggers slightly. He laughs, takes her hand, pulls her along with him to the center of the room.

When they reach the middle, he tries to let go, but she grasps his arm. She’s not floating anymore; she’s spinning. The music buffets them, tiny piano hammers at her temples. Tall Boy bobs his head in time to it, smiles at her, moves his shoulders. She holds on.

This is dancing, she thinks.

. . .





25





Haley Richard is waiting for Haley on the chapel steps. It’s late. A few stragglers wandering back from the library are out, but otherwise the sidewalks are deserted.


“Hey,” he says as she approaches.

She sits beside him. “This is pretty stealth,” she observes. “You know, the Grille is open for another hour. It’s warm. They sell cocoa. What do you think?”

“I need to talk to you alone and not get interrupted,” he says. He sounds serious.

“We could have gone to my room,” she observes wryly. “Jenny’s moved out.”

“Really?” he says. “Like, left college or just moved to a different room?”

“Different room, different building. I was helping carry her stuff, which is why I couldn’t meet you until now.” She leaves out telling him how tired she is. Hauling Jenny’s things took longer than expected, not only because Jen insisted on not leaving so much as a pencil behind, but also because they had to move Mona’s furniture to a room downstairs.

“Good for her,” he comments. “Wish I could change rooms.”

This surprises her. She thought he liked Taylor.

“So.” Haley takes a deep breath. “On a scale of one to still furious with me, where are you?” In the dark, she can’t quite make out his expression.

“Annoyed,” he finally says. “I don’t stay furious for long.”

“That’s a nice quality.”

“I’m a nice guy. Not that women notice.”