Wrecked(59)

Those are returnables. You don’t put returnable bottles in the recycling tubs. Even Haley knows that.

You also don’t keep tubs in the common areas. Only the bedrooms.

Dean Hunt returns the cylinder to its place behind his desk. He writes some more. “What happened after that?”

“I managed to get outside,” Jenny says. “I remember the fresh air felt so good. I walked a little. Not far, because I could still see the house and hear the party. I remember thinking I would walk back to the dorm, by myself, and I was about to leave when someone said hello. And it was him. Jordan.”

“He followed you?” Dean Hunt asks.

“Maybe. I don’t know. He was just there. Standing under a tree.”

Haley can’t help it: she shivers. This creeps her out. Poor Jenny.

“What did you do?” Dean Hunt asks.

“I said hi. He asked me my name. I remember thinking it was strange. That he was out there all by himself. Drinking. Not the same thing. It was a bottle of something.”

“Did he offer it to you?”

“No.” She pauses. She seems to retreat into herself as she scrolls through the memories of that night. She wears the saddest expression. “He asked if I was having a good time, and I told him no. He said he wasn’t having a good time, either.” She looks at Dean Hunt. “I remember we both sort of laughed.”

“Did he say why he wasn’t having a good time?”

“I don’t really remember,” Jenny replies. “Maybe something about it being too crowded? He didn’t like the music.”

“What do you remember next?”

Jenny swallows. Her shoulders rise and fall.

Here it comes.

“We walked. Nowhere in particular. Along the sidewalks around the houses.”

“Did you pass anyone? Anyone you know or who greeted Jordan?” Dean Hunt asks.

“I don’t remember.”

They talked, Jenny continues. Or she did, at least. Jordan asked her about herself. Where she was from, her major, how she liked MacCallum. At some point, she says, it started to feel weavy.

“Weavy?” Dean Hunt asks.

“Like we weren’t walking. We were weaving. Through the trees, in the dark. I didn’t feel right. And I told him that.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Do you want to lie down for a minute? I live right here.’ ”

Dean Hunt doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Jenny and waits.

“I know how that sounds,” she whispers. “I shouldn’t have gone with him. I didn’t know him. I should have gone back to the party, found the girls, told . . .”

“Jenny. Just tell me what happened next.”

“We went to his room. It was upstairs. I remember climbing stairs. I remember it was quiet. He said everyone was still at the party. I remember two beds. He sat on one and sort of grabbed my hand and pulled me down so we were sitting next to each other. I remember my feet hurt. I had borrowed Marliese’s shoes and I never wear heels. So I took off the shoes. I don’t know, maybe that was it? He thought I was getting undressed? I should never have—”

“Jenny?” Dean Hunt interrupts. “Just so I’m clear: you walked into Taylor House with Jordan?”

“Yes. Taylor. He said it was where he lived, and he lives in Taylor.”

“And you went upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“And you remember the room?”

“Yes.”

“Can you describe it a bit more?”

“Typical dorm room. Two beds, one on each side. One desk was at the foot of a bed, the other in front of the window. A lot of posters on the walls. Junk on the floor. I remember kicking a stray shoe.”

“Did you or Jordan turn on the lights?”

“He turned on a desk lamp. Not the overhead. I remember that because he had a picture, a framed photo of his dog. On the desk. He has a really cute dog. I actually picked up the picture for a better look.”

“What kind of dog?” Dean Hunt asks.

Seriously? You’re asking about some damn dog?

“A golden retriever,” Jenny says without hesitation. “I love goldens.”

“Did he tell you the dog’s name?”

“Oscar,” she says, smiling slightly. “I thought it was a great name.”

“Jenny, did you talk about the dog and hold the picture before or after you sat on the bed?”

The smile fades. “I guess before. Definitely not after. When we were on the bed, it was dark. So he must have turned the light out, then pulled me onto the bed.”

Dean Hunt nods and scribbles, quickly. Jenny pauses as he writes.

“And can you describe what happened next?” he finally prompts.

There’s a window behind Dean Hunt’s desk. Haley sees Jenny stare out that window. Hears her take a long, deep, slow breath in, then out.

“It will be hard,” Carrie had told her, “telling a complete stranger. A man, at that. They should really get a woman to ask these questions, but . . . that’s another story.”

They were sitting in Mona’s--now--Jenny’s room. Right after they’d hauled the last of her stuff. Carrie had handed out cookies and was talking about what Jenny might face from the investigator. Gail protested, saying give it a rest, it’s late, but Jen said no, it’s okay. That she needed to hear this. So Carrie went on.