Wrecked(84)

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I figured,” the older man says, watching Richard’s expression. “And just in case you were wondering, it’s called the Reid Technique. It’s a classic police interrogation strategy where you pit one suspect against the other and they rat each other out.”

They hear marimba music. It’s Uncle Bruce’s phone. He pulls it out, checks the screen, takes the call. “Yeah,” he says. Richard hears a woman’s voice.

A cold breeze rattles the scrabble of leaves still clinging to branches. It smells like mold, wood smoke. Snow in the air. Possibly tonight.

“I’m heading back now. Give me five minutes,” Uncle Bruce says. He ends the call. “That was Jordan’s mom. They’re leaving.”

Richard doesn’t say anything. This guy can’t leave fast enough to suit him.

“Just so you know,” Uncle Bruce says, “I didn’t tell Jordan it was you. I think enough people have gotten screwed over at this place. I don’t want to be responsible for one more.”

Bruce Bockus turns and walks away; no handshake, no good--bye. Richard watches until he disappears into the winding wooded paths leading back to Taylor and Conundrum.





. . .


She lies there, motionless. She’s not sure for how long.

He has moved away from her ear, her neck. They lie side by side on the long single bed, their arms, shoulders, the length of their legs pressed against each other. She hears him breathe.

She scarcely breathes. She feels numb.

“Do you want anything?” she hears him say. “I’m going to the kitchen for a water.”

“No,” she whispers.

“You’re sure? Sometimes there’s juice. Or I can get you a beer, even?”

“No,” she repeats.

He gets up. She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t want to see him, any part of him. She hears the rustle of his pants, a zip. He leaves the room.

The moment the latch clicks, Jenny sits up. Her underwear is around one ankle; she pulls it up. She stands, searches for the shoes. They are under the desk chair, and she slips them on. She opens the door, just a crack. Fluorescent light from the hallway pours in.

She sticks her head out the door. She sees no one.

Jenny runs.

. . .





39





Haley


Haley hears low voices behind the closed door. She knocks as she walks in.

They are all on Carrie’s double bed: Jenny, Mona, Gail, Carrie. Jenny has her back pressed to the wall, legs tucked beneath her, box of tissues in her lap. Her eyes are swollen and red.

“Hey,” Haley says. She has no idea what sort of reception awaits. It feels like a long time since she’s been in the same room as Carrie and Jenny. “Mona just texted me.”

Carrie looks at Jenny. Places a questioning hand on her knee. Jenny shrugs.

“C’mon, girl,” Mona says, shifting closer to the huddle. “There’s plenty of room.” She pats the empty space on the comforter. Gail winks at her. “Jen was just telling us,” Mona says as Haley settles down, “about her meeting with Carole Patterson.” They all turn back to Jenny, who wipes her nose.

“If you could call it a meeting,” she says. “It was more like an announcement. Followed by a dismissal. Check that box.”

“The woman needs a heart transplant,” Mona murmurs. “No compassion.” Gail nods in agreement.

“Would she tell you why he withdrew?” Carrie asks.

“Nope. She said for reasons of privacy she couldn’t. So I said, ‘But if it has to do with my case, don’t I have the right to know?’ and she said his withdrawal was a private action. She said it was not a sanction resulting from the investigation.”

“Complete horseshit,” Gail bursts out. “Why else would he suddenly leave?”

“But technically that might be true,” Mona says. “He’s left before it’s over. It’s not even at the committee stage yet. Right, Jen?”

“It’s not at any stage anymore,” Jenny says. “Carole says they only investigate claims against students. Since he’s not a student here anymore, the claim is dropped.”

Her tone jolts Haley. She sounds devastated. Looks devastated. She’s acting as if they found him innocent. But he’s gone. Out of her life, probably forever.

Why isn’t she relieved?

If Jenny looks wrecked, then Carrie looks furious.

“There must be some way to find out what’s going on,” Carrie says.

Mona chimes in. “No way. FERPA.” Everyone looks at her like she’s lost her mind. “Wait. You guys don’t know about FERPA?”

“Translate, Ms. Pre--law,” Gail says.

Delight on Mona’s face. “I actually know something Carrie doesn’t. Wait. Just . . . let me revel in this for a second.”

Carrie rolls her eyes.

“So FERPA,” Mona explains, “is the Family Education Rights and Privacy Act. It protects everything from disciplinary hearings to academic records. It’s why your parents can’t access your grades unless you give them your password. It’s why the results of judicial proceedings on campus aren’t publicized. Carole couldn’t tell Jenny what’s going on even if she wanted to.”