The Collective(55)

Braddock is next, and his voice is so different than how I remember it in court, all the confidence gone. He reads from a crumpled piece of paper clutched in trembling hands, and I almost feel for him, until I recall once again what he said about my daughter. “Harris was a loyal friend,” he says. “I was proud to call him my pledge son.”

One of the girls coughs loudly, and a few people turn around, and I can no longer focus on the rest of whatever Braddock is attempting to say. I keep thinking instead about what Luke told me over the phone. They’re calling him a rapist. They’re saying “Justice for Emily” again. Would these girls feel different if they knew what really happened in Vermont?

Outside of the protesters, there are no other young women at Harris Blanchard’s funeral. There are Lisette’s polished middle-aged friends, and elegant-looking elderly women. But no girlfriends or female cousins or classmates wanting to speak. It also goes without saying that all of the mourners are white and expensively dressed, and it makes me think about how wrong I’ve been all this time, believing that the whole world was on Harris’s side and that they’d stay there, no matter what. This is a small, frail group. And it’s fading fast.

“Thank you all for coming,” the priest says. Lisette collapses into Tom’s arms and starts to sob—deep, anguished cries that seem to weaken her entire body. The white-haired woman in the fur rushes up and takes Lisette in her arms, as the other mourners, Braddock included, stand there helplessly. A cold wind whooshes through, and the trees around us creak like haunted house doors, the sky growing darker, threatening snow.

I imagine myself stepping forward as I planned, but I find myself turning around instead. I want to leave before it starts snowing, I tell myself. But the truth is, I don’t have the stomach for the plan anymore. I’ve seen enough of Lisette Blanchard. I know that she’s changed.

I leave the funeral quickly, but I’m not as fast as the protesters. I trail behind them, trying to overhear their whispered comments. As I pass through those big, threatening gates, an older woman in sunglasses bumps into me, and the two of us stand there for an awkwardly long time, apologizing to each other like women tend to do.

She smiles. It’s a familiar smile. “Camille?” She removes her glasses, her eyes a piercing, shimmering blue. “What are you doing here?”

In frames, I remember her. The silver hair. Those bright blue eyes in the light from the streetlamp. The card pressed into my hand. Niobe. “It’s you. Listen, thank you for the card. I really—”

She puts a finger to her lips. “You shouldn’t be here, Camille. Leave quickly. Before anybody sees you.”

I stare at her.

She shakes her head—a scold—then moves away.

“Who are you to tell me where I should and shouldn’t be?” I ask, but she’s already joined a group of older women piling into a van. I hear her say, “Oh, she was just asking for directions.”

Is she a Brayburn alum? A family friend? Perhaps she thought she was doing the Blanchards a favor—by introducing me to the Niobe group, she might give me enough closure to leave Harris alone.

No good deed goes unpunished, as they say.

My attention returns to the group of girls, who have reached the field by now. I hurry to catch up with them. “Excuse me,” I call out, once I’m within shouting distance. “Excuse me!”

The one with the sign turns around. She’s a light-skinned Black girl with golden hair and freckles across her nose. She looks a lot younger and more delicate now that her arms aren’t locked with the other protesters, and it makes me think about what 0001 told me, about there not just being safety in numbers, but also a great deal of power. “Yes?” she says.

“I’m just wondering about the meaning behind your sign.” I keep my sunglasses on so she won’t recognize me, but I say it gently.

“The meaning?”

“Is this because of Emily Gardener?”

My daughter’s name sounds strange and formal coming out of my mouth—almost as though I’ve pronounced it wrong. I feel guilty for not telling the girl that I’m Emily’s mother, but I want an unvarnished answer. My heart pounds.

The girl blinks at me. “Well,” she says quietly, “she was the first.”

I swallow hard. “You mean . . . before the girl in Burlington.”

She shakes her head slowly, her gaze pinned to the sidewalk. Then she looks up. “I knew him. Personally. A few of us knew him personally.”

“He hurt you?”

She nods. “I was too scared to say anything.” She gestures at a fellow protester, a tiny red-haired girl with big blue eyes like Emily’s, watching from a few feet away. “It happened to Hannah too. She complained to the university. They said they would look into it. Then she lost her work-study job.”

I shake my head. “I am so, so sorry . . .”

“Jen.” She sticks out her hand.

“Camille.” I don’t tell her I’m Emily’s mom. I don’t know why. We shake, then hug, and it feels strange and natural at the same time, like distant relatives meeting.

“I did read about the girl in Burlington,” Jen says. “I’m glad she got away.”

“Me too.”

“And I’m really glad she told the cops. I wish I could write her a thank-you letter or something.”