People Like Us(17)
I type as he speaks. “And when was that?”
“About a year ago. We didn’t start dating until New Year’s.”
“Over the break?”
“We both live here year-round,” he reminds me.
“Oh yeah.” I pause. “What drew you to Jessica?”
He smiles slightly and brushes his hair away from his intense eyes. “Are you running an investigation or writing a romance novel?”
I keep a straight face. “It’s all relevant.”
“Okay, I’ll play. She was kind. Generous. Impressive. She started her own company when she was fifteen. How many people do you know who can say that?”
I shake my head. “None.”
“Beautiful, obviously, but so are a lot of people. The other things, pretty rare.” He fidgets with the lip ring. “I liked talking to her and being with her. That’s what really matters, right? And I guess it was mutual.”
“Guess?”
“I’m not a mind reader.”
“Why’d you break up?”
His expression darkens. “I’m not a mind reader.”
“Fair enough. When was the last time you talked to her?”
“Last night.”
“Last words?” He flinches and I cringe. “I’m sorry, I put that badly. I meant—”
“I know what you meant,” he interrupts me. He takes his cell phone out of his pocket and shows me the screen and I can see the last fragment of their conversation, at 9:54 p.m. last night.
GREG YEUN: If you’re sorry, why did you do it?
JESSICA LANE: I didn’t say I regret it. Sorry doesn’t mean regret. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry for you.
GREG YEUN: You pity me?
JESSICA LANE: You’re putting words in my mouth. Stop it.
GREG YEUN: You know what I regret? Knowing you.
My heart begins to pound. Those are dangerous words. “How long ago did you break up?”
“Officially, three weeks ago. But you know how things drag on, don’t you?” There’s a pink flush in his cheeks and his eyes shine like they might tear up, but he holds a steady gaze. For a split second I feel a bizarre urge to reach out and stroke his hair, because I know that wild look. I’ve worn it a thousand nights alone in my room, staring into the darkness, trying to will myself into another person or place or thing. And by the morning, I always succeeded. But he doesn’t know how to do that. It makes me want to rock him and whisper that even the worst things can be forgotten. You just have to keep forgetting over and over again.
“Nothing lasts forever,” I finally say.
He swallows hard and nods.
“Spencer and I are about three weeks over, too,” I offer. The conversation on Greg’s phone looks hauntingly familiar. In the context of Jessica’s death, it takes on a sinister tone. As awful as it sounds, I wanted to hear that Jessica may have been suicidal, that Greg could give the police a reason to cross murder off the list. This isn’t going to do it. “One last question. Did she ever mention me? Or anyone else from Bates?”
He eyes me carefully. “No.”
But he’s always so hostile toward me. It doesn’t add up. He must know something about the link between me and Jessica.
“Why did you agree to meet with me? Tell me all of this?”
“The cops are going to question me, probably sooner rather than later. I should be thanking you for giving me a chance to rehearse.”
“They haven’t contacted you yet?”
He shakes his head. “They will. But who knows? They may not consider me a top suspect. I wasn’t there that night.”
I stand woodenly and offer him my hand, and he takes it with icy fingers. His eyes are blank as he shivers under his layers of wet clothing. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Good luck with your investigation. Hope you catch the killer.”
“I hope there is no killer,” I say in a slightly unsteady voice.
His eyes travel over my face carefully. “Jess was happy. She was so full of life; she was luminous. She had her life mapped out to the minute. And even if she ever hurt herself, it wouldn’t have been like that. She was afraid of blades. She didn’t even shave her legs. She wouldn’t do this to herself. Someone else did. And it sure as hell wasn’t me. I’d watch my back, Kay.”
I press both of my palms onto the tabletop to hold myself steady. “Why me?”
“Who’s the link between you and Jess?”
I shake my head.
“Spencer. The relationship wrecker himself.”
6
I run the entire way back through the rain and drip mud onto the library floor as I sign myself out. I head straight to Brie’s dorm and pound on her door. She’s watching a movie with the lights dimmed and hurriedly invites me inside, tossing me a dry change of clothing.
“Spencer was sleeping with Jessica,” I blurt out.
She looks dubious. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty damn.” As I explain, I peel my wet clothes off and gratefully slip into a flannel button-down and boxers. “I just met with Greg. He said she cheated on him with Spencer. They broke up three weeks ago. Remember Justine said he cheated with a Bates student?” I give Brie a meaningful look. “And Greg says there’s no way she killed herself. She was happy, she had plans, she hated blades.”