The Herd(70)

I’d watched, trying not to scream, as Eleanor and Mikki carried Jinny inside and laid her on her back. We’d turned off the lights and huddled together on Eleanor’s bed, afraid to be alone. As we shivered in the dark, Eleanor told us again why this was for the best—graduation was around the corner, we had illegal substances in our systems, it would be clear we were breaking the law, our futures could be ruined. Plus we’d already moved the body, and there was no guarantee anyone would believe that it was an accident.

Then Mikki had begun to freak out, her chest heaving, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. And Eleanor had run her fingers through Mikki’s hair and said we would get it all straightened out in the morning.

We’d woken to the sound of Karen’s screams. They’d gotten Eleanor’s voicemails, begging them to hurry home, but we’d slept through their calls back. Eleanor had explained everything, all three of us sobbing with high-pitched coyote sounds, and Karen had cried silently, shoulders shaking, just like she had a minute ago.

Gary asked about Jinny’s age, several times, confirmed that she was older than us. Nailed down exactly who this woman was, what we knew about her, who might come looking. It later dawned on me that he was doing the math: a stranger, a homeless, vagrant drug dealer, careful not to set down roots nor leave a trace. Now, it occurred to me that he’d be found responsible alongside us, since there’d been a minor—Eleanor, secretly twenty—drinking in his home.

He’d looked each of us in the eyes, speaking kindly, carefully: And you’re positive you didn’t tell anyone about this trip. That no one knows you’re here. We’d all nodded, sniffling like toddlers.

Then you drive back now. You say you never left campus, had a quiet night in. Work on your story on the drive home, get it straight, repeat it until you can say what happened down to the tiniest detail. From this moment on we never, ever mention that girl again.



* * *



—

I reached for the old-fashioned knob on Eleanor’s door and locked myself inside. It was dark, abruptly, like a riptide had yanked down the sun. So Eleanor had lied—convincingly, to my face—about the Herd’s origin story. But why? Had something else happened around that time that made her long for a no-boys-allowed club, but she fictionalized it for the Gleam On blog? I tried calling Mikki, listening hard in case I could hear the ring—no luck. Hmm. Karen wasn’t about to tell me, but Cameron or Ted might know something, a secret or story squirreled away from their shared childhood.

I grabbed my purse and headed downstairs. As I turned into the hall, I paused in front of the door to the den. It was closed, Katie shut up on the other side of it. Her words still stung, her defensive flailing, but I felt a sudden, sisterly urge to tell her about the weirdness with Karen and about Eleanor’s odd fake Adventure Camp story. Katie was smart, her brain making pinging, Christmas-light connections I’d never spot on my own, so maybe she’d have some insights. Actually, she’d been researching that damn book—maybe she knew something I didn’t.

I knocked, softly and then three crisp thumps. The old door was closed but not latched, so my last bang sent it swinging inward. I caught the knob in my hand, apologizing as some of the room came into view, and then froze. There was movement, a scramble, and then four eyes stared back at me, wide as raccoons’. The rest of the scene sorted itself out around them: Katie and Ted were on the pull-out couch, her with one end of a sheet pulled up to her heart, Ted with another end strewn over his lap.

The spell broke and with a little shake of my head, I turned away. “Oh my God, I’m sorry, the door wasn’t latched.”

More rustling as they presumably flung clothes on. “Hana, is everything okay? What are you…”

I peered out into the hallway, but mentally I kept hinging back and forth between them: Katie…and Ted. Ted…and Katie. This felt unfathomable, like learning your coworker met your childhood friend while backpacking across Nepal.

“Sorry. I was just—I don’t know where anyone is, and I was gonna walk over to Cameron’s. Just wanted to let you know. Is he…” The awkwardness plumed, filling up the room like smoke. “Ted, is he home, do you know?”

“Uhhh…I think so. Try his cottage first.” His voice ached with embarrassment.

I pulled the door closed, tugging too long in an unsuccessful bid to get it to latch. Then, face burning, I yanked my coat from the hall closet. A hunter-green backpack on the floor caught my eye; it wasn’t mine or Mikki’s, and it hadn’t been here before. Something of Eleanor’s, pulled out by Gary? The top gaped a bit, and I couldn’t help myself—I nosed it open and pulled out the manila folder inside.

My chest froze: The first page was a printout of a Click profile, annotated in small, spiky handwriting. Eleanor. I turned the page: bank statements, Eleanor’s account number printed at the top, all slightly askew like someone had snapped surreptitious photos of the originals. Sprinkled with dots and arrows and question marks. Nausea mushroomed in my belly as I continued flipping through: a copy of a scratched-out Post-it, a meaningless code in what looked to be Eleanor’s handwriting. Then a confusing block of numbers and text, and I had to follow the scribbled annotations for a few pages before I realized this was Eleanor’s browser history, filched from the router.