Good Girls Lie(54)

“But this is still an old-fashioned keyed lock, not one of your keycard accessible ones. We should double-check, just in case. Still have those secret societies?”

“Yes, some exist. They’re not openly sanctioned anymore, though. I keep a close eye on our girls, unlike some of my predecessors.”

“Secret societies?” Kate asks. She has appeared silently after circumnavigating the tiny platform.

“Social organizations outside the school’s normal activities. Little clubs that get together and raise spirits on campus.”

“Raise a ruckus is more like it.”

“Now, Tony, that’s not fair. It’s all in the spirit of things.”

“But why are they secret?” Kate asks.

“It’s a misnomer, really. They’re just little off-the-books clubs. Like sororities, in some ways, but girls can’t pledge. They govern their own membership. Choose their own members. It’s a long-held tradition here, and at many of our peer schools. There have been secret societies at Goode for over a century. Which is why they still exist, though we’re not as accepting of them as we once were. We see them now as more of a mentorship opportunity for our older girls.”

Kate scoffs. “Mentorship? It sounds like a great way for some popular kids to exclude some of their classmates.”

“You can’t force children to be all-inclusive, Detective. The world doesn’t work that way, and teenage girls don’t, either.”

“It should. The world would be a better place. Can any of them get up here?”

“No. There are only two sets of keys. Mine and Security’s. Both kept in safes.”

Tony chews his lip. “Where’s that boy been lately?”

Fury rises up in her. “Don’t you dare, Tony.”

“What boy?” Kate asks. She’s climbed up and is leaning out over the edge of the cupola now, her flashlight making long yellow swaths of light down the front of the building. She’s so far out it’s making Ford nervous. One tiny bump and over the edge she’d go. It’s easy to see how Camille went screaming to her death.

Tony seems to read Ford’s mind. He reaches out and grabs his niece’s jacket. “Careful there, Kate. This cupola is old. Don’t put too much pressure on the balustrade.”

Kate shuts off the flashlight and jumps back down. “She would have to climb up to get over this edge. Or be forcibly lifted. We need to talk to the girls, see if they heard anything. Talking, or a scuffle. There are rooms below this, correct? Maybe one of the girls will be able to shed some light on a time line, at least. What boy are you talking about?”

“Rumi Reynolds. Son of Rick Reynolds.”

“The one who murdered the coed?”

“The very one. Ford here hired young Rumi to be a jack-of-all-trades.”

“Come on, Tony. He isn’t involved in this. Don’t get lazy and start pointing fingers. It’s not fair to him. He is not responsible for his father’s actions.”

“Ford Westhaven, the patron saint of lost causes. Something like that warps a child, Ford. What he saw...”

“What did he see?” Kate asks.

“According to him, he saw everything.”

“The murder?”

“Yup. He even testified. The state’s star witness was the murderer’s ten-year-old son.”

“I remember that now. Hmm.”

They turn in unison to look out over the dark campus, and Ford loses her temper.

“Stop talking like I’m not standing right here. What do you mean, ‘hmm’? He didn’t do this. I know Rumi, quite well. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. That’s why he’s working here, for me, for Goode. Someone had to give him a chance at a normal life, and that was me. He’s dedicated to this school. It’s completely unfair to leap to the conclusion that he’s responsible before we even search Camille’s room for a note, a diary, something to give us her state of mind. It was dark. I don’t know what I saw. I would never have mentioned it if I thought you’d go tilting at windmills and jumping to spurious conclusions.”

Tony and Kate share a brief look, then he shrugs. “No one’s making judgments, Ford. I was just asking. Let’s go look at the girl’s room, talk to her roommate. There might be a clearer answer downstairs.”

Ford lets them go ahead of her, then locks the cupola door. Her hands are shaking, she can smell her own acrid scent, and under it, the musky notes of man. She needs to be very, very careful. They can’t find out about the affair, it could ruin her. Rumi is of age, but still. She knows it looks bad. But she will not let Rumi get railroaded into an accusation, either.

Tearful girls are gathered in the sewing circle when the three arrive on the sophomores’ floor. Ford calls out, “Man on the floor,” loudly and there are a few squeals, the sound of running feet, then she nods to Tony. “Okay, follow me. They’re roomed in 214.”

The lights are ablaze in Camille and Ash’s room. The room looks like it’s seen a struggle. A painting is on the floor by one of the desks. Pillows are askew, blankets dragging on the floor, the lower bunk’s mattress off center. There’s something pink on the sheets, not dark enough to be blood. It takes Ford a moment to realize it’s calamine lotion.

Ford recalls her own tap, looks briefly to the desk under a framed photograph of Oxford’s doors. This must be Ash’s desk and yes, there’s a small brown sandwich bag sitting near the edge. Ford knows what it contains.