Locust Lane(90)

Should that not happen, so be it. It wouldn’t be the end of the world. That already seemed to have happened. The last three days had been a hellish wasteland. Already gutted by Geoff’s revelation about the security footage exonerating Jack, she could only watch helplessly as the bad news piled up. Monday brought an avalanche of internet abuse. Slut seemed to be the term of choice, though there were plenty of others. Geoff sent an email detailing all the ways in which she was banished from his life. There was also a text from Hannah: How could you do this? The only person who didn’t get in touch was the one she wanted to hear from.

And then word came that a man had been killed at the Parrish house. At first, she was certain it was Michel. He was dead and it was her fault. She collapsed on the bed the moment she heard the news and didn’t move for an hour. When she finally did stir, she learned it was some crazed local guy. Her pain and panic receded, but her guilt remained intact. Her thread had lit the fuse, and now some poor soul had been cut down.

After that, she was basically trapped in Room 217, hoping Michel would contact her. Roman from South Beach finally released his nude photos of her, which at least were solo, despite his pleas to join the frame. She read about Patrick Noone. He had a face that had probably never been punched or spat upon or ignored. It was impossible to think about a cop shooting him. Reports had him locked in a downward spiral following the overdose death of his daughter, a recent Waldo graduate. There were two photos of her making the rounds. One pictured a real stunner with a sly, million-dollar smile. The other was a mug shot: emaciated, blemished, dead-eyed, her hair an unwashed medusan tangle. Before and after. Way, way after.

Alice also tracked the resurrection of Jack Parrish. The tide of blame that had flooded over him all weekend had receded. He was now cast as a victim: an innocent boy who’d almost been led to the slaughter by online calumny. This sea change was even reflected in the mainstream press, where commentators were starting to see his treatment as a teachable moment, most notably in a Globe think piece portraying his case as an object lesson in the perils of social media.

And then, to cap it all off, rumors began to circulate that Christopher Mahoun was preparing to plead guilty. Evidently they were lowering the charges to manslaughter. A hearing was set for Friday. People were confident that the whole grisly matter would be wrapped up by the weekend.

That’s when Alice decided to leave town. As sumptuous as the Hilton’s breakfast buffet was proving to be, it was time to go. She’d leave and never look back. She didn’t have the stomach for this suburban sanctuary. You just had to sacrifice too much. Trimming away the rough edges seemed like a smart play until you were as smooth and boring and dead as a beach pebble and you understood that the edges were why you got out of bed in the morning.

So, it was on to New York. She’d be arriving late to the party, but she still had her looks, mostly. And now she’d have money. Not the full fifty percent, but Geoff would fork over enough for the foreseeable future, if only to keep her out of his hair. And she’d finally be unburdened of her romantic misconceptions. The search for the perfect man would be over, because she’d already found him, and look where that got her.

Then she’d received Michel’s text. It came as she was packing. We need to talk. She told him she was still in town and he said he was on the way over. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to believe that he wanted a reconciliation. Love had conquered all. The thought didn’t last long. She’d ruined the man’s life. There would be no kissing, no making up.

There was a muted knock on the door, and there he was. He looked terrible. Red-eyed and pale. His normally perfect hair chaotic; his normally pristine shirt wrinkled and coffee-stained. He didn’t meet her eye as he entered. She wanted to embrace him but she knew that was impossible. He sat on the end of the California king. She perched beside him. Two players on a team getting slaughtered.

“You heard he’s pleading guilty.”

“Yes.”

She waited for him to speak. He was staring at their convoluted reflections in the television screen.

“Is he?” she finally asked. “Guilty?”

“I honestly do not know.”

“What do you want me to do, Michel?”

“Talk to Hannah. You said she was going to tell the truth if you spoke with her one more time.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think she’s my biggest fan right now.”

“But she was,” he said. “Maybe you can still get the story out of her.”

“I’ll try. Of course I’ll try.”

They sat in silence, still staring at their warped reflections. She put a hand on his knee. They were touching, and yet it was nothing. It amazed her, how quickly it had become impossible. How quickly it had gone away.

“I’m sorry. I knew that what we were doing was wrong but I thought if we loved each other, really loved each other, then that would make everything else all right.”

“It looks like we made the same mistake, then.”

She pulled her hand away, allowing him to go. He stood and gave her a helpless smile and then he walked out of the room.



* * *



Hannah appeared, right on time. She looked around the tables, then peeked inside the frozen yogurt place. Alice got out of the car; Hannah spotted her through the trellis. She tried to look scornful but couldn’t pull it off. Alice beckoned her. After a theatrical pause, Hannah approached.