Reputation(108)

I drive on, coming to a street whose name I recognize. Hazel Lane. A red light stops me before I can turn, so I gaze down the long drive, spying Greg and Kit’s house a few lots down. There’s no more police tape around the front door. Rumor has it Kit moved back in, though someone else said she probably wouldn’t stay. Her porch light is on, though, meaning she’s home. My fingers twitch on the steering wheel. Do I dare?

I feel like I owe Kit something. An explanation, an apology. Or maybe I just present Freddie to her, saying, here. Some kind of acknowledgment. And yet I’m not sure if this is what Kit wants. I know she knows about Greg and me—Detective Reardon explained that her sister, Willa, accused Ollie of Greg’s murder, having figured out about the baby herself. But it’s not like she’s reached out to me. I probably wouldn’t either, in her shoes.

Maybe it would be better just to leave this be. Maybe, years from now, I can track her down, for Freddie’s sake.

The light turns green, and I drive on.

The GPS tells me to take another right, and then a left, and then I drive down a hill to a series of weathered apartment buildings in the shadow of the Aldrich University science lab. It doesn’t take me long to find a parking space, and I turn off the car and heft Freddie out of the seat. “This’ll just take a moment,” I murmur, adjusting him in my arms.

The address I’ve been given is a building without an elevator. The corridors are dark, and loud music escapes from underneath quite a few of the doors. The third floor, his floor, has a beery stench to it, like someone held a party here the night before. I check my watch before ringing the bell. Is it too early?

But I’m here, so I do it anyway. The bell has one clear note and one sour one. It takes a while for footsteps, but then I hear the click of latches and bolts, and the door swings open. When Griffin McCabe sees me, his forehead creases. “Hello?” he says tentatively.

“It’s . . . me.” I realize I haven’t planned what to say. “Laura. The woman you . . .”

His eyes widen. He looks from me to the baby, to me again. “Of course,” Griffin says. And there is that earnest smile, that helpful, hopeful light in his eyes. He looks both younger in this light and much older and wiser. He glances behind him, then at me again. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t want to come in or anything,” I say quickly. “I just . . . I was in the neighborhood. And I wanted to thank you. I never got to.”

He waves his hand dismissively, like it doesn’t matter, but I shake my head because it does. My mouth opens, and I consider telling him everything—why I stood on that ledge that night, the despair I felt, the shame and entrapment. But then I shut my mouth again. My story of suffering is just another story in a sea of many. And anyway, maybe it’s not worth dwelling on.

“Well, you’re welcome,” Griffin says after an awkward pause. And then: “How is everything?”

I’ll ask myself that question a lot in the years to come. Sometimes, I’ll be far from okay. Sometimes, I’ll feel the same despair I felt that night on the bridge when I wanted to end it all. Those feelings will chase me, never quite evaporating completely, a faint film always on my skin. But I’ll fight through them. I have to. I press Freddie closer to me, hugging him as tightly as I can.

“I’m getting there,” I tell him.





48





RAINA


AUGUST 14, 2017


Since I’ve moved off campus into a dumpy, suburban apartment shared by four people that I struggle to pay for on my brand-new salary as a coffee barista, it takes longer to get anywhere. I finally make it through the tunnel, off the bridge, and down the long boulevard, passing the history museum, the art center, and the huge Aldrich University library, where I still owe fines for overdue books. Near my stop, I press the button to get off. The bus huffs to the curb, and I hurry down the stairs. I’m late. Part of me worries if this is even for real. Maybe I’ve schlepped over here for nothing.

The bursar’s office hasn’t changed since I was here last. Same red-and-gold Aldrich flags, same sticky door, same cranky women behind the desks. I feel a pull in my chest as I look around. She isn’t here yet. It’s a joke, then. I mean, of course it’s a joke—I should have known it the moment her e-mail came in last week. I should be arranging for scholarships, or maybe applying to other, cheaper schools, or speaking to my parents one more time to see if they have any more money stashed away under a mattress. We’ve been back in touch, a little. I got a good dose of perspective after that incident with that Patrick guy. I realized that my parents were just Podunk and uninformed, not bad people. Not like Alexis’s family. Not like Alexis’s life.

But anyway, I should be planning and preparing for next semester, when my Greg Strasser funds run out—not following a wild-goose chase that’s only going to end in humiliation. Shouldering my bag, I pivot and head for the door just as it swings open and someone comes inside. She and I collide, and I step back, my breath catching in my throat.

Lynn Godfrey appraises me, hands on hips. “Going somewhere, Raina?”

My hand flies to my throat. “No. I was just afraid I was late, and . . .”

“. . . and that I wasn’t going to show up?”

Well, yeah, I want to say as Lynn walks to the first unoccupied partition window. I mean, yes, Lynn first reached out to me after that whole bullshit debacle went down; I guess she found the secret e-mail account her husband used to set up his sex-play trysts, and then got my contact information through Alexis. And yes, she spoke to me at length about what happened that night with Patrick, and if anyone had seen, and if I thought he’d done it with lots of others, and what I was after that night, anyway.