Reputation(34)

The club’s main building is a sprawling, ivy-covered monstrosity with long glass windows that look out onto the driving range. I wish I didn’t remember this place as precisely as I do, but it seems branded on my brain. When I was fifteen and my father got promoted to president of Aldrich University, he decided that our family should join the club. Most of my memories from here are of sitting slumped at a giant oak table in the dining room, watching preppy girls from my class snicker at me from behind straight, sleek columns of hair. After fulfilling her socialization requirement, my mom always sank down next to me and whispered, “God, these people are such shits.”

Now, as we head toward the doors, Kit gazes around nervously. I wonder if she’s looking for reporters. I’d bet any amount of money that some are staked out here—when reporting on cases like this at “The Source,” I’ve slipped into all kinds of events like these, eager to listen in and absorb the mood. I’m about to tell her I’d be fine with skipping this entire event, but then my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from my boss at “The Source,” Richard. Have you heard the latest about the frat stuff coming out in the hack?

I frown, my fingers poised over the tiny keyboard. What?

It takes him several texts to get his point across. Two local reporters dug up e-mails from two students about some rape cover-ups at the Chi Omega house. There’s this trail of administrative e-mails essentially saying that everyone needs to get their story straight. There are definitely some violations taking place, and some people definitely knew.

The words swim before my eyes. Like who? I want to write, but another text comes in.

Wanna tackle it since you’re there anyway?

I roll my jaw. This is my sort of story, but no. No. C’mon, man—I’m at a freaking funeral for my sister’s husband. Give me time to breathe.

I turn to Aurora and Sienna. The girls are sitting together on a bench, speaking in low, heated voices. Sienna massages her forehead with her hands. Aurora lets out a huff and turns away. Abruptly, Aurora jumps to her feet and storms off. Sienna takes her hands away from her eyes and watches her go, a scowl on her face.

I watch her go for a moment, then collapse next to Sienna. “What was that about?”

Sienna glances at me, and the scowl morphs into a wearier expression. “It’s stupid.”

“She looked pissed.”

“She’s just . . .” Her shoulders rise and fall. “We had a fight about this guy . . . it’s dumb.”

A muscle twitches in her cheek. I think about what Richard just told me about the frats. Sienna is an Aldrich student now. Has she ever gone to one of those parties? Has anything dangerous ever happened to her there? Were her dorms safe? All at once I hate that they’re coed.

I wish I could bring myself to ask her. There’s something so innocent about Sienna, despite her curvy body. She seems like a baby bird I need to shelter. But instead, I say, “Are you still writing?” A few years ago, Kit told me Sienna had taken an interest in fiction, so I’d asked her to send me some of her stories. They were quite good for someone her age. Sienna nods. “Can I read some?” I go on.

“I guess. I post them on Wattpad.” She whips out her phone, opens a new text, and types in a web address. There’s a swooshing noise. “I just sent it to you. But don’t judge, okay? They’re a work in progress.”

“Me, judge?” I nudge her. “How about this: I’ll read your stories, and I’ll let you read some of my stuff from college. It’s pretty embarrassing.”

“Okay,” Sienna says, though not as enthusiastically as I’d hoped. Her gaze drifts across the lobby. “You mind if I talk to my friend, Aunt Willa?”

“Sure. Go right ahead.”

Sienna shoots me a grateful smile and stands. As I look across the lobby, I see she’s heading for that Raina girl. They huddle together, talking. Raina glances at me, then looks away. I guess things never change at this club. All these years later, I’m still being whispered about.

Kit has left the lobby, so I drift into the club to find her. The building smells exactly how I remember—a nauseating mix of flowers, some chemical-laden wood polish that’s probably giving all of us pancreatic cancer, and top notes of booze. It seems like all of Blue Hill have made their way to the big, horseshoe-shaped bar in the main room. Attractive, tanned men clamor around the bar. Thin, angular, lineless women who all have the same perky breasts guzzle white wine at bistro tables.

I elbow through the crowd. No one seems to recognize me, which is a blessing. Voices float into my ears, and I catch the mention of Greg’s name. It’s the usual let’s-rehash-Greg’s-greatest-hits jabber—business types muse about the time he got a hole in one on the fourteenth hole, another man remarks about a time Greg did a brilliant Sinatra impression during karaoke night at a local bar. In death, Greg Strasser seems cooler, friendlier, and larger than life. Though maybe that’s unkind of me. Despite his philandering, Greg didn’t deserve to be killed.

I also catch snatches of words like murderer and on the loose. Someone says, “I heard this strange noise outside my house last night, and I even brought my dog in—you can’t be too careful!”

I’ve wondered about this, too: Is there a murderer on the loose? Should we be worried?

I order a pinot grigio and drift around the tables. Then I catch Greg’s name again—but the tone is quite different. Hushed. Conspiratorial. Gossipy.