Reputation(49)
“But what about in the past few months? I heard that Greg kind of acted like the girls didn’t exist.”
A shock goes through me. “Who said that?”
“Just . . . more reception gossip. People are assholes, but sometimes in gossip there’s a kernel of the truth.”
I rise from my chair. “Because you know the situation so well.” I’m hurt. I’m shocked. But below this, I’m horrified. Was that how people saw us? Did Greg shut the girls out, just like he’d done to me?
No. The past three months, besides Barbados, were normal. We all went out to dinner as a family. Greg and the girls binged Netflix shows. He dropped Aurora off at school almost as much as I did. Sienna told us at dinner one night that she had a crush on Anton, a boy in the dorm, and Greg asked her a million questions about him—what’s his major, is he athletic, what are his friends like, does he smoke pot.
“Are you sure I can’t talk to your girls?” Willa asks quietly, breaking me from my thoughts.
“About Greg? No.”
“But they’re a part of this puzzle. They’ve had a lot of stuff happen in a few short years—their dad’s death, their mom’s remarriage, stepdad’s affair, his murder. It’s a lot to unpack. And also,” she goes on, perhaps sensing that I’m about to interrupt, “I just want to know, too. Personally, as their aunt. I regret not getting to know them better through the years. I’ve interviewed a lot of kids for some of my investigative pieces. I know how to do it without pushing.”
“But they aren’t your interview subjects. They might not open up to you. You might make it worse.”
“But maybe I’ll get something out of them. Like at the funeral, Sienna said Aurora’s angry with her about something. Any idea what that might be?”
I glance back and forth. My thoughts are scattered.
“What are their thoughts on all that Lolita stuff? They’re teenagers, they must be humiliated.”
“I didn’t get to talk to them about it.” But this is a lie. I avoided talking to Sienna about it on the phone. And at the grocery store, I told Aurora nothing was wrong. Deflect, deflect, deflect. But my girls aren’t idiots. They must have read those e-mails. Everyone did.
God, they were probably crushed. Maybe they saw an inevitable future hurtling toward them: Another broken family. A lonely mom. A mess. Maybe they even worried we wouldn’t have nice things anymore. Some mom I was, instilling in them that only nice things lead to happiness.
Suddenly, I’m seized with uneasiness. “Leave the girls out of this.”
“But why?”
“I appreciate what you’re doing, trying to figure out what went on, but just . . . don’t.”
There’s a long silence. Down the hall, a shadow looms in the break room. A moment later, Lynn Godfrey’s tall, slender form appears in the doorway. She holds a cup of coffee, the steam rising over her face. Her gaze holds mine for a moment, and one eyebrow raises. She tips her chin upward and marches away. My cheeks blaze.
“Get to know them, ask them questions about themselves, but please don’t get into this with them,” I repeat. “What happened is too fresh. Please.”
“Okay.” Willa sighs. “Fine.”
After we hang up, I place my forehead on the desk. I wish I could tell Willa I don’t want her to talk to the girls because I want to talk to them first . . . but I’m not sure if this is true. Lately, I’ve been thinking there are two Kit Mannings in one body: the Kit Manning from three years ago, the frazzled mother, the loving wife, the worrier. And then the Kit Manning of today: a polished, well-heeled doctor’s wife, the head of the donations department who can throw a party and charm a room.
We’re so different, these Kits. Do we treat our daughters differently, too? Which Kit Manning is it who doesn’t want Willa to talk to Sienna and Aurora—the one who wants to preserve the shred of reputation she has left, or the fiercely protective mother? Maybe I haven’t dwelled on Sienna and Aurora much because I know that if I dig too deeply into what they’re feeling, I might not like what I find.
What if, deep down, they were furious with Greg for the e-mails? But what does that mean . . . and what did my daughters do with that anger?
18
WILLA
MONDAY, MAY 1, 2017
After I hang up the phone, I pace the downstairs rooms of my family’s house. I want to respect Kit’s wishes not to interrogate the girls, but leaving them out of this story is like only drawing half a picture. They lived with Greg.
And it’s Kit’s reluctance to let me talk to the girls that bothers me most. Is there something she isn’t telling me? Does she think Sienna and Aurora are hiding something? Let’s face it: The police can’t figure out anyone who’d want Greg dead, but this is a man who came into the girls’ lives only recently, after they lost a father they loved to death.
I need to figure it out. I hate the idea of making them uncomfortable. And I don’t believe for a second either of them hurt their stepfather. But I do wonder if they know something they don’t want to tell. Perhaps I need to draw it out of them before someone else does—like an unsympathetic detective, or an impassive, hard-nosed lawyer.
I climb the creaky stairs to the third floor. The top level holds three more bedrooms, a tiny bathroom, and an oversize closet in which my mother used to store her knitting supplies. The doors to the rooms Sienna and Aurora are staying in are shut tight, which seems symbolic—they’ve closed everyone out. I press my ear to Sienna’s door, but I hear nothing. Same with Aurora’s. My heart is thudding hard, and I don’t know if what I’m doing is right—after all, I’m going against Kit’s strict wishes.