Reputation(55)

I thought long and hard, but I couldn’t think of a way out. Every possibility led to disaster. Every choice was heartbreaking. And I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to weather any of it.

I crossed the street to the bridge’s edge. My thin dress did little to protect me from the whipping wind off the water. At the edge of the bridge, I stared down, down, down. It was so dark, I couldn’t really tell where the water was. Jumping would be so easy. A mess left behind, but a mess everyone would get over.

I raised my chin to the sky then. Felt the wind on my face. It was cold. Slap-like. Cruel. Maybe the water would be warm. Forgiving.

A horn blared over my shoulder. “Excuse me?”

I turned, startled. A battered Volkswagen was on the side of the road, its headlights shimmering through the mist. A guy no older than twenty stuck his head out the window and gawked at me. I stared down at myself. There was no barrier between my body and the Allegheny River.

“Don’t do this,” the kid said in a trembling voice. “Please.”

His car was so old that the muffler grumbled cantankerously. A faint jazz riff tinkled from the radio. The kid got out of the car and left the door hanging open. “Come on,” he said. “It’s going to be okay. Please get off the ledge.”

He was a boy—with blue eyes, blond hair, sharp cheekbones, and wearing an Aldrich University sweatshirt. A student. He had the same coloring as Freddie; my son might even look like this kid when he got older.

Freddie. My child surged back to me. Good Lord, what was I thinking? Shakily, I climbed back over the guardrail, though I misjudged its height, and the metal slashed my calf. “Shit,” I whispered, the pain bright and true.

The boy was now by my side, steadying me. He smelled like clove cigarettes and sour laundry, but his arms were strong. He held me up.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Can I drive you somewhere?”

My eyes felt fat with tears. Normally, I would have felt embarrassed to cry in front of a stranger, but this person had already seen me in such a terrible moment, it didn’t matter. “I’m okay,” I said. And I did feel okay. Doomed, broken, but I didn’t want to die.

The guy’s hand was firm on my biceps. With the streetlamp glowing against his forehead, he looked like an angel.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Griffin,” he said. “Griffin McCabe.”

“I’m Laura,” I said, feeling stupid.

He nodded. “How about I give you a ride home?”

“No, no, you’ve already done enough. Thank you. Really. Thank you.”

The kid protested. He seemed uncertain and regretful as he walked back to his own car, like he was sure he was going to turn on the news tomorrow and see the story of a woman’s suicide on the screen. I kept waving. All the way home, I repeated his name out loud. Griffin McCabe. Griffin McCabe. When all of this was over, when the dust had settled and my life was whatever it turned out to be, if I ever gained some semblance of peace again, I’d track the kid down at the university and send him a gift card or a case of beer as thanks. Griffin’s been on my mind a lot, actually. When I spoke to Reardon, I offered up his name, saying Reardon should contact him to corroborate my alibi. But Reardon said that wasn’t necessary. He believed me.

I come back downstairs, where Ollie is waiting. “I drove by Greg’s house after the benefit, but I didn’t go in. I would have never done something like that. I swear. Instead, I . . .” I shut my eyes, feeling a fresh onslaught of tears. Then I thrust the letter at him. “Read this. It explains everything. I should have told you a long time ago, but . . .”

I trail off, waving the letter in the air. Ollie doesn’t reach for it. Slowly, his eyes rise to meet mine, and I get a jolt. All traces of confusion and concern are gone. Something sharp and inscrutable has taken their place, and it stops me cold.

“This is about the baby being Greg’s, isn’t it?” Ollie says in a low, defeated voice, glancing at the folded piece of paper in my hand.

My mouth drops open. My soul feels sucked away. “H-How did you . . . ?”

“You really think I had no idea?” Ollie lets out a laugh. “You really think I’m that stupid?”

“Ollie!” His name bursts out of me, a sharp, bright plea. “I-It was a mistake. The letter explains everything. And Greg was threatening me, after the fact!”

“So that makes you innocent in all this?” His voice cracks.

“Of course not! I’m not innocent, I know. But Freddie’s not Greg’s. I mean, he might be—but you’re his father, where it counts.”

“Is that what you tell yourself to make yourself feel better?” He edges closer. I can smell his minty breath. “I knew the truth from the moment he was born. And all this time, I’ve been trying to hold it together, just focusing on not splintering our family apart, not ruining Freddie’s life, trying to pretend it isn’t real, but it is real, Laura. This is really fucking real, and I can’t believe you.”

Tears stream down my face. This can’t be happening. He can’t have known. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Ollie takes a breath. “And now our car’s on camera in Strasser’s circle the night he was killed. Right now, the cops on the case are running the plate report and talking about you. Us. Did you tell Reardon why you almost jumped from that bridge? Does he know you fucked Strasser?”