Reputation(77)

“But what about the kids?”

“You know my parents would love to have them.”

I watched his face. His straight mouth, his darting eyes. But then he shrugged and said, “Sure, if you really want to. I could probably get you on my flight, though I’m not sure about first class.”

That was the final nail in the coffin. The Patrick I know would be like, Lynn, don’t be ridiculous, Detroit is a cesspool and you’ll be horrified at its idea of a five-star hotel. He’d reiterate that there was absolutely no good shopping and the weather was shit and all the people there were ugly. He’d say that we should go somewhere swanky and lovely the following weekend instead; he’d make reservations on the spot.

It was a guilty Patrick who’d given in. He caved because, perhaps deep down, he knew I was suspicious, and he wanted to lead me off the scent. Maybe I should have pushed the issue and asked for something even more extravagant—a new Chanel purse, hell, maybe even a whole new house. If Patrick felt so guilty, he’d probably cave to anything.

But all I want is for him to get rid of her. And that, unfortunately, has no price tag.

I can’t just sit back and let this happen. I’m not going to be a wife who just smiles and pretends. Do I explain that I’ve found the bracelet? Is it possible that I’m misinterpreting this and that the bracelet is for me . . . just for another occasion? Christmas, maybe. My birthday, in four months.

There’s a knock on my door. I shoot up, my head feeling cottony. “Lynn?” Amanda’s voice is muffled. “You ready?”

I heave a sigh. The meeting. I stand and smooth my skirt. Amanda smiles at me as I open the door, and she leads me down the hall into my boss’s office, which is huge and bright and faces a scruffy bar at street level that seems to cater to drunks and people who like to dress in head-to-toe Steelers gear. I sit down on the couch, noticing that a few of the other people on the donations committee are here as well. There’s a knock on the door, and Kit Manning-Strasser hurries in, too.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says, falling into the last available chair.

“It’s fine,” George beams at her, the favorite child. I want to vomit.

There’s something different about Kit today. Her hair is oddly shiny and there are two bright pink spots on her cheeks. Her whole face seems lighter, like someone has tied a string to her forehead and sharply yanked upward. She looks . . . pleased, I realize. What kind of woman is pleased after her husband is found dead? Distaste roils in my gut.

I turn to her, mustering a smile. “How are you doing?” I simper.

“Oh.” Kit’s eyes are cold. “You know. Tough time.”

“The police figure out any leads yet?”

Kit shrugs. “Not really.”

Then she angles her body toward Rory. Her rudeness shocks me. Kit’s never been icy before.

“Okay, let’s start.” George peers at a legal pad, then turns to Roz Pepperdine, who works with the art museum that’s linked to the college. “I hear we’ve made some headway getting the Bonners to donate a few of their works into the permanent collection?”

Roz launches into a talk about oil paintings and sculptures and transport costs, but my gaze is still on Kit. Her whole body is angled away from me. It feels purposeful. She couldn’t know I gave her that Ambien, could she? Maybe I shouldn’t have told Patrick about that in a public place. Maybe someone overheard.

“And what’s the status with the alumni?” George now looks at Ivan, a slight, young guy in the corner.

Ivan moves his head from side to side. “Well, with some of the hack news, a lot of the alumni are a little less than impressed. Especially the stories that span when they were students here. Like the stuff about admissions fraud. Or the, um, rapes.”

George frowns. “We aren’t sure the rapes happened.”

Kit looks at him sharply. “Did you really just say that?”

George raises his hands in surrender. “They’re only hinted at in the e-mails. Nothing’s concrete.”

“Yes, but a few girls came forward with stories of things happening to them at frats,” Kit blurts incredulously.

“Those posts don’t give specifics,” George says weakly, but then backs off as if he realizes what he’s just said. “Not to minimize things if they did happen . . .”

“Absolutely,” I jump in.

I haven’t completely paid attention to what’s been said—I only agree with Kit to gauge her reaction. But Kit stares stonily ahead as if she hasn’t heard me. Maybe she does know, then. I curl my toes inside my shoes. Shit. Is she going to call me out on it? I can’t get in trouble for this, can I? I mean, so I slipped her an Ambien. I thought it would just loosen her up. I was trying to help.

And then I see it.

It’s Kit’s turn to give an update. As she’s talking, the sleeve of her blazer rides up, revealing a bare wrist and a glitter of diamonds. My heart stops in my chest. That bracelet is the same delicate chain I’d laid eyes on last week. The very same piece of jewelry, I’m almost positive, that lay in that little velvet box tucked in the back of my husband’s trunk.

It can’t be. But then I look again. The glinting diamonds. The delicate chain. It’s identical. My stomach lurches.

I must make a sound, because suddenly, everyone is looking at me. I clutch my stomach as though suddenly ill. “Excuse me,” I say, leaping to my feet.