Reputation(79)

Sienna pops a chicken satay in her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “I want to say January. I don’t think Valentine’s happened yet.”

I glance at the notes Paul gave me today at the farm, feeling a stab of regret when I see Paul’s small, neat, rounded handwriting. I wonder how confused he feels at the way I rejected him. Hell, I’m still confused at myself . . . and, at the same time, totally unsurprised.

“January tenth,” I read off the list. “Eight inches of snow. Sound right?”

“I don’t know. I guess.”

I click to the chunk of data I’ve exported to my laptop from the hack database. It’s Greg’s data—I wanted to have it accessible at all times in case I’m ever in a spot without a cell signal again. Greg’s calendar is in a subfolder, and I open it and scroll back to last January.

According to his calendar, which is jammed with surgeries, meetings, and business events, he didn’t have anything scheduled for the evening, but there was a quadruple bypass slated for 11:00 A.M. for someone named P. Vitrillo. I sometimes forget that Greg used to pry open people’s chests and work on their hearts. Kind of an ironic line of work for such an unfeeling person.

I look at the girls. “Did Greg often go out after tough surgeries to blow off steam?”

They exchange a glance. “I don’t really know,” Aurora says. “Maybe?”

I stretch out my legs under the table. “If he did, who might he go with?”

“Other doctors?” Sienna suggests. “Friends?” It’s clear she has no idea.

Aurora makes a face. “Greg always whined about the other doctors, though. Said he’d be happy if he were the only doctor on call.” She picks at her nails.

“Someone else from the hospital, then? An administrator? A nurse?”

The girls look at one another and shrug. “We didn’t know much about his life at work.”

I only recall Kit telling me about one nurse on Greg’s staff: that woman who came to the funeral with her baby. Laura . . . something. A thought pings in my mind. Laura Apatrea. Perhaps she knew Greg well?

I hold a finger up for the girls to tell them to bear with me for a moment, then pick up my phone. The first thing I see on the screen is a news alert for a few more posts from some girls who have made references to assaults at Aldrich frat parties. I feel a knot in my stomach, guilty that I’m swiping past these testimonies. Reluctantly, I navigate to the hack site and dig up Laura’s folder.

Turns out I was right: Greg and Laura e-mailed quite a bit, though it was mostly scheduling stuff, or sometimes a funny GIF. There certainly aren’t Lolita-esque missives between them. But I do notice something strange: Laura wrote something cryptic to Greg just days before he died. I’ve received your research. Definitely taking into consideration. But I have all I need for now—thanks.

Curious, I flip all the way back to a year and a few months before, around the time of the January snowstorm. Laura had written Greg a non-work-related note that day, too: Thanks for being there for me.

Three minutes later, Greg shot back, Always.

A frisson goes through me.

I stare at Laura’s message again. Thanks for being there for me. Was this a response to a friendly conversation they’d had in the break room . . . or was Greg with Laura that night of the snowstorm? Were they just friendly colleagues . . . or something more?

It would be too easy if Laura had just written in her calendar, January 10: Drinks with Greg. And when I flip through Laura’s e-mails from February and then March, I can’t find another e-mail to him besides bland administrative stuff. In fact, the only other e-mails Laura has saved from that time are a few notes from her mom, a few messages from her husband, Ollie—who mentions the police station, so this is the same person from the funeral—and a whole bunch from a site called BabyCenter. Congratulations, you’re pregnant! says the first one.

I click on it to find a lot of What to Expect When You’re Expecting nonsense. After that, BabyCenter sent her an e-mail once a week, updating her on her developing fetus’s progress. Each week, the fetus graduates to the size of a new fruit: Today, your baby is a blueberry! This week, your baby is a cantaloupe! I scroll all the way forward to late September, when the baby is the size of a watermelon. Happy due date! bleats an e-mail on October 3. According to your calculations, you are forty weeks pregnant today!

I frown. Calculations? Do most women know the exact day they conceived? I don’t recall Kit knowing, but then, I didn’t pay much attention.

I open a window in the Internet browser and type due date calculator into Google. A site appears that predicts when a woman will give birth. It seems you can calculate your due date from your last menstrual period, an IVF transfer, or an exact date of conception. On a hunch, I type January 10 into the search field. The night of the snowstorm.

The little wheel spins, and the results come up. I can’t even say I’m surprised when I see that Laura’s projected due date is October 3. But what does this mean? Laura’s married. It’s very possible Laura didn’t go out with Greg the night of the snowstorm but instead went home to her husband, lit some candles, and did whatever else people do to get in the baby-making mood. It’s possible I’ve got this all wrong.

But it doesn’t feel wrong. I can’t say why, exactly. Something nudges me at the edge of my consciousness.