Reputation(80)

I click to Laura’s sent messages, searching around October of last year. Bingo: Laura, sent out an e-mail to her friends shortly after her baby was born. Frederick Thomas Apatrea, eight pounds, six ounces, twenty inches long, it reads. A picture is attached. When the wrinkly, squinty-eyed newborn appears on my screen, I study him hard, suddenly understanding what has been nudging me. The baby has Greg’s same sloped nose and cleft chin.

But how to get more information? Should I call Laura? I’m a reporter, after all. I can lie about my motives. I can figure out what to ask her without giving too much away.

I click back to her received e-mails. Some Amazon purchases show that she lives on Armandale Street, which isn’t that far from here. From there, it isn’t difficult to find her phone number. I stab in the digits, then press the phone to my ear.

“Hello?” says a gruff, impatient voice on the other end. It must be her husband.

I straighten up. “May I speak to Laura, please?”

There’s a long, crackling pause. “She’s not here.”

“Any idea when she’ll be back?” I ask, my voice pleasant enough.

“Who is this?”

I frown, startled by his rancorous tone. “It’s Willa Manning. I’m—”

“I know who you are.” And then, almost imperceptibly, I hear him mutter under his breath.

Next thing I know, the line is dead.

I call back, hoping it’s a mistake. There’s the same gruff, annoyed hello—I say, “Sir, is there another number I can reach your wife at?”

“No,” he growls. In the background, I hear the faint sounds of running water, maybe a TV, and then a baby’s cry. “I don’t want you calling here, ever. Got it?”

He disconnects us once more. I stare at my phone as though it’s just given me an electric shock. I can understand Laura being unwilling to talk to me, but her husband? What stake does he have in this? Unless he’s covering up for Laura. And then a cold rush cascades down my back. No, that’s not it. Maybe he’s covering up something about himself.

I think of Laura’s husband’s towering height. His thick arms, his catcher’s-mitt hands. This kind of über-masculine man brings up old wounds for me. He’s the kind of guy who might not be able to handle the news of another man fathering his wife’s baby.

I rake my hands through my hair. I don’t want to make assumptions. And yet the lead feels more credible than anything else I’ve considered. There’s just one problem. I have no idea how to prove it.





30





RAINA


FRIDAY, MAY 5, 2017


Alexis calls me between classes. Well, between my classes, since I now know she’s not an Aldrich student. “It’s happening. There was another munch today, and I sidled up to our guy and asked if I could have his number. Then I AirDropped him some kinky photos of you and me, and he was into it. He wants to meet us tonight.”

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk so abruptly that a group walking behind me almost bumps into my back. “Where did you get a sexy picture of me?”

“I had one of your face, and then I did some Photoshop work. But it’s basically your same proportions, don’t worry.”

I start walking again, feeling shaky. “So what’s going to happen, exactly?”

“He and I got to talking about porn. Well, not talking—texting. You know. And anyway, our dude said his favorite plot in porn movies is when the woman’s in the house alone, kind of scared, and the burglar breaks in. But then it turns sexy, and the burglar’s totally turned on because she’s afraid, and she gets off, too, because almost being killed is sexy. In a man’s mind, anyway.”

“He’s going to pretend to rob us?”

“Not really. It’s all an act, though we’ll have to act afraid. But, I mean, we got off easy. He could have asked to do bondage stuff . . .”

I shudder. “Still. It seems . . . demeaning.”

“Most porn is demeaning to the woman, Raina. Don’t be na?ve.”

“But don’t you think this hits a little too close to home? Someone broke into Greg Strasser’s house . . . and killed him. Unless he lives under a rock, this guy has to know that. It’s not kinky—it’s sort of sick.” And then another thought strikes me. “Are you sure this isn’t a trick? Like maybe he’s setting us up?”

“For what?” Alexis sniffs. “What we’re doing isn’t illegal. We’re all consensual adults.”

“I know, but . . .” So much dirty laundry has been aired recently that I’m paranoid all of our actions are being watched, even those that are off-line.

“So listen, he wants to meet us in this house near Aldrich at eleven P.M. He said he’s going to leave the door unlocked. I’ll go early and set up the camera.” I can hear the excitement in her voice.

I turn the corner to the Aldrich University green. In the daytime, this long, sprawling patch of grass is a buoyant hotbed of activity, but at night—and especially on Friday nights, when this part of campus clears out—it’s creepy. The streetlamps don’t adequately illuminate the walking paths. The middle of the green is a vast thicket of darkness. Someone could be standing ten feet away from me and I wouldn’t know. I think about Greg’s murderer, still roaming the streets, and shiver.