Reputation(96)

Slowly, I tiptoe inside. Pictures of Ollie’s son fill the bookshelves. One newborn shot, wrinkled and baby bird–mouthed on a pale blue blanket. Another shows Ollie proudly holding the baby against his chest, his big hand splayed along the baby’s tiny back. A more recent one on his desk shows the baby sitting up, giving the camera a gummy smile and popping his big, brilliant, blue eyes wide.

I mean—those eyes. Of course Ollie knows it.

A click sounds, and I freeze, my fingers spread wide at my sides. Nothing. You’re okay, I tell myself. Nothing’s going to hurt you.

Drawing deep, even breaths, I head for Ollie’s desk. File folders lie in disarrayed stacks, some of them open, some of them fastened closed. Ollie has two computer monitors, though they both show Excel spreadsheets that mean nothing to me. If only I could click over to his e-mail.

A clock ticks on the wall. When will the young cop at the front desk come looking for me? When will they send out an APB that the woman who’d received special permission to use a breast pump in privacy has gone missing?

I scan the room. Ollie’s police cap sits atop a small filing tray. There’s an assortment of pens splayed near the keyboard. Three mostly empty coffee cups perch near the window. I lunge for a red ceramic mug with the Starbucks logo emblazoned on the side and drop it into my tote. It has DNA on it for sure. I could find a lab to analyze it, and then get my hands on the forensics report of the crime scene. Ollie couldn’t have cleaned up everything as well as he cleaned the murder weapon. Something has to turn up.

I back up, itching to leave, when a gaping file folder near Ollie’s second monitor catches my eye. There’s a name written on the top tab. My name. Willa Manning.

I do a double take. What is this? I move toward it. With one trembling pointer finger, I open it up. And . . .

“Excuse me?”

Ollie’s bulky shape fills the doorway. I jerk away from his desk, hiding my hands behind my back. A strange, high-pitched, borderline hysterical laugh comes from somewhere deep inside me. “Um, hi. I . . . I was just leaving.”

“Willa Manning.” Ollie looks surprised. “This is interesting.”

His tone stops my heart. He knows why I’m here, obviously. And suddenly, this floor seems dangerously desolate. I strain to hear sound elsewhere in the station, but the air is airlessly, porously still.

I try to push around Ollie, but he shoots out his elbows, blocking the door. “How’d you get up here?”

He’s at least a head taller than I am—so tall, in fact, I can see up his nostrils. His chest is solid and leaden, and brute strength seems to crackle from within. But I can’t be afraid of him. Not now.

I meet his gaze. “I was looking for something.”

He nods. “And did you find it?”

“Maybe.” As soon as I test that DNA on the coffee cup, you’re dead.

“So how much did you read? Is my research correct?”

I frown. Research? What does he mean? I notice Ollie’s gaze drifting over to the pile of folders on his desk. On the very top, probably now marred with my fingerprints, is the file with my name on it.

I blink, trying to understand. Research. Research . . . about me? And then it hits me. Oh my God. Oh my God.

I’m so stunned, I can’t quite believe it at first. I step backward. My vision tunnels. There’s absolutely no way Ollie could have a file on me about that.

Ollie’s knuckles make a loud crack on the doorjamb. He knows, and he knows that I know. And then he says, “Did you know I grew up here, Willa? Well, not in Blue Hill proper—I’m not from that side of the tracks—but on the outskirts. But I hung out with Blue Hill kids my whole life, partied with guys at Aldrich. I went to a lot of frat parties, in fact.”

It feels as though the blood has drained from my body. I wheel around, needing to escape from what I’m afraid he’s going to say next. I look for a window.

“Now hold on a second,” he says, lightly touching my wrist. “Let me finish. First off, if you think I’m that guy, you’re wrong. I wouldn’t do that to a woman. But I was at that same party. I only found out about what they did afterward—it’s not like they did it to the girls out in the open.”

It feels like I’ve swallowed razor blades. This can’t be happening. Please tell me this isn’t happening. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I try to say, though the words sound garbled, nonsensical.

Ollie ignores me. “But the morning after, I saw this guy smooth-talking a couple of skittish girls as they left. Him being like, It’s all good, nothing bad happened. One of them was you.”

I quiver. My mouth opens and closes soundlessly, like a fish.

“And then I asked the dude what it was all about. He laughed, told me everything, though he couched it as ‘they were asking for it, they loved it, it was a good time.’” He shakes his head, disgusted. “I guess he wasn’t afraid I’d say anything—his dad was, like, the CEO of some billion-dollar company, and my dad was working part-time security.”

The humiliation rakes through me like a trail of slime. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insist again. “You have me confused with someone else.”

But Ollie snorts like I’ve told a joke. “Nah, I remember you from that party. Those dudes were such idiots—didn’t even realize you were the new president’s daughter. But I did.”