The Murder Rule(3)

Ever since she had stumbled across the Vanity Fair article two weeks ago and found out exactly what was happening at the University of Virginia, she’d been too caught up in the frantic forward momentum of her plan to have time to think. Except, no . . . that was bul shit. She’d had plenty of time to think, she just hadn’t al owed herself to. And now she was in Charlottesvil e, at the point of no return. It wasn’t too late. She could stil leave, take her bags, head back to Maine. Except . . . she’d be going back to what? More of the same? No chance for change, for things to real y, truly, get better?

No. No way. She was here for a reason and no way was she going to chicken out before she’d even gotten started.





Hannah

TWO

SUNDAY, AUGUST 25, 2019

Hannah unpacked, showered, dressed, then grabbed her jacket and decided to explore the campus. The law school offices probably wouldn’t be open, but she could figure out where everything was, save time later. And it was a beautiful day, better to be outside. The sun was shining and the sidewalks were busy with students. Classes started tomorrow, and most students had already moved in, but a few stragglers were stil arriving. There were students out jogging, others lugging mattresses into apartment buildings, and more just walking with friends, coffee cups in hand. Hannah yawned widely.

Coffee. That was an idea. She bought a cappuccino from a friendly girl at a café where the speakers played Tracy Chapman, and fought the urge to sit there for the day.

The offices of the Innocence Project were in the law school building, which was a five-minute walk from the apartment. The law school was set among trees, with a beautiful y manicured lawn in the front. The building itself—built in redbrick and perfectly symmetrical —was modern and attractive and could not have been more different from the law school building at the University of Maine, which had been designed in the brutalist style, and had the dubious distinction of making an Architectural Digest list of the eight ugliest buildings in the United States. Hannah climbed the steps to the entrance hal and pushed open heavy double doors. She expected to find a security desk, an ID check at least, but there was nothing. Just a large, empty hal and wide corridors leading to the left and right. Hannah fol owed the sign that told her student services and clinics could be found in Slaughter Hal . This part of the building was older, a little more worn, a little more functional than the grand entrance hal .

She found the offices on the first floor after wandering for ten minutes. A simple door, with the words Innocence Project—Prof. R.

Parekh stenciled on the glass. It was Sunday. The place was likely empty, the office locked up. Stil , Hannah put her hand on the door and pushed gently. It opened. She stepped inside. The office was unremarkable, and Hannah let out a breath, feeling something between disappointment and relief. What had she been expecting, exactly? It looked just like any other midlevel corporate office. A large, open-plan space with a reception desk and behind that, multiple coworking desks and cubicles. There were three doors against the wal to the right that presumably led to other offices or meeting rooms. The place seemed deserted, except that the door to one of the private offices was open, and there was a light on inside.

“Hel o?” Hannah said. A man emerged from the open office door.

He was lean and handsome and she recognized him from the Vanity Fair article. Robert Parekh, Professor.

“Can I help you?” he said.

“I’m Hannah. Hannah Rokeby. You said to come and see you when I arrived on campus. I can come back tomorrow . . .”

“Grounds,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“We cal it grounds, here. Not campus.” He shook his head. “It’s not important. Come in, come in.” He stepped forward and opened the little half-gate to the left of reception, ushering her inside. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today, but actual y, your timing is quite good.” She fol owed him through to his office. His accent was British and very clipped. He sounded like one of the royal princes, which made sense, given his background.

The article in Vanity Fair had sold itself like a social justice piece, with multiple references to the Project’s work on behalf of death row prisoners, but the article—which was four pages long—had included a ful -page photograph of Parekh. He’d worn a navy silk shirt with the top two buttons undone and had stared straight into the camera with a look that suggested both deep thinking and a hint of impatience.

The headline had read Robert Parekh: The Next Caped Crusader?

Parekh was a very good-looking man. The journalist who’d interviewed him had clearly been impressed—the tone of the piece had been almost fawning and the article had included lots of unnecessary detail about Parekh’s wealthy family, his years at Eton playing polo with royalty, and his relationships with beautiful, high-profile women.

Parekh took his seat behind his desk and Hannah sat too, folding her hands in her lap. For a long, disconcerting moment, he just looked at her. Hannah’s stomach tightened. She tried to read his expression. Given the way he’d responded to her email, she’d assumed this meeting would start with tension and excuses or denial and recrimination. But he was so calm, so in control that it was hard to imagine that he was in any way worried about her not very veiled threat to share what she knew about his relationship with his former student Annabel Bancroft.

Annabel was a law student, a part-time model, and a friend of Hannah’s friend Mil ie. Hannah and Mil ie had been undergrads together in Maine. When Hannah had cal ed Mil ie—who had just graduated from UVA law—to ask a few discreet questions about Parekh, Mil ie had been happy to share the gossip about Annabel.