Chapter 19
A sharp knock on the driver’s-side window yanks a scream from the deepest, most primal part of my core. My head snaps up from my useless phone, adrenaline overtaking me. A woman, sixtyish and sturdy, in a fleece jacket and knit beanie, is outside the Prius, holding up her hands, looking stunned.
“Sorry,” she says through the glass. “Didn’t mean to give you such a scare.”
I release a whoosh of breath, my heart rate evening out, as I roll down the window.
“I just wanted to see if you were okay,” the woman continues. “We came back after dinner to do some tidying up, didn’t expect to find a car in the lot.”
“Uh, thanks,” I stammer, forcing a weak smile. “Guess I’m a little on edge. I can’t seem to get any bars and I’m trying to find my Airbnb.”
“Happens all the time out here,” she says with a laugh. “Come on in, I’ll let you connect to the Wi-Fi.”
I’m so grateful I could cry. Who is this angel of Appalachia—and most critically, how fast can she lead me to Dottie?
I follow her into the antique store, a bell over the door jingling as we enter. The place has the musty, dusty scent of an attic. It’s a single room, jam-packed in every direction.
Baskets and rusty metal bins form precarious towers atop old farm tables. Stacks of framed artwork fill the seat of a bulging, striped sofa. A collection of taxidermy on high-up shelves—ducks and squirrels, deer and coyotes—encircles the whole space.
“The Wi-Fi is HCAntiques, you should see it now,” says the woman, adjusting a spindle-backed chair that hangs from a hook in the ceiling. “Password is mountainair, one word, all lowercase.”
I squeeze in next to the junk on the striped sofa, relief surging through me as my phone connects. A text from Ian dings first: Hey babe, let me know if you made it ok.
Then my inboxes start to populate, the messages stacking up like chips during a winning hand of poker.
My stomach drops when I see that Jordana has forwarded something from a New York Times reporter, who apparently only reached out to her after I didn’t respond to him sooner.
I spot his original message buried at the bottom of my inbox.
They’re planning a “36 Hours in DC” and they want to feature Causa.
I got back to him myself, Jordana has written, but why aren’t you all over this???
So sorry! I respond. Somehow he got stuck in my spam filter.
Shit.
But at least I’ll have somewhere to sleep. Among the J.Crew sales and Athleta ads cluttering up my Gmail is the jackpot I was counting on: a response from the Airbnb host.
Hi Margo,
The cabin’s ready for you. Address is 1800 Black Bear Dr. The lockbox is to the left of the front door, code is 8409. And yes, it’s also available tomorrow night if you need to extend your trip.
Thanks!
Steve
“Find what you needed?” the woman asks, as I rise from the sofa.
With the Airbnb squared away, I can finally get back on mission. My pulse picks up.
“Well, partially…” I say slowly, the excitement building. “I’m actually in Hidden City because I’m trying to find a young woman named Dorothy Ross. It’s kind of hard to explain, but I thought you might know her.”
“Huh.” The woman sniffs. “Can’t say that sounds familiar.”
Her confusion seems authentic. But she probably just needs a little time to think—I forge ahead.
“Are you sure?” I press. “Maybe you know her as Dottie?”
She shakes her head. “Sorry, don’t think I can help you.”
Why is she being so difficult? If she would just take a goddamn minute to mull it over, surely something would come back to her. Is she trying to rush me out of here? If she thinks I’m giving up that easily, she’s in for a rude fucking awakening.
“Listen,” I say, the fury at a low simmer, a faint throbbing behind my eyes, “I really think Dorothy has some connection to this place and if you would only—”
The groan of the back door interrupts. The woman turns toward it: “Ah, come on, Lily,” she scolds gently. “You know you need to clean those off better before you bring ’em inside.”
I suck in a breath.
Lily.
Dorothy Lilian Ross.
Her arms hug two wooden apple crates, one on top of the other, their bottoms caked with dirt. She’s about my height, in baggy overalls, with choppy, Pepto-pink hair that falls just below her ears—an aesthetic about an ocean away from “Georgetown economics major.”
I clear my throat: “Hey.”
Her gaze meets mine. The roundness of her face makes her look younger than twenty-five.
“I was just talking with your boss here about someone I’ve been trying to find. Maybe you know her?”
Dottie’s eyes dart from the older woman back to me.
“Okay,” she says, clutching the apple crates like armor.
“Her name is Dorothy Ross. Probably goes by Dottie, though. Does that ring a bell?”
The color deserts her cheeks.
“No.” Her voice is soft. “No, I, uh, I don’t know that name.”
“Hm, okay,” I say, feigning disappointment.
“That’s too bad. I’m a reporter investigating a professor at Georgetown—Curtis Bradshaw, you might’ve seen him on TV—and I’m pretty sure he did something awful to her.
Last anyone heard, she was in the area. Maybe I can leave a number in case one of you happens to run across her?
” I take a cautious step closer to Dottie. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Lord, you didn’t tell me all that,” says the older woman. “Sure, you can leave—”
Dottie cuts her off.
“Why don’t I put your number in my phone?” she offers. “I have to take these outside first, so you can just follow me.”
“Great,” I say, rushing over to hold the door for her.
Once it closes behind us, Dottie drops the crates on the back deck and descends the stairs into the grass. She motions, wordlessly, for me to join her.
“Dottie Lilian.” I state it as a fact, not a question.
She leans in so her face is only inches from mine. “Who the fuck are you?” she whispers.
“Just let me explain,” I say, taking a step back. “I’m here because I think we can help each other. We both know Professor Bradshaw is an asshole. I don’t want to let him get away with his bullshit anymore.”
This is the tricky part. I have no idea what Curt did to Dottie, so I need to lead her into spilling some hints.
“I am doing everything I can to forget about his bullshit!” she rasps. “The last thing I need is to get wrapped up in it again.”
She whirls away, putting several paces between us, but if she wanted to leave, she would’ve done it already. She’s thinking. That’s good.
“Listen, Dottie, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t really impor—”
She whips back around, brown eyes blazing in the golden early-evening light. “Keep your voice down, I am Lily here.”
“Got it,” I say, holding up my hands. “I just think you should know, Lily, that he’s done the same thing to other students.”
I’m out on a limb. This will either make sense to her or it won’t. But the way her face has aged before my eyes—the intensity in her expression overriding the baby-fat cheeks—makes me think I’ve hit on something.
She studies me, arms in a knot.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” she says finally. “Is their shit in his dumb book, too?”
What the hell is she talking about?
“Um, I don’t follow.”
She cocks her head in confusion. Shit. I’ve stopped making sense.
“You mean he plagiarized them somewhere else then? Like, in news articles or something?”
“Oh yeah, exactly,” I say, imploring my face to stay neutral as a swell of giddiness consumes me. “I assumed he did the same to you. But you’re saying your work is in Falling Apart? That’s next level.”
“I wrote the whole first fucking chapter.”
My mouth drops open—I can’t help it. I have to instruct myself to breathe.
“Are you serious?” I manage to get out, the ground suddenly unsteady beneath me.
She shrugs her confirmation, as if she hasn’t just handed me a career-obliterating bomb and the keys to my dream house all in one spectacular sweep. (I make a mental note to order those moss sofas tonight, since Crate & Barrel says they’ll take eight weeks to arrive.)
“That’s outrageous,” I say, stuffing my hands into the back pockets of my jeans so Dottie can’t see them shaking. “But why haven’t you called him out?”
She stares at her black Converse. “That’s a long story.” Then she meets my gaze again and narrows her eyes. “What did you say your name was?”
“Lisa. I’m with The Chronicle of Higher Education.”
“Lisa what?”
“Waters. Lisa Waters.”
“How’d you even find me? I haven’t told anyone about this.”
“I guess we both have long stories to share,” I say. “I can keep yours off the record, if you want.”
She chews her chapped bottom lip. “I have to get back inside. Where are you staying?”
“A little ways up the mountain, in a cabin—1800 Black Bear Drive.”
Dottie’s pretzeled arms heave up and down as she lets out a heavy sigh.
“I get off work tomorrow around four thirty,” she says. “I’ll come to you.”