Chapter 22
“So?” Logan asks, jerking me from my thoughts. “Are you okay with this?”
I shrug. “I have to be. Halligan’s confirmed what he could, answered all our questions . . . and in the end, it’s hard to make a case against what he says.”
“I wish you didn’t look so distressed.”
I offer a rueful smile, grateful for his perception. “I think I’m just exhausted from the roller coaster this week, believing one thing one minute and something else the next, and on and on and on.”
“It has been a roller coaster. But it’s bound to be better once we get the hell out of this town.”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“I’m just worried that even when I leave, the doubt about Ruck will stay with me. Like it’s permanently stuck in my mind now.”
“You’ve got to unstick it, Bree.”
“Okay,” I say, as if that’s enough to make it so.
Logan shoots an arm from the sleeve of his sweater, checking his watch. “Why don’t we grab some lunch, have a glass of wine. I’ve got work calls to make this afternoon, but it would be good to try to decompress first.”
I’m famished, but what I want more than food is to plan my trip home and provide more of the details to Bas. To finally have a full conversation with him and, as promised, share more of the news from here. To make the distance between us seem like less than five thousand miles.
Besides, going out to lunch with Logan would be repeating the mistake I made last night. Though I’ve appreciated his support, it’s time to recalibrate and put the old boundaries in place.
“I should go back to my room. I need to take care of a few things.”
“Sure.” He checks his watch again as if forgetting he did that ten seconds ago. “Why don’t we plan to meet in the lobby at five thirty. The reception starts at six, but I’d like to show up at Boyd Hall a few minutes early.”
He’s expecting me to go with him, and I really should.
After all, he gave Lisa the boot on my account, and it seems unfair to make him arrive alone.
But I don’t want to walk in there practically arm in arm.
We seem unified at this moment, but it’s only in grief and outrage. Anything else is an illusion.
“Thanks, but I’ll probably be coming from another direction. Not the inn.”
He nods, his expression inscrutable. I say goodbye, promising to see him shortly after six.
Back in my room, I wolf down a small bag of potato chips from the basket on the dresser and settle at the desk to check flights for tomorrow night.
I wasn’t expecting an issue at this time of year, but the one route to Montevideo that doesn’t involve a huge layover is sold out.
I had no intention of spending one more minute than I had to in Cartersville, but holing up in my room here for an extra day seems like a better option than an eight-hour wait in the S?o Paulo airport—at least based on how slightly fragile I feel.
I book the flight for Saturday night instead, which means by midday Sunday, I’ll be at the chacra, eating lunch with Bas and drinking espresso afterward with my feet in his lap. I grab my phone and place a call to him, but it goes to voicemail.
“Bas, hi,” I say. “We just met with the police, and they’ve decided everything points to Ruck in the end. I’ll be there Sunday morning at ten forty. Can’t wait to see you, sweetheart.”
A wave of fatigue almost knocks me off the desk chair.
I rise, stumble toward the freshly made bed, and stretch out across it on my back.
Right above me on the ceiling is a carved plaster medallion where a light must have hung during another decade.
As my gaze traces its outline, I feel something seeping through me, quickly weighing me down.
I’m not just tired, I realize. I’m . . .
disconsolate, like I’ve been swallowed whole by sadness and can barely move.
I should never have gone to Mohegan Park today. In the end it offered nothing new, and what it’s done instead is stir the ghastly images I’ve worked so hard to bury: Mel brutalized, suffering beyond words, possibly pleading for her life. And unable to escape.
Opening my eyes, I realize I’ve passed out cold. And when I glance at the bedside clock, I discover, to my shock, that it’s after four. Shit. The reception is less than two hours from now.
I check my phone to see if I’ve missed any calls or messages. There’s nothing, not even one from Bas. Maybe his cold has laid him low.
I take my second shower of the day, hoping to jolt my senses, and then slip into the lavender silk cocktail dress I brought, pairing it with silver kitten heels and a matching clutch.
I chose it for tonight because one of the rare compliments Mel paid me after age thirteen was that I looked nice in lavender.
I wasn’t really deceiving Logan when I said I’d be coming from elsewhere. My intention is to finally check out the new Muse office before heading to Boyd Hall.
Though there’s still light in the sky as I make my way to campus, the air is raw, and I shiver inside my trench coat. I should have made time earlier in the day for this, but at least going now means I won’t have to come back to Carter College again before I leave town.
Arriving at the campus, I find it looking oddly deserted. The students I do pass are all hurrying, eager, I’m sure, to get to their dorm rooms or one of the dining halls.
I’m halfway across the quad when Chip finally returns my call.
“Ms. Winter, sorry to be late getting back to you,” he says. “How can I be of assistance?”
I explain what I’ve heard about the archive and my hope to find Mel’s writing there.
“You heard correctly,” he says. “There is a creative archive.”
“Wow.” I’d been sure that with my luck so far, it didn’t exist anymore. “How do you happen to know?”
“Because I stored some stuff of mine there ages ago.”
“Oh yes, Maya mentioned you worked on The Muse—and that you knew Melanie back then.”
“Yes, I did. Like everyone else, I was devastated by what happened. She was a wonderful person.”
I give him the chance to expound a little, to offer a tiny nugget about her that my always greedy hands can snatch away, but there’s only silence. I don’t blame him for wanting to be done with the topic.
“Is writing still a passion of yours?” I ask.
“Uh, not anymore. I used to dabble now and then, but my stories were never—in a manner of speaking—much to write home about . . . Let me see what I can find out before the reception. And if there’s stuff of Melanie’s stored on it, I’ll get you a link.”
“Thank you, Chip. I’ve already asked the English department for help on some matters, and I don’t want to bother them another time.”
I’m hoping my last comment will guarantee he won’t go through Handler about this.
“Understood . . . You must be heading over to Boyd Hall soon, right?”
“Yes, in a bit. I’m going to check out the Muse office first and then make my way there.”
By the time we sign off, I’m chilled. I pick up my pace until the humanities building looms ahead of me. Though the first-floor classrooms are all dark, there are lights shining from some of the arched second-floor windows, probably a sign of faculty working late.
My gaze flicks to the very end, where I know Handler’s office is located, and to my surprise I see the backlit shape of a man standing right against the window, obviously staring out at the quad. Is he simply lost in thought, or looking at something? Is he even looking at me?
I reach the building and push open the door, nearly colliding with a dark-skinned girl in cornrows, zipping a hooded Carter sweatshirt.
“Oops, sorry,” I say and offer a smile. “Would you know where I can find the Muse office?”
“Yeah, it’s down one flight,” she says, kicking up her chin toward the nearby stairwell. “And then all the way to the end. But I don’t think it’s finished yet.”
“That’s okay, I’m just here to see how it’s coming.”
She smiles distractedly as she exits, wishing me good night. Once she’s gone, I seem to have the floor to myself.
I descend to the lower level, the clicking sound of my heels echoing up the stairwell.
Pushing open the fire door at the bottom, I find myself in a brightly lit corridor with classrooms and meeting rooms on either side.
I hesitate for a moment. It appears deserted on this level.
But after hearing muted voices coming from one of the rooms farther down, I start along the corridor.
Once I reach the room with the voices, the window in the door offers a glimpse of several people sitting around a meeting table.
Finally, I near the end of the corridor, where the door facing me has a work permit taped to the outside. Against the wall on the left is a metal worktable with a large roll of brown paper on top. To the right of the door, there’s a brass plaque. It says, “In Memory of Melanie Chase.”
So here it is, Logan’s other gift to Carter College. I wait for a swell of pride and/or pleasure, but there’s only dead calm—which I guess shouldn’t surprise me. Mel isn’t here to see her name on the door and never will be.
I’m pleased to find that the door’s not locked.
Once I’ve pulled it open, I smell fresh paint, but it’s too dark to see anything.
I carefully pat the inside wall until I find a switch, and seconds later the space floods with light from a recessed ceiling fixture.
I step across the threshold, taking everything in.
The office is still partially cluttered with stuff like tarps, a couple of sawhorses, and paint cans, but it’s far enough along for me to see how impressive the final results will be.
I glance behind me down the empty corridor.
The group must still be in the meeting, so I’m not alone on the floor.
And since there seems to be no harm in taking a closer look around, I lay my evening purse on the top of one of the sawhorses, unbutton my coat, and step farther into the office. I’ll just have to mind the wet paint.
The first part of the space is taken up by the conversation pit that Handler described at the dinner party, and beyond that there’s an open area with six modern-looking workstations.
To my left as I walk is what looks like a meeting room, and beyond that are two glass-walled rooms that will probably be the podcast studios.
I picture each of them with a table and mic and students conducting interviews, maybe dreaming of their own shows one day.
Bravo, Logan, I think. When I was on the literary magazine in college, we worked as a group at a dented metal table in an otherwise empty room, and that was just fine for us, but I see how a place like this could be exciting for students, providing them with a sense of being on a real publication.
And it will certainly be an impressive feature on campus tours.
Footsteps stir me from my thoughts, the sound of someone in the outside corridor, possibly headed this way. As I twist my head, the overhead light blinks off and the room goes partially dark.
“Hey,” I call out, spinning around. It must be a worker or custodian who thinks the lights have been left on by mistake. From where I’m standing, I see the main door start to close, so fast I can’t tell who’s on the other side. “Someone’s in here,” I yell.
A second later the door slams shut, and I’m standing in total darkness.