Chapter 26
I’m still convinced Riley was raped and almost killed—but she seems to have lied about one aspect of that night: either the date . . . or the fact she escaped in swift-moving waters of the creek.
It seems odd she would make up leaping into the creek. Why would she include an almost improbable-seeming detail that could undermine the credibility of her story?
So that leaves the date as a lie. It now seems possible that Riley was actually attacked at least several days earlier than she told us, when the creek was still high from days’ worth of rain—and that’s why she seemed evasive to me.
It certainly doesn’t discount Ruck as her assailant.
He’d been at his sister’s house for about six days before Mel was killed, which means there’s a clear window for him to have attacked Riley earlier than she claimed.
But why deceive us? As I sit motionless at the desk, I suddenly see, with gut-wrenching clarity, what her motive was.
If she admitted to being raped days earlier, we’d be holding her partly to blame for our daughter’s death.
Mel would never have taken a meditative stroll in a park one night if she’d heard there was a rapist on the loose.
In the end, of course, such a lie wouldn’t alter the bigger truth I’ve come to accept: Ruck killed Melanie and he also attacked Riley. It just would have been in reverse order.
Still . . . unease has a grip on me and won’t let go. If Riley lied about that, she might have lied about other things—things that matter.
I send a text to Logan, telling him to start eating without me, that something’s come up that I need to deal with.
Then I tap the number I have for Morgan Kroll.
My call goes straight to voicemail, so I leave a message asking for her to phone me as soon as possible.
She’ll probably groan as soon as she hears my voice. She wants all this behind her.
But a few minutes later, as I’m pacing the room, she calls me back.
“Can I pick your brain for a couple of minutes?” I ask.
“Okay, but two minutes tops,” she says briskly, sounding like she’s on the move. “I’ve got an eight-thirty class this morning.”
“Understood. Look, I know that Riley was brutally attacked. But—is there any chance she could have misled all of us about the timeline?”
“The timeline? That’s not something the two of us really discussed. I think she said she was in the park at eight or so, but she didn’t get specific about the length of the assault or how long she was in the water, any of it.”
She’s misunderstood my question.
“Sorry, what I meant was the timeline in terms of the night she was attacked. Is there any chance it happened before that Sunday? Like five or six days before?”
A long pause follows.
“Wow, that’s a weird thought,” Morgan says finally. “Needless to say, I didn’t give her a lie detector test, so I can’t be a hundred percent sure, but she definitely said it had happened the night before. And based on her demeanor, it seemed like she was still in shock.”
“Hmm,” I say. Her shock, of course, could have lasted for days.
“And why would she need to lie about that anyway?”
“Because if she’d been raped earlier and hadn’t reported it, we’d be holding her partially responsible for Mel’s death.”
“Okay, I see what you’re getting at,” she says, and I sense her stopping in place, finally absorbing it all. “And you’d be justified in blaming her. But where’s this idea coming from?”
“From some records I found about the weather that month. The creek level is related to rainfall, and it was probably too low that Sunday night to carry her away from the park.”
“But it was high enough days earlier?”
“Uh-huh.” Though I’m almost past the two-minute time limit Morgan gave, I glance down at the chart I’ve sketched, letting ideas take shape as I’m speaking.
“It rained hard on the previous Sunday, so the creek would have been high that day and also on Monday. Probably Tuesday as well. I think that’s the time frame it happened in. ”
“So you’re saying she out and out deceived me.”
“Just about the date, not the horror of the assault. Let’s say Riley was attacked on Monday night instead of the following Sunday.
She might have flagged down a ride just as she described and decided to try to get on with her life without going to the cops.
But then on Friday, Melanie was killed only a short distance away, which would have triggered a huge amount of guilt and anxiety.
Up until then, she might have convinced herself she could still manage school but then realized she couldn’t.
That’s why she finally went by the English department to see about getting extensions.
And she misled you about the time frame so that no one could blame her for Mel’s death. ”
Another pause.
“I suppose it’s possible,” Morgan says after a couple of beats. “But wait . . . she couldn’t have been lying about the date. I saw the bruises on her neck.”
I’d completely lost sight of that detail. How stupid of me.
“You’re right,” I say, bewildered.
“Are you sure the information you found about the creek is correct? Or maybe it was low, and she still managed to paddle downstream.”
Not only are my thoughts in a jumble by this point, but I’m also embarrassed. I’ve dragged Morgan Kroll back into this because of a theory that now seems baseless.
“Yeah, maybe,” I say. “I’m so sorry to have held you up. As you can tell, this is all really fraught for me.”
“That’s understandable, but—and excuse me if this sounds rude—isn’t it time to let the girl get on with her life?
She was wrong not to contact the cops earlier, but she’s finally done that.
And though maybe she hasn’t remembered or presented every detail perfectly, the bottom line is that the past eight years have been a shit show for her, and she needs some closure. ”
Her comment smarts, but I let it go. I sign off saying I appreciate her taking the time to talk.
The call over, I flop onto the bed and stare up at the carved plaster medallion. Maybe my theory about the date of the attack is wrong and I’m being totally unfair to someone who suffered an indescribable trauma. And as Morgan said, the bruises on her neck were proof of the date.
I jump back off the bed and return to my laptop, typing, “What are the stages of a bruise?” into the search bar. A bunch of links pop up, and I open the first one, to an article on WebMD.
As a bruise heals, the piece says, the hemoglobin in the blood breaks down to other compounds and the color gradually changes.
It’s red for a couple of days after the injury and then converts to purplish or black and blue.
After five to ten days, the bruise finally turns green or yellow and then eventually a light brown.
So, if Riley were attacked five or six days earlier, the bruise might have been purplish on the following Monday, instead of red, but it’s possible it looked fresh to an untrained eye offered only a glimpse.
Meaning my earlier deduction could be right.
By the time Riley spoke to Morgan, she might have been living with the rape for nearly a week.
She must have suffered horribly during that time, reliving the assault in her mind and how close she’d come to dying, and also terrified she might be pregnant.
Unwilling to confide in her parents or seek professional help, had she unburdened herself to a friend at the college then?
If so, that person would know the truth about the date.
A thought stirs in me. If she told someone other than Morgan, does that matter in a way I can’t see? The only one with answers is Riley, which means I’m going to have to find a way to speak to her alone—and get her to open up.
I check the time. I’m now seriously late for breakfast, and I decide to skip it altogether, which is for the best anyway. Staring across the table at Logan will only add to my anguish about my betrayal.
Sorry, I can’t get away now after all, I text.
A reply comes within seconds.
Is everything okay?
Yes, just something I need to check out. I’ll fill you in later.
There’s no point in sharing anything until I know more.
I return to my laptop and find my way to a website for Hilary Brown, who turns out to have her own boutique law firm in Loudonville, a town probably twenty-five minutes away.
It appears to specialize in contracts, meaning she’s out of her comfort zone advising Riley.
But she might be doing it as a favor for someone Riley knows.
I dial the number expecting to reach a receptionist, but I get voicemail instead. I take a breath and speak.
“Hi, Ms. Brown, it’s Bree Winter. I’m heading back to South America soon, and I wonder if I could touch base with you briefly before I leave. Logan and I really appreciate your help in this situation, and Riley’s, too, needless to say.”
I’m using her to get to Riley, which isn’t very nice, but it’s the only way to have a shot at the real story.
I give it fifteen minutes, but Hilary doesn’t call back, so I finally take a shower with the phone on the sink once again and then dress for the day.
While I wait in the bedroom, still praying to hear from her, I open my emails to see if Chip Conway has sent the link to the archive yet—and I’m startled to spot an email from Sebastian, sent late yesterday.
We generally communicate only via WhatsApp when we’re not together.
“Thoughts,” the subject line read. Thoughts? Is he about to share a concern about our relationship, based on how elusive I’ve been this week? God, what if he sensed I was going to cheat on him even before I did?
I open the email and nervously start to read.
Bree, hi. I decided to put some thoughts in an email since WhatsApp seemed like the wrong place.