Chapter Twenty-Five. Riley, Present Day
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
RILEY, PRESENT DAY
Alex Finch is easy to find. My only mistake was assuming Alex was male when, in fact, she’s a young woman.
I stare at the pictures that pop up on my phone. She looks about twenty, and in her most recent Instagram photo, she’s in a group with five other girls. All are social media gorgeous, with wavy hair, pouty lips, and sooty eyelashes.
I use my thumb and forefinger to zoom in on Alex, realizing that my first impression was wrong.
She doesn’t seem to quite fit in visually with the rest of the group, and not just because she’s standing a bit apart on the end and is by far the tallest and curviest. Alex is in an awkward pose; she seems to be trying to hide her body behind the girl next to her, and although she’s smiling, her expression looks strained.
I take in more details: Her brown hair doesn’t look professionally styled or highlighted. The fingernails of the girl whose hand is draped over Alex’s shoulder look like delicate works of art, and her makeup is wedding-day ready, but Alex looks more natural.
The words pop into my mind before I’m aware I’m forming the judgment: She’s another outsider.
Alex also provided an easy way for me to find her. Her post is in front of the Tri Delt sorority house with the hashtag #sistersforever.
When I knock on the door of the grand, pillared sorority house a little later, a young woman in a sweatshirt so big it covers all but a sliver of her boxer shorts answers.
“Hi, I’m looking for Alex,” I say.
She pulls her phone out of the pocket of her hoodie and thumbs a text at warp speed. The replying chime is almost instantaneous.
“She’ll be down in a sec,” the woman says. “You can wait in the living room if you want.”
I’m surprised she doesn’t even ask for my name before inviting me inside; I could be anyone. But when I walk into the cavernous living room and see a half dozen other girls lounging around, I realize they’ve got security in numbers.
One is dozing on the couch with her feet propped up in another’s lap while other young women tap on their phones and sip Red Bull or coffee. The scent of pancakes and maple syrup floats through the air, making my stomach grumble.
Two girls are huddled in an oversized chair, their long, graceful legs stretched out on an ottoman, watching something on a phone screen.
“We were total chaos,” one moans.
“My liver hurts,” the other replies. “Wait, is that Syd dancing? She’s holding that pledge by the tie like it’s a dog leash!”
They burst into laughter.
“Are you looking for me?” Alex has materialized behind me. She’s wearing exercise leggings and a big jacket. In person, the vibe I detected through her photos comes through even stronger. While the other young women are draped around nonchalantly, Alex radiates a stiff, anxious energy.
“Hi, yes, I’m Riley,” I begin. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately for a moment?”
She shrugs. “I’m going for a walk. You can come if you want.”
We step outside and she sets off at a brisk pace. I’m glad I’m wearing sneakers, too, so I can keep up.
“I know what this is about,” she says. Her voice starts out defiant, but wavers and breaks on the final word.
I blink. “You do?”
“You’re from the university, right? What are you, like, a counselor?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not tracking.”
“I’ve heard what students are saying, the jokes they’re making about me. There’s a stupid meme going around on Snapchat. And yeah, fine, I was the one who came on to him. But he was all in!”
Something about Alex reminds me of an injured wild animal—she’s acting tough, like she’s ready to fight, but she desperately wants to curl up somewhere soft and safe.
I shake my head. “Alex, can you back up a little? I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and starts walking even faster.
“A month ago I slept with my psych professor. All the girls think he’s hot and I don’t know …
he said really nice stuff about the papers I wrote.
That I was smart and insightful. I thought he liked me.
But he’s married and I guess he freaked out afterwards and decided I could get him in trouble.
So he accused me of cheating on one of my papers, which I didn’t.
And now I’m the one in trouble. Everyone assumes I made up the sexual stuff to get back at him.
Because why would a hot professor sleep with a girl who looks like me? Just ask anyone on Snapchat.”
I feel myself bristle. I believe her; she can’t be faking this kind of raw pain and anger. “Did you tell anyone about this?” I ask.
“I told everyone,” she says. “My friends, my mom, my therapist—she thinks he’s a narcissist, by the way. That’s her professional opinion. No one can prove we slept together, but he apparently has proof I cheated. Which he manufactured.”
“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” I say.
She takes in a deep, shuddering breath and suddenly it’s like I can see past her appearance, into her very soul.
Her sneakers are brightly colored, with a designer logo, but the soles are worn, like she saved up to buy them and can’t afford to replace them.
Her clothes are plain and a little too tight, like she wishes she were a few sizes smaller.
She’s practically oozing a raw vulnerability.
She’s a scholarship kid, maybe, or someone who took out loans to go to college.
“If you’re not a counselor, then who are you?” she asks.
“I’m here about something else,” I say. “Can we slow down? It’s hard to talk when I’m walking so fast.”
“We’re almost there,” she replies.
A moment later she stops in the middle of the sidewalk and turns to face a row of townhouses. I shift so I can see her expression. Alex wears her heart on her sleeve, and I want to gauge her reaction to my words.
“I’m here about the Trimble Institute archives from the library.”
Her face is blank. “What’s a Trimble archive?”
“You went to the library four times over the past few months to research the Trimble Institute.”
She shakes her head. She appears to have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about.
“Why would you say that?” she asks. “It’s so random.”
“Then someone used your student ID to sign into the library and access the files,” I explain.
Her eyes widen. “It wasn’t me. But guess what? My student ID went missing the day we slept together. That jerk must’ve—” She cuts herself off, her attention suddenly commanded by a guy coming out of a townhouse with a blue door.
I stare as the athletic-looking man with black hair locks the door behind him. “That’s your professor?”
She nods and folds her arms. “I know what times he leaves for his seminars and I come here to show him I’m not going to disappear.”
Despite her tough words, her lips are trembling. Then I notice something that breaks my heart: Her nails are bitten to the quick.
The man spots Alex and pivots, heading in the direction away from her. “Hi, Professor Woods!” she calls after him. She watches until he disappears around a corner.
“He pretends I don’t exist now.” Alex’s eyes fill. “He must’ve taken my ID, too. Maybe to get me in trouble for something else.”