Chapter 1 #2
It’s not his fault. Apologies from Sidney—for her father’s attitudes, behaviors, absence. But she seemed resigned, even relieved, that the charade of her parents’ marriage would end when she left for college, in a year. I personally think they should separate now, but hey, it’s up to them.
“She loved you, Mr. Mayfield. And Mrs. Mayfield, of course. She loved you both.”
His eyes grew glassy. His lips parted. The aroma of whiskey, half masked by cologne, settled like a warm fug between us.
“Small consolation,” he muttered. “My daughter still killed herself.”
The assumption of suicide seemed premature, but I bit my tongue.
I wasn’t a criminologist. I certainly wasn’t a cop.
But even I knew that crime scene assumptions could go disastrously wrong, especially when it came to supposedly self-inflicted tragedies.
It had happened in Waukegan, where Benjamin and I lived before moving to Pleasant Park—the hanging of a sixty-year-old man, later ruled a murder, a case I only followed because it happened in our building and the man had been an upbeat, easygoing neighbor.
I hoped local detectives wouldn’t make similar mistakes.
But a beautiful seventeen-year-old girl, found in her beautiful bed, empty bottle of prosecco on the nightstand, several types of pills missing from her mother’s bathroom—it could give anyone tunnel vision.
When Mayfield swiped at his eye, I thought we were reaching a truce. But then he leaned closer. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that? Fucking diploma-mill counselor. Summit deserves better than you.”
I nodded, as if he’d just given me some helpful professional feedback. Then I cleared my throat. “Will there be a full autopsy?”
Duplass raked her neck with eggshell-colored fingernails. “Forgive the question. I’m sure it’s too early. You and Mrs. Mayfield must be—”
“It’s goddamn clear what Sidney took. And in what frame of mind.
” He was referring to a final text message from Sidney to her mother—the only form of a note detectives had been able to find.
Don’t come into my room. I don’t want you to see.
The detective had explained to us that the housekeeper had found the body, just after arriving at the house for her Sunday afternoon shift.
Geneva had been hailed from a private tennis lesson, where she hadn’t seen the text.
Mayfield added, “The timing was purposeful. Sidney waited until she was alone. She knew her mom wouldn’t be checking her phone until it was too late.”
I nodded, eyebrows lifted, trying to restrain myself from saying what came to mind. That if I were the parent, I’d wonder why there was no note, aside from the brief text. The majority of people leave notes. Young women, especially.
“It’s obvious she was getting back at Geneva,” he said, waiting for me to confirm.
I couldn’t. If anything, Sidney seemed to favor her mother over her father. No part of the scenario rang true.
He kept staring at me, disdain etched on his face. “You don’t think my daughter meant to kill herself.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think, unless it helps you feel better about the situation. The detectives and the medical examiner would be the ones—”
“So why are you fucking looking at me that way?”
Why indeed. Maybe because he reminded me of someone I hadn’t seen in a long time and hoped never to see again. The arrogance. The narcissism. The temper.
Mayfield pulled a piece of paper from the tight pocket of his khakis. A list of names. “Sidney wouldn’t have done something so harebrained unless another kid gave her the idea. I’ve heard about contagious behaviors.”
“Nothing like this has ever happened to any other Summit student,” Duplass reassured him.
“Just show me her best friend’s records, then.” He jabbed a square finger at the top of the list. “Izzy.”
“We can’t do that,” I said, not bothering to look to Duplass for confirmation. “You have a right to Sidney’s records, but the others are confidential unless they’re subpoenaed. I’m fairly certain of that.” I wasn’t certain. I just hoped the word subpoena would allow him to back down and save face.
“They belong to the school, too, don’t forget. Which means the board. I’m on the board, and I’m sure my fellow board members would agree I should see them.”
“It’s irrelevant,” I said. “Isabella Scarlatti hasn’t come to my office.”
Thankfully, it was true. Not to my office, though we had talked once, in late September—my third week on the job—on a bench outside the east wing’s doors.
It was one of my tricks, meeting students wherever they gathered.
I’d stroll down the hall to the nearest women’s bathroom and mix with the girls who were pausing at the mirror to reapply their makeup.
More than once, that’s when a student had started confiding to me for the first time, from the next sink over.
Can I . . . talk to you for a minute?
Of course.
In Izzy’s case, it happened outside, where she was sneaking a cigarette.
I ignored the infraction and listened to her over the course of one full smoke, then a second.
When she stood to leave, I asked her to make a follow-up appointment, but she wouldn’t, and I knew why.
Because she’d caught me judging her, in light of the stories she’d told. I’d failed.
“I think we could all use a cup of tea,” Duplass said. “Actually, Abby if you could just pop out and ask Grace.”
Grace wasn’t at her desk. When I came back to the dean’s office, Mayfield was already on his feet, readying to leave, the creased list of names planted in the center of Duplass’s desk.
Duplass and I listened as he marched down the echoing hallway.
Nearing the exit doors, he barked at someone—a janitor, probably—before slamming the crash bar unnecessarily hard to let himself out.
Duplass opened her desk drawer, unwrapped a tiny mint, and popped it in her mouth. We waited a moment longer, two women ready to pretend our minds hadn’t just called up memories of other angry, unpredictable men.
“Isabella didn’t come to school today,” Duplass said. “Several of Sidney’s friends didn’t show up.”
“They must have heard the bad news before the teachers.”
On the five-minute drive to school, Benjamin had been glued to his phone, but I hadn’t thought to question why.
Duplass turned her back to me, hands on her hips, staring out the big windows. “Geneva told me a month ago that she was close to leaving Jack. She’ll blame herself for what happened, and she’ll roll over in divorce court. Jack has what he wants. Why does he need student records?”
“Because his theory about Sidney makes no sense.” From the annoyance on Duplass’s face, I could see she’d been asking rhetorically.
I continued anyway. “But I’m less worried about Sidney’s parents at this moment than her friends.
They might be struggling. We need to talk to Izzy and anyone else who skipped today.
All the more reason I should come in early tomorrow. ”
Duplass turned back to face me, kneading the side of her neck. “Do you really think Sidney Mayfield didn’t mean to kill herself?”
“It wouldn’t be my first guess.”
“You’d stake your reputation on it.”
“No,” I said quickly. “Of course not. I don’t have all the facts.”
When Duplass frowned, I should have left it there, but I was feeling judged. And I was getting angry.
I said, “If there’s a reason you don’t want me to counsel Sidney’s friends—if you’re worried there’s something going on you’d rather people not know about—just tell me.”
She looked shocked. “Such as?”
“Drugs, bullying, sexting. I don’t know. Something Summit parents would prefer to pretend doesn’t happen here.”
Duplass’s eyes looked pink and pouchy. I instinctively looked around for a tissue box, because it’s what I did in my office when a student was about to cry. But she didn’t cry. She hardened.
“Do you know why the board got rid of your predecessor?”
Rita, my friend who taught Spanish, had informed me. “Because she told one of the top-ranked students he could afford to spend spring break relaxing instead of studying.”
“Not just any top-ranked student. He was the son of one of our founding families, and they did not send their son to Summit in order to slack off. We are not a public school.”
That I knew. They paid only 60 percent of what a public secondary school pays. That also meant they were willing to hire someone straight out of grad school. It furthermore meant they could fire employees for minor infractions or even smaller misunderstandings.
“Sending you home wasn’t a punishment,” Duplass said. “It was a tactic. To remove you from the board’s sight. Just for now. In the hope they’d forget about you until we’re through the worst of this. But you don’t understand that, because you’re—”
“Worried about the students,” I interrupted.
“No. Because you are inexperienced, I was going to say. And far, far out of your depth.”
I waited a moment for her to go further, as Jack Mayfield had. To say that I was unqualified. The closest thing they had to a scapegoat.
I said, “A girl like Izzy won’t make fast friends with an older male psychiatrist she’s never met before.”
“I’m sorry,” Duplass said, eyes boring into mine. “Did she become ‘fast friends’ with you?”