Chapter 42
ABBY
I’d seen the photo of Harper on a news site, and I knew she went to a Catholic school, but I hadn’t made the connection. She wasn’t just a North Shore girl. She went to school here. Right here.
Down the hall from the chapel, I rapped at the door of Sister Lucretia’s secretary, a young woman who looked up with an eager-to-please smile, wiping a spot of mustard from her cheek as I entered.
“Weird question, Raquel, but you probably know I’m a candidate for the fall position, and if I get it, Sister Lucretia said there was a chance I’d get to move into the Grove faculty house that Curtis Campbell is vacating. She even said I might be able to move in early?”
Raquel was still chewing, so I pressed on nervously.
“I know he had a dog. And I have allergies, so I might need to deep clean the place first if he lived there, what—three, four years?”
Raquel set down her sandwich.
“Dr. Campbell was here way longer than that. He came here a year after I did. After his wife passed away.” She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking. “So, fall of 2017.”
“Fall of 2017,” I repeated back. “Poor Dr. Campbell I didn’t realize he’d lost his wife.”
“And daughter. Drowning accident on Lake Michigan.”
I must have managed to mask my shock well because Raquel calmly continued, “But I don’t think you need to worry about the allergy problem. He’s never had a dog. There are rules against that.”
Were we even talking about the same Dr. Campbell? No dog? That was the least of it. Dead wife. Dead daughter. Dead student—Harper McKibben, only weeks later.
“You don’t look well.”
“That was the other thing I came to tell you,” I said, taking a big step back.
I could feel heat flashing across my cheeks, my whole body struggling to stay calm while I thought about everything Curtis had said about his ex-wife—the one he’d supposedly visited a week ago—and the daughter who was close to Benjamin’s age.
“It might be flu.” I fanned my face.
“Do you need to lie down? Sister Lucretia has a couch.” She pointed to an open doorway. “She’s in a meeting with the cafeteria staff. She won’t mind.”
“Maybe for a minute.”
“And Professor Rosso,” Raquel called after me, “you should know that the Grove house can’t be cleaned just yet. Dr. Campbell still left a few things behind. But once it’s completely empty, we’ll let you know—if you get the position, I mean.”
Three minutes on Sister Lucretia’s hard modern couch, with my head between my knees, were all that I needed.
Wife and daughter dead.
Grove student killed just after he came to teach here, only weeks after his wife and daughter died.
Former patient, Christopher Weber, dead following a car accident, responsible for Sidney’s and Izzy’s deaths.
It could all be coincidence. It could be bad luck, or the sort of thing that only seems like luck but has logic behind it.
Curtis counseled and studied psychopathic criminals.
Maybe one of those criminals did something to his wife and daughter, to get back at him for an undesirable diagnosis or damning testimony in court.
Maybe one of those criminals visited Curtis at his office and crossed paths with Harper, who attended school just down the road, and who recognized him later, and trusted him to give her a ride.
And Weber, who died up in Wisconsin? Maybe it wasn’t a random drunk driver. Maybe it was another patient who was jealous of the attention Curtis had paid him.
None of it was Curtis’s fault, possibly, but it didn’t explain the endless lies.
And another thing. Recently dropped by his publisher.
Not for an illegitimate reason, but because of disturbing things Curtis had written.
Things he didn’t even seem to recognize as disturbing.
Girls and women as objects. Justification for nonconsensual sex.
Possibly—and maybe Peggy Keller was misreading or overreacting—the normalization of violent, pathological behaviors.
Then again, it seemed like every notable pundit, even ones with PhDs, said outlandish things all the time now.
Maybe Curtis felt he had to. Maybe he was one of those people who thought the best way to make people think was to say something shocking.
Start a debate. It didn’t mean he had ever harmed anyone intentionally.
I had bad feelings, but no evidence, and furthermore, no way to confront him directly. Not that I wanted a confrontation. What I wanted most was to simply pick up my son and drive away, leaving Curtis’s provocative viewpoints for someone else to puzzle over.
I found a tissue in my jacket pocket and used it to wipe my forehead, which was covered with a sheen of nervous sweat.
Glancing around Sister Lucretia’s office, my eye passed over cheerful framed photos of Grove girls doing elite girl things—riding horseback, sailing on a yacht—and stopped on a key rack, just above the nun’s desk. Each key had a colored plastic tag.
I stepped closer, checking over my shoulder with each step, until I was close enough to run a finger across several, turning over the tags, but they all seemed to be labeled things like Chemistry supply closet and Bake sale cash box.
Another step, and I was up against the desk, reaching for a drawer handle, when a voice stopped me.
“Raquel said you felt unwell.”
It was Sister Lucretia, staring at me through thick-lensed glasses, hands pushed down into the large pockets of a shapeless gray dress made of some coarse, thick material that looked too hot for a summer day.
“I do feel odd,” I said. “I had a nice rest but I should probably get home, where I have medication. It’s possible I’ll need a sick day tomorrow.”
“If you lived here on campus, you’d be back in a jiffy.” She pointed to the couch. “But you don’t. Not yet. Sit down, Ms. Rosso.”
“Sister, I need to—”
“Sit.”
I perched on the edge of her hard couch while she stepped closer to the desk, scanning its surface.
“Were you looking for something over here?”
“No, I was just admiring the photographs over your desk.”
Her mouth remained fixed in a grim line. “Yes, our students love sports. We find it’s a good balance. It was something I planned to ask—if you could coach something. Tennis? Cross-country?”
“Maybe cross-country,” I hedged. “Anything that doesn’t involve balls or nets.”
“Good. Dr. Campbell helped us with cross-country. And with swimming. And sailing. There wasn’t much he couldn’t do. So good with the students. What a lovely man.”
Listening to the praise was like chewing on glass. I did my best not to wince.
“I never had to worry when he was around,” she continued, hint of a smile forming. “If only we had ten more like him.”
Her continuing stare unnerved me, so I looked away, pretending to study the photos again. The girl in full equestrian getup on a dark brown horse jumping over a green-andwhite-striped pole. The sailboat, leaning into a brisk wind, the name Paradox on its white stern. Monied leisure.
“Ms. Rosso, if you don’t mind me asking. Why did looking at photos require you to open my desk drawer?”
“I didn’t. But I was just about to when you walked in. I was only looking for a Tylenol. I hope you don’t mind.”
Sister Lucretia’s smile faded. “It’s not good to take acetaminophen if you’re a heavy drinker.”
“I’m not.”
Articulating carefully, she said, “Dr. Campbell warned me that you had some problems with alcohol, but he assured me they were all in the past. We’re strong believers in rehabilitation.”
“He said I was an alcoholic?” The diagnoses were adding up. “And you were willing to hire me?”
“He promised to help monitor your sobriety.”
“Oh, did he?”
“Yes.”
I tried to rein in my indignation. It was getting harder to sort through all the strange things Curtis had said about me, some true and some not true, and that was actually worse.
Pure lies wouldn’t be half as sticky as a mixture laced with truths that triggered my deepest anxieties.
But alcohol was not one of them. That was a bad chess move.
I looked at Sister Lucretia with all the confidence I could muster. “Talking about my alcohol use would have been a violation of confidentiality.”
“He assured me you weren’t a regular patient. He simply said that if he had any doubts this fall, he might not be able to send a recommendation letter, and that would be the appropriate signal.”
“But he already sent a recommendation letter.”
“For the summer job. It was of a ‘probationary’ nature.”
Probationary. Another small question answered.
I always wondered how Curtis could think so little of me at times and still recommend me for an important job.
The answer was: he didn’t. He got me a temp assignment—perfect for keeping me busy, less likely to object to Benjamin’s absence, which he knew from the start I’d resist—while at the same time setting up conditions that would make a permanent position unlikely.
“I’m not an alcoholic,” I said. “I swear. And I could really use the fall job. Given that it comes with housing, that would mean a lot to me, and even more to my son. His name is Benjamin.”
“You’ve mentioned him.” Sister Lucretia clasped her hands at her waist, the picture of sympathy and devotion.
“I’ve already explained about the girl-to-boy ratio and the weekly Mass. He doesn’t mind. But if I could promise him a new home, that would be . . .”
“Ms. Rosso. There, there.”
My sob took us both by surprise. My eyes had flooded with tears I’d never felt coming. I’d only mentioned the house as a ploy, hoping she’d offer to take me to see it. Somehow I’d spot something there—an envelope, a scrap of paper, something to lead me to wherever Curtis really was.
But the house wasn’t only a tactic. It was also a house. Attached to a job. How long I’d wanted both those things more than anything; but even when I had neither, I’d still had Benjamin. And now? He was in the hands of a dangerous man.
Sister Lucretia approached the couch but didn’t sit down. “He means a lot to you, your son.”
“Everything.” A snotty laugh covered up the hitch in my throat. “He needs a home. And he needs for me to have a stable job. We need each other.”
“Of course.” Sympathetic tears seemed to be forming behind her thick lenses.
But then she said in a no-nonsense voice, “The house is a two-bedroom with two baths. You can certainly tell your son that, but I wouldn’t promise him anything.
Sort yourself out. Get your recommendations in order.
Stay on the wagon. That’s all I can advise. ”
“Thank you.”
More gently she said, “We’ll let you know in August. It’s not even completely empty yet.” She rubbed her hands in a worried gesture that annoyed me. “Poor Dr. Campbell has been so incredibly busy. We can’t blame him.”
“Of course we can’t.” I forced myself to smile. “But you said he’s only left a few things behind? I’d be happy to drive them up to his father’s place in Wisconsin. I just need the house key and his father’s address. I’m sure he gave you a forwarding address?”
“That’s a wonderful idea. I don’t have the address, unfortunately. But I do have Dr. Campbell’s phone number.”
Sister Lucretia went to her desk, opened the top drawer, and extracted a silver key that she held in her palm, visible for one long second until she folded her fingers over it. “Unfortunately, I can’t give you access to his belongings, few as they are, before we’ve talked to him.”
“No, of course not! Why don’t you try him then? No time like the present.”
I watched as Sister Lucretia dialed, waited, then left a short message.
“It went directly to voicemail,” she said.
So, he wasn’t just screening my calls. He was ignoring everyone’s. At best, he was being irresponsible, and I was being paranoid, and years from now I’d look back on this week and laugh.
At worst? I couldn’t think of “at worst.”
But I did have a plan. And it didn’t rely on a stupid fucking key.