In the Blood (8 page)

“What?” I said.

He pulled down the neck of his striped oxford and I saw that on his shoulder was an enormous bruise, a black-and-purple rose against the snow of his skin. It sent a wave of concern through me.

“How did that happen?” I asked.

“I fell down the stairs last night,” he said. But he looked down at his cuticles. And I found myself thinking of that lock on the door. I was silent for a second, waiting for him to go on.

“My mom put ice on it,” he said. “But I got in a fight at school today and it got hurt again.”

There were lots of physical altercations at Fieldcrest. So many troubled kids in such close quarters, and violence was sure to erupt. In fact, it was one of the biggest criticisms of the place leveled by skeptics of Dr. Welsh’s work. The children were violent with each other, manipulated each other, the stronger sometimes preyed upon the weaker. Last year, after an article ran in the
New York Times Magazine
about the school, some parents had pulled their children from the program. They’d then gone on to form a group lobbying to close the school.
All these kids in one place? Aren’t they just learning from each other, forming alliances?
one parent railed in an online discussion about the school.
Some of these kids,
parents complained,
are getting worse instead of better.

My internships there had been brief, just a semester each. But it wasn’t a happy place and I wasn’t sad to leave when they were over. My art therapy class had been an unmitigated failure (Langdon thought differently, but I knew it was bad). My sessions generally devolving into pandemonium with paint being thrown, or someone raging on the floor, or tears shed after cruel words were tossed about. Once, a particularly violent boy tried to stab me in the eye with his brush. Luckily, Langdon had been there to subdue him.

“So,” said Luke. “Games.”

“Sure,” I said. He seemed eager to change the subject, so I went along. I was going to bring some of this up with Langdon, ask his advice. “I like other games. Scrabble?”

“What about scavenger hunts?”

I thought about this. I wasn’t sure I’d ever participated in a scavenger hunt. I didn’t have that kind of childhood. I didn’t remember games, and family vacations, summer camps, and school field trips. I didn’t spend time with my cousins at the beach. My parents didn’t
plan activities and playdates. So none of the places where scavenger hunts might have taken place even existed in my life.

“I don’t think I’ve ever done one,” I admitted.

His eyes went wide, and he leaned forward almost halfway across the table. “Never?”

“Nope,” I said. I had that feeling again, the uncomfortable buzz I get when I accidentally reveal how different my life was from almost everybody else’s. Not that Luke’s childhood was all fun and games. But I held my ground, didn’t backpedal with a
Well, maybe, a long time ago
. Luke was way too smart for that. “Never.”

“Wanna do one with me?” I remember thinking that he looked so childishly eager, so happy. I thought about the bruise on his shoulder, that lock on his door, his days spent at Fieldcrest. And I thought:
It’s harmless. Why not?

But maybe, even then, it was more than that. He was leveling a dare, and I was childish enough, competitive enough, to take it. I wanted to play his games. But more than that, I wanted to win. No. I wanted to beat Luke. I know. It’s sad and terribly irresponsible when the adults act like children. But we’re not so far from that place, most of us. Most of us grow up very slowly.

“Sure,” I said. “When do we start?”

“Soon,” he said. And then he did something strange. He walked around the table and hugged me. It was soft and sweet, but I sat frozen a minute, not sure of what to do. I wouldn’t say I’m the most affectionate person in the world. In fact, physical contact makes me pretty uncomfortable. I fought not to pull back, and then finally closed my arms awkwardly around him.

When I got back to the dorm, I knew something was wrong before I entered my room. The door stood ajar, and I could hear voices within. There had been a lot of chatter around the espresso machine when I entered the lobby—which was normal. But a silence seemed to fall as I entered. And girls who ordinarily wouldn’t have given me a second glance looked at me strangely.

Standing inside our suite, there were two uniformed officers, and two other official-looking adults standing near the fireplace. Ainsley was sitting on the couch, crying. Our dorm mom, Margie, who had been responsible for taking care of Evangeline girls for twenty-five years, was there.
I’ve seen it all, girls,
she said every year at orientation.
So don’t bother trying to pull one over. No room parties. No overnight guests in your room. No booze. No pot. There’s no curfew, but if you’re expected, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to let someone know where you are. We all like to think we’re safe here, and usually we are. But things happen, as we all know.

Margie, fit, lean, and pushing sixty, wore a deep scowl. Elizabeth had been an Evangeline girl. Some people said that she wasn’t over Elizabeth’s death, was in therapy in order to move on from the
responsibility she felt. Of course, we all knew there was nothing Margie could have done. It was an accident, a terrible accident. Or so it had been ruled, nearly a year after Elizabeth’s death.

“What’s up?” I said.

Everyone turned to look at me, and then Ainsley looked away. I recognized the heavyset, balding man as one of the detectives who had worked Elizabeth’s case. He had a bearish quality, a warm smile, but bright, analytical eyes. Everyone thinks bears are so cute, but their claws can easily dismantle a human body. They were always watching, those eyes, drinking in details, making connections.

“Beck didn’t show up for class today,” Ainsley said into her tissues. I sank onto the couch beside her. “She hasn’t come back to the room.”

I offered a slow shrug. “Beck has skipped class before,” I said. I ignored a rise of worry, of guilt. I shouldn’t have left her. “This is not a new thing.”

“We found her bag in the trees by the path that leads from the library,” said the detective. He walked over to me and offered me his hand, which I took. His grip was hard and firm—I mean, of course it was. It wouldn’t be wet and limp, would it? Not this guy. Even though he was balding and had an impressive paunch, there was still a kind of power that radiated from him.

“Detective Chuck Ferrigno,” he said. “Lead detective for The Hollows PD. Maybe you remember me? You’re Lana Granger, right?”

“That’s right,” I said. “I do remember you, sir.”

He gave me a warm smile. “Are you okay?”

“You found her bag?” I asked.

He nodded. “What time did you leave the library?”

“Around nine or ten,” I said. I thought hard, trying to remember the exact time. “Nine-thirty, I guess.”

“And where did you go after that?” I felt the heat of everybody’s eyes on me. It was the thing I hated most, being the center of attention. I wanted to sink down into myself and I realized that I was slouching horribly. I forced myself to sit up straight.

“You went together and were supposed to leave together, though. That’s what Ainsley told us.”

“Right. But I wasn’t feeling well.” I really didn’t want to lie, but I had already lied to Ainsley.

“And where did you go after that?”

“I came right home and got into bed.” I felt Ainsley turn her head to look at me.

“What time was that?” he asked.

“About nine forty-five.”

“Is that about right, Ainsley?” asked the detective.

“I was in my room studying, and I had my headphones on,” said Ainsley. I saw her foot start to twitch. I saw the detective notice it, too. “I didn’t hear her come in.”

The detective was scribbling in a little notepad, which struck me as kind of old school and made me think of Beck. Some people just don’t want to give up the pen and paper thing, the analog experience.

There were a few more questions, which I heard through a kind of mental fog. Was Beck seeing anyone?
Not that we knew of.
Was she having a problem with anyone?
No.
Had she mentioned being afraid of anyone? Had she seemed depressed?
No. Nothing more than the typical angst.

“Her parents are divorcing,” Ainsley chimed in. “She’s pretty upset about that.”

But that was news to me. It was kind of a big deal. That she hadn’t confided in me underscored the space that had opened between us lately. She’d told Ainsley but not me. A little flame of jealousy flickered inside.

I thought about Beck’s bag sitting out there all night, my mind searching for some logical, harmless reason that her bag with all her notebooks, her laptop, probably her cell phone, would have been cast to the side of the path. I couldn’t come up with one.

When he was done with his questions, the detective and the other officers in the room left. But not before he paused in the doorway and said, “So, Lana, how are you feeling now?”

“Better,” I said. “I think I was just overtired.”

“Good,” he said as he closed the door.

When they’d gone, I turned to look at Ainsley, who was watching me strangely.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said. And then she started to cry. I should have moved over to her and held on tight. I could have stroked her hair, telling her that it was all right, a big nothing. Beck would be home by dinner, I could have said. Ainsley was my friend, and it would have been right for me to comfort her. It was the expected thing. But I didn’t do that. I moved away from her instead, and she wrapped her arms around herself. I stood awkwardly for a moment.

“Don’t worry about it, okay,” I said as I moved toward my bedroom. “She’s fine.”

I saw her nod, but she didn’t say anything.

I saw a shrink in town, Dr. Maggie Cooper, and I had been seeing her my entire time at school. I had sessions once a week, sometimes
every other week. It depended largely on the time of year, how heavy was the burden of my past in any given season, if I was especially stressed or sad.

I think it would be safe to say that Dr. Cooper knew me better than almost anyone alive who was not related to me, and even she didn’t know everything. But I liked her and trusted her, had never felt safer or less judged than I did on the couch in her office. Luckily, I had an appointment that afternoon.

I told her about the things Beck had said—about Luke, about Langdon. And how I had left Beck in the library, both of us angry. And how Beck hadn’t come home. Dr. Cooper listened in that careful way she had, nodding, issuing affirming noises. In her office, the real world always seemed so distant and far away, infinitely manageable. I could sink into the plush couch, hug one of the overstuffed throw pillows to my middle, and just
be,
while everything waited swirling and chaotic outside her door.

“I’m so sorry to hear this, Lana. It must be so frightening for you,” said Dr. Cooper. She reached over and handed me a box of tissues, even though I wasn’t crying.

“A missing girl is always cause for alarm,” she went on. “But it’s important for you not to get catastrophic in your thinking. It could yet be a false alarm. The police are reacting quickly, which is as it should be. But, for you personally, try not to imagine the worst-case scenario.”

“But her bag,” I said. That was really the thing that got to me. “She’d never leave that anywhere, not for any reason.”

Dr. Cooper made an affirming noise. “That is troubling, I admit.”

It wasn’t possible for me not to get catastrophic in my thinking, not to imagine the worst-case scenario. I told her as much.

“It’s a process,” she said. “To change the way we think. And you have unique challenges. But it is possible.”

The good doctor was so far out of her depth, she didn’t even know. Like a weak swimmer congratulating herself for treading water while a school of sharks circled her below the surface.

“I’ll work on it,” I said.

She gave me a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. I’d noticed a change in Dr. Cooper the last couple of sessions. Was it that some of her warmth had faded? Or was she holding something back, or sensing that I was? I tried to think back, wondered if I’d said anything I shouldn’t have. It was true that I was getting very comfortable here, had even started to look forward to the sessions that I had agreed to initially only to appease my aunt.
You have to talk to someone regularly about the things you’re dealing with. You need someone to help you narrate the past in a healthy way.
She was a big believer in talk therapy. She was also the joint manager with Sky of my trust. Not that she ever used it to manipulate me, but it always just seemed like a good idea to do what she wanted.

Then, to have a place to talk about some (not all) of the things that haunted me, that leaked into my dreams, that kept me feeling distant and separate from the world that went on around me, had actually been a big relief. The doctor had never once seemed rattled, never recoiled or looked shocked by what I told her.