The Last Good Girl (6 page)

Anna glanced at Sam. Sam shrugged in a way that said,
Hey, you never know what you'll find behind people's front doors
. Kristen led them to the back of the house, where an open-concept kitchen-living-room area seemed the only place meant for a family rather than visiting dignitaries. A man in a suit was pacing the length of the room, a cell phone to his ear. Anna recognized him from the pictures: Emily's father, Barney Shapiro. He walked to the kitchen, turned, and paced over to the end of the living room, turned, paced to the kitchen, turned. He didn't seem to notice the two additional women in his home. At first, Anna thought he was distraught, trying to figure out where his daughter was. But a snippet of conversation proved otherwise.

“I don't care if the Chinese give us a
billion
dollars,” he told his phone. “We can't put Mandarin characters up on a hall. Can you imagine the Big Three's reaction? We can call it Hu Hall, but we can't look like Chinatown.”

They stood waiting for him to get off the phone. Kristen went up to Barney as he pivoted by the stove. She put her hands on his chest to stop his pacing and whispered into the ear that didn't have a phone clamped to it. As Kristen whispered, her hands stayed on his chest. Anna wondered where
Mrs.
Shapiro was. Barney looked over and saw Anna and Sam standing in the doorway. He held up a finger as he continued talking on the phone. “Yeah. Maybe we could put the characters up in a classroom. See if they'd go for that.”

He hung up and turned to them. He smiled a big warm smile, the type that charmed donors and alumni. But it was wrong here.

“Hello,” he boomed. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Always a fire to put out. I'm Barney Shapiro.” He offered a hearty handshake as Anna and Sam introduced themselves. “Please have a seat.”

He gestured to a white L-shaped couch, arranged around a coffee table with another crystal vase of fresh-cut flowers. Anna and Sam sat on one side of the L, Barney and Kristen sat on the other. Kristen sat so close to Barney that their thighs were touching.

“So how can I help you?” he asked.

“Sir, your daughter has been missing for twenty-four hours,” Anna said. “Have you been made aware of this?”

“Of course. When I was a student, I definitely went ‘missing' twenty-four hours at a time. Those were some of the best twenty-four hours of my life.” He chuckled. “I'm certain that Emily is just out somewhere having a fun time and will show up soon and feel embarrassed that the authorities were called.”

Anna tried to gauge whether he was putting on a good face because the possibility of his daughter being abducted was too terrifying to fathom. She saw only humor and politeness in his eyes. If he was worried, he was good at hiding it.

“I hope you're right,” Anna said. “But there are indications that it could be far more serious than that. We're certainly taking it seriously.” She glanced at Kristen. “Can we talk in private? I have some information to share that is for the family only.”

“Kristen is my fiancée. Emily's mother and I have separated, and Kristen and I will be married next fall, after all the legal machinations are taken care of. Kristen is part of the family.”

“Where is Emily's mother?” Anna asked.

“California. That's where she lives now.”

“Okay. We're trying to compile a list of all the places Emily might have gone off to, her regular schedule, her friends,” Anna said. “Can you tell us about that?”

“Well, sure.” He pulled out his phone and starting swiping. “I can access the registrar's office right here. I'll pull up her schedule.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sam said. “But we already pulled all her information from the registrar. We know which classes she's taking. We know she lives in Springer Hall. We know she entered college with twenty credits from AP testing. What we're hoping for is more personal information about your daughter.”

“I see.” He lowered the phone.

“Who were her best friends on campus?” Anna asked.

“I'm . . . not sure. I'd guess her roommates.”

“We met one of her roommates, Whitney Branson. We didn't get the impression that they were all that friendly. The opposite, in fact.”

“I didn't realize there was any tension there.” Barney frowned.

“When was the last time you spoke to your daughter, sir?”

He looked uncomfortable. “That would be about eight weeks ago. At my birthday dinner. We had a—a bit of a falling-out.”

“About what?”

“I told her that Kristen and I are getting married. Suffice it to say, Emily didn't approve.”

Kristen looked down demurely, but before she did, Anna saw triumph flash across her pierced brow.

“And you haven't spoken to your daughter since then?”

“Correct.”

Angry footsteps clicked down the marble foyer. An elegant woman in her midfifties strode into the room. She wore tasteful beige pants, an ivory blouse, and a well-coiffed salt-and-pepper bob. Anna recognized her from the pictures: Beatrice Shapiro. Emily's mother. Barney's wife—or ex-wife, depending on what stage their lawyers were in.

Anna and Sam stood to greet her, but Beatrice ignored them. She stood directly in front of her husband, who also stood. They did not touch.

“Barney.” Her voice was low and carefully controlled.

“Beatrice.” His tone matched hers. “I told you, you didn't need to come.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You have no idea what I need. Or what Emily needs.”

“Look, you don't need to fly in here just because Emily took a little frolic and detour. Did you check around your Buddhist retreat? Maybe she's just off ‘finding herself' too.”

Beatrice shook her head. “You are the world's biggest asshole.”

Kristen stood and whispered something in Barney's ear. He nodded and spoke to Beatrice. “How did you get into this house?”

“Aspiring Trophy Wife might've changed the locks,” Beatrice said, “but she didn't check with the courts. This is still my house; my name is still on the papers. I had a locksmith make me an extra key last time I was in town.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Beatrice, for the hundredth time, I'm sorry to have hurt you. But this is going to be Kristen's home soon. I bought you out of your half of the estate. You're going to have to give us some privacy so we can all move on with our lives.”

“You think you can just throw money at me and make it all go away.” Beatrice's voice rose. “It's not about money. It's about lies and broken promises. It's—”

Anna held up her hands, one palm pointed at each parent. “Excuse me. If you don't mind, could you please discuss your separation later? We need to focus on Emily now.”

Beatrice blinked, then nodded. “Of course. That's why I came here despite my husband's suggestion that I was not needed.” She introduced herself to Anna and Sam, then sat in an armchair across from the couch. “Please tell me what's going on.”

Anna summarized what they knew.

“Her purse in the Pit!” Beatrice glared at her husband. “This is not some ‘frolic and detour,' Barney. For an intelligent man, you can be such a moron.”

Sam held her hands up. “Please, let's try to stay civil. For the sake of your daughter. Take ten deep breaths.”

Beatrice did as she was told, closing her eyes and putting her hand on her chest as she breathed. It seemed to help. “Thank you,” she said, opening her eyes.

“You don't happen to know the password on her phone, do you?” Anna asked. Both parents shook their heads.

“If you give us permission to unlock the phone, we'll have a much easier time convincing Apple to let us in.”

“Of course,” Barney said.

Anna handed him a consent form. He skimmed it then signed, as calmly as signing a credit card charge at the supermarket. Anna took the form and handed it to Beatrice, so the warring spouses wouldn't have to touch each other.

Beatrice signed it then asked, “Do you know who the boy in the videos is?”

“His name is Dylan Highsmith.”

Finally, Barney reacted. He flinched. “As in Robert Highsmith's son?”

“Yes.”

His Adam's apple pulsed up and down the length of his throat. Interesting that this was the first time Barney had shown any fear involving his daughter's disappearance.

“I should have known,” Beatrice said.

“What do you mean?” Anna asked.

“That boy is a menace.” Beatrice pulled her own phone out of her purse. She moved to sit next to Anna on the couch. She went to her videos, then swiped until she found the one she was looking for. The date on the video was September 2, 2014, at 6:48
A.M.
About six months ago. The frame was frozen on Emily's face, blurry and obscured with the triangular play button. “After we separated,” Beatrice said, “I went to California. I had to get away from Barney and his midlife crisis. But Emily and I would Skype at least once a week. She called me god-awful early on her second day as a freshman. Apparently, she'd gone to some party the night before and had just stumbled home. She was so distraught, I recorded the Skype call.”

Beatrice pressed play. On-screen, Emily's face became animated, red, and sobbing. She was sitting at a desk in a dorm room. Behind her was a stone fireplace. The windows were pale gray, suffused with early morning light.

“Emily, my poor baby,” said Beatrice's voice on the video. “Try to calm down enough to talk. I can't understand what you're saying. First wipe your nose.”

Emily snuffled and reached for something offscreen. Her hand came back with a tissue. She blew her nose into it.

“There you go,” said Beatrice. “Now tell me what's going on.”

Emily took a deep breath. “I went to a party last night.”

“Okay.”

“I think—I think—something terrible happened.”

“Honey, what?”

“Oh God.” She started crying again. “I don't want to be that girl.”

“What girl?”

“The girl who got raped!”

“Emily! Oh my goodness. What happened?”

On-screen, Emily lowered her face to the desk and cried even harder. Only the top of her head was visible, brown hair shaking in tempo with her sobs. Beatrice let her daughter cry for several minutes, until her sobbing quieted and she raised her head. Her eyes were so puffy, they were just slits.

“I danced with him,” Emily whispered. “I thought he was cute. I thought he liked me. Shit, I'm so stupid.”

“Em, I need you to back up. Where were you?”

“A party. My first college party! What a joke.”

“Okay, so you're dancing, at a party. And then what?”

“He gives me a drink. The Killer Heart Throb, he calls it. Red and fruity, really sweet. He asks if I want to see his fish tank. I say sure. I'm going up the stairs one minute—and the next thing—I wake up. I'm in his bed. And he's there on top of me—inside me.”

“Wait, honey. Are you saying he was having sex with you?”

“Yes!”

“Did you—well, did you want to?”

“No! I didn't want to have sex with anyone! It was my first night out! I opened my eyes and this kid is on top of me, his face is a few inches from mine and he's pumping away. I said no. No! I pushed his chest. He shoved his tongue in my mouth. I blacked out again.”

“Oh, my poor baby. How much had you had to drink?”

“Some. But the way I just suddenly blacked out—I'm thinking—he drugged me? Bill Cosby style.”

“Oh my God.”

Emily started to cry again. Anna glanced up at the girl's father, who was listening to his daughter describe being raped. His face was contorted. Anna wondered if this was the first time he'd seen this video. Kristen massaged his arm and whispered something in his ear. He shook his head.

On-screen, Beatrice asked, “How did you get out of there?”

“I woke up, trapped,” Emily said between sobs. “He was sleeping with his arm draped over me, like we were some happy couple. Right next to the bed there was a big fish tank full of these little sharks. They swam around in circles, looking at me like I was something to eat. I climbed out from under his arm, threw on my clothes, and ran out of there.”

“Good,” Beatrice said. “Do you know the boy's name?”

“Dylan.”

“Dylan what?”

Emily looked away from the camera, bit her lip, then looked back again. “Highsmith.”

“Oh,” Beatrice said. “I see.”

“What does that mean?” Emily's voice was louder.

“Nothing, honey.”

“I know who he is, Mom.”

“Okay. Where did it happen?”

“At a fraternity house.” Emily paused. She whispered, “Beta Psi.”

Beatrice gasped. “Your father's house.”

“It's not about him,” Emily said wearily.

“You have to report this.”

“I'm not sure I want to.”

“Why in the world not?”

“Isn't it obvious? I just started here. Beta Psi is, like, the best frat on campus. They can make or break me. If I report this, everyone will know me as ‘the girl who cried rape.' People will point and whisper and I'll spend the next four years eating alone.”

“Your father's fraternity can't get away with this.”

“This is not about my father.”

“It is about him. It's about his college's failed policies.”

“Mom—”

“It's about his administration's medieval view of women.”

“Mom—”

“It's about his—”

“Mom! Stop! This is not about Dad. Can you please put your hate on hold for just a minute and try to listen to what I'm saying?”

“Honey, I totally hear what you're saying. You're saying your father's college failed you. And I'm saying he needs to be held accountable.”