The Last Good Girl (7 page)

“I'm not reporting this just to hurt Dad.”

“Why should we shield him? He deserves to be punished for every bit of misery he's caused.”

“I don't know why I even told you this. I just wish I hadn't. Good-bye.”

Emily's hand reached toward the screen, and the recording went black. Anna's heart went out to the girl, who had probably cried offscreen for quite some time after the recording ended.

“Can we get a copy of that?” Sam asked Beatrice.

“Of course. I'm glad to help.” Beatrice looked at her husband furiously. “Someone around here needs to do something.”

“How did you record the Skype call?” Anna asked. “I didn't know that was possible.”

“There's an app,” Beatrice said. “With everything going on with my divorce, I thought I should be prepared.”

This woman was organized, tech-savvy, and consumed with fury. Anna thought her own family was messed up—but whatever her own mother's limitations, she'd always known that her mother had her best interests at heart. There were perfectly good reasons to report the rape—Anna would have encouraged Emily to do it. But Emily clearly thought her mother was motivated by revenge.

Anna said, “This happened six months ago, last September. Did Emily end up filing a complaint against Dylan with the university?”

“I think so,” said Beatrice, “but she stopped talking to me about it. Her father would know, it's his university. Barney?”

“I'm so sorry.” Barney shook his head. “But I can't talk about that. Any complaints made through the Disciplinary Committee are strictly confidential. I'm not at liberty to disclose them.”

“I understand that would normally be the case,” Anna said. “But . . . a girl is missing. Your daughter.”

“In some sense, that makes it even more important for me to follow standard procedure. I can't give a case special treatment just because my family member is involved.”

A shriek rang out as a streak of tasteful beige flew across the room. Beatrice Shapiro grabbed the crystal vase from the coffee table, raised it above her head, and brought it down on her husband's skull.

I can't believe I'm the statistic.

One in five.

It's like—we all knew it. It's in half the videos they make you watch online before school starts. They say it over and over in orientation. One in five girls will be raped in college.

We joked about it as we were getting ready, putting on lipstick, trying on outfits, giggling. Which one of us will it be? Ha ha ha! Hilarious.

And here I am. A few days ago, I was raped. Oh my God, did I just say that? It's insane. I can't get used to the words.

I was raped?

I'm a rape victim?

This is not who I want to be.

And I kind of wonder if I can not be it by just . . . not being it. If a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it, does it make a sound? If a girl is raped but no one knows, is she really a victim?

I could just pretend it never happened.

I'm sorry, wait, did I just say that? Ugh. I rolled my eyes at those girls in the video, the ones who didn't report for months after being assaulted. Because they were “torn” or “ashamed” or thought it was their fault. Get it together. If you're mugged, you don't worry about whether you were “asking for” a mugging. Report it, be strong, move on.

But here I am.

Not sure I can bring charges.

Not sure I can pretend it didn't happen either.

Because I keep thinking about it. Flashing back to that moment. Waking up, with Dylan on top of me. Freaking out—and not being able to do anything about it. Trying to get up—and slipping back down into darkness. It's like that nightmare where you're running and running from some monster, but your feet don't move. I knew I needed to get out of there, and I just passed out again. Thinking about it makes my heart pound, makes my stomach clench. But I can't stop thinking about it.

In class, I'm supposed to be taking notes, but I'm feeling Dylan's weight on my hips. I'm choking on his tongue. I'm seeing those sharks, circling. I'm smelling his beer breath.

I can't even imagine going to a party. I can't imagine taking a drink from a boy, ever again. The idea of it makes me sick. This is supposed to be the best time of my life, and all I'm doing is trying not to throw up.

Mom wants me to go to the police. Not because it'll help me. Because it'll hurt Dad. His college is so messed up, CNN will say, the president can't even protect his own daughter. She'd watch all the cable news shows, cackling.

I can't trust Mom's advice at all. It's so sad. She didn't used to be this way. She used to be a good mom. But last year changed her. All she cares about now is getting even, getting back at Dad for ruining her life. Everything is about that now. Every piece of advice she gives me is really a strategy either to get information about Dad or hurt him. I see Preya talking to her mom, getting feedback without a hidden agenda, and I'm so jealous. I so wish I had a mom like that.

I feel so alone.

And Dad. What a cliché—falling for a woman almost young enough to be his daughter, a woman who works for him. Lying about it for months before Mom caught him. No question, he was a terrible husband. But he's not a terrible dad. I still love him, and I don't want to hurt him. I definitely don't want to tell him about my sex life.

What am I even doing, talking about my family on the vlog? This is supposed to be an assignment, not therapy. Whatever. I'm obviously not posting this anywhere. But it helps, actually, to talk about it. Even just to myself. Because I'm the only one who can figure this thing out.

So.

What the hell am I gonna do?

W
ater, flowers, and shards of crystal exploded across the living room. Blood spurted from a gash in Barney's hairline, spattering the ivory walls with crimson. The president slumped sideways on the couch. A red stain spread on the white cushions under his head. Beatrice cradled her hand as blood poured from her palm, where the broken vase had sliced. Her expression was one of shocked uncertainty, as if wondering whether to apologize or hit him again. Samantha grabbed Beatrice, pulled her arms behind her back, and pushed her chest first against a wall.

“Oh my God! Barney!” Kristen clambered to kneel over her fiancé. She cradled his head in her hands, which were instantly soaked crimson. “He's dead. You killed him! You crazy bitch!”

“My daughter is missing and he won't help the police!” Beatrice tried to lunge at Kristen. Sam held her tight against the wall.

Anna herded Kristen to the opposite side of the room, near the kitchen, so that she and Beatrice wouldn't tangle. “Stay right here,” Anna said. “Call 911.” Kristen didn't answer. “Can you do that, Kristen?” Anna raised her voice. “I need your help. Kristen, can you stand right here and call 911?” Kristen blinked, then nodded and took out her phone. Anna strode back to the couch, carefully wending her way through the broken crystal, scattered flowers, and water. She knelt next to Barney. His face was slack and pale, almost as white as the sofa had been a few moments before. Blood continued to spread across the cushions, the only movement on the couch. The president himself was still as stone.

Anna cursed under her breath. She'd handled hundreds of domestic violence cases. She knew that every tense domestic situation presented danger. She just hadn't expected to find it here in this beautifully appointed academic home. But it was a lesson she often repeated: domestic violence wasn't just a problem for the poor and uneducated. It could happen to anyone, anywhere. All the Arhaus furniture and philosophy textbooks in the world couldn't guarantee against primeval rage.

Anna held her breath as she picked up Barney's arm and put a finger on his clammy wrist. She felt nothing. Oh God, was he dead? Could a man be killed with a single blow from a crystal vase? Anna once had a case where a man had been killed with a hamster cage. She supposed anything was possible. Still holding her breath, she moved her fingers a centimeter over on his wrist. There was his pulse: strong, even, and fast as a bird's. She finally exhaled. “He's not dead,” Anna called to Sam. Her relief was mirrored on the agent's face.

Kristen was giving the address to the 911 operator. Anna said, “Tell them to send an ambulance.”

Anna plucked several tissues from a box and held the wad firmly to Barney's head wound to stanch the flow of blood. Crimson quickly soaked through the Kleenex to her fingers. She kept the pressure firm and steady. Her hands were already covered with his blood. At some point tonight, she'd have to find time to go to a hospital and get hepatitis meds.

Barney blinked and looked at Anna. He brought his hand to his head and found her wrist and the tissues there. He pulled away his red-stained fingers with a look of confusion, tried to stand, and collapsed back onto the pillows. “Stay still, Mr. Shapiro,” Anna said. “An ambulance is coming. We're going to get you to a hospital.”

He nodded and closed his eyes. Several pink flower petals clung to his hair.

Sam took out her handcuffs with a sigh. This was not what they wanted or needed to be doing now, but it had to be done. Sam fastened the metal bracelets to Beatrice's wrists, behind her back. “Ms. Shapiro, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you . . .”

“Are you joking?” Beatrice interrupted. “My daughter is missing and you're arresting me?”

“If I witness an assault, I'm obliged to make an arrest. Even if I wanted to hit him myself. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

Three minutes later, two marked police cruisers and an ambulance screamed up to the president's house. The EMTs bundled Barney onto a stretcher and hustled him off to the hospital. The police officers took Beatrice into their patrol car and drove her off to the central cell block.

Anna stood with Sam on the president's columned porch, watching the parents of their missing girl being carted off by the local authorities, red and blue lights flashing away into the night. She glanced at her watch. Thirty-seven minutes had passed in this house, and they were no closer to finding Emily.

I can't sleep, but I can't really wake up. At night, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about what happened. For hours. In the morning, I sleepwalk my way to class. I can't focus on the lecture. I can't focus on anything really.

I can't eat, either. My stomach's tied in knots. The idea of getting food in there is ridiculous. All the other girls worry about the freshman fifteen, but my jeans are getting looser. The one perk to all this, I guess.

Preya keeps asking me if I'm okay. I keep telling her I'm fine—but I know she doesn't believe it. She's got this worried look every time she sees me. I get it, I'm a mess. I don't put on makeup anymore. All my cute back-to-school clothes are hanging in the closet with their tags still on. I have one pair of sweatpants I love, and I'm wearing them over and over. They're soft and warm and I'll take comfort anywhere I can get it right now. They . . . um . . . yeah, they might be smelling a little funky. I can't bring myself to care.

Preya wants me to go out with her. To parties, to the bar, to the honors retreat. I just don't want to. I want to sit in my room, watching Netflix. In the last three days, I've watched every episode of
Downton Abbey
. I was never into
Downton
before. But there's something soothing about watching the Dowager Countess fight for her family.

And I like to walk the dogs. You know the dogs they use to practice surgery at the vet school? They always need walks and stuff. When I was a kid, I loved to volunteer; it was like my favorite thing to do, but I hadn't done it in a long time. Years, I guess. I never thought it would be my only extracurricular activity in college. But you know what? Dogs don't ask you a bunch of questions you don't want to answer.

So, anyway, today I was walking this dog, Fenwick. He's one of my favorites, a big yellow mutt who smiles when you scratch behind his ears. So I'm walking Fenwick, and he's sniffing around, and I'm not really paying attention to where I'm going. He's sniffing these bushes for a while, and finally I look up and see we're right in front of the campus police station. I must've been walking him for a long time, because that's more than a mile from the vet clinic. I didn't mean to go to the police station. But there I was. I tied Fenwick to a bike rack and wandered in.

I don't know what I thought I was doing. I'd been in the campus police station a few times before, when I was a little girl, always with my dad. He'd go for a tour of the new equipment, or to pay an official visit. The police would all coo over me, let me play with their handcuffs. The president's daughter is everyone's favorite kid, at least when the president is around. The last time I was in the station I was maybe nine years old. They gave me a toy police badge and a lollipop.

This time, no one seemed to recognize me. I was just a regular girl to them, not the First Daughter. Which was kind of a relief and also, actually—I'm, like, ashamed to admit this after all my big talk about wanting to be a normal girl—kind of disappointing.

I asked the officer at the front desk if I could talk about something that happened to “a friend.” There was a lot of waiting, and then a policeman who couldn't be much older than me took me to a small room. His name was Officer Quentin. I told him what happened to me . . . but not really. I said maybe it happened to a friend, like hypothetically, and that my friend wasn't sure if she wanted to press charges or anything. She just wanted to know what her options were. I didn't tell the officer that Dad is president; I didn't tell him my last name is Shapiro.