The Last Good Girl (8 page)

Officer Quentin said it was really smart of my friend not to press charges. He said a lot of times it's harder on the victim than the rapist. The process would be long. My friend would have to tell her story over and over, to strangers. The most intimate and embarrassing details. And even then, there's no guarantee the guy'll be punished. He said a lot of times the victim's better off just letting it go and moving on with her life.

When I went back outside, Fenwick's whole body seemed to wag. I squatted down and scratched behind his ears and got his big toothy smile. Seriously, that smile was the best part of my day. I looked around at all the kids going back and forth to class. It was a clear, sunny day, a postcard view of what a university should look like. Diverse students. Perfect grass. Shiny, happy people holding hands. And all I wanted was to bury my face in this dog's neck then go home and watch reruns on Hulu.

Across from the campus police station is the admin building. It reminded me of all the red-tape crap my dad complains about—and Title IX. You know, the law that's supposed to, like, make sure college girls get equal sports teams as boys. The last few years, Dad's been pissed because it's also been used to mean colleges have to protect girls against being raped. He's all, like, how am I supposed to know what happens in every dorm room and off-campus party? He obviously doesn't say that sort of stuff officially. He mumbles it under his breath in the house, to me and Mom—I mean, back when Mom was around. In public, he's all like, “The safety of all our students is of utmost importance, and we'll make sure the requirements of Title Nine are strictly enforced,” blah blah blah.

So I walked across the street, tied Fenwick up again, and went to see the Title IX coordinator, a grandma named Yolanda Skanadowski. I never met her before, but I've heard her name. She's been around forever. She's old-school Title IX, like, more prepared to demand a girls' volleyball team than to sort out rapes. Her office was bright and pretty and smelled nice, and maybe that's why this time I didn't say it was “a friend.” I said it was me. Not President Shapiro's daughter, me. I didn't tell her my name. I just said, “This happened to me.” First person. A girl who's sitting in front of you. I told her the full story. She listened and nodded and offered me a box of tissues and a bowl of Jolly Ranchers when I cried.

But you know what? In the end, Yolanda was even worse than the police. She asked if I played any sports, and I told her, yeah, I was on the soccer team in high school. And she smiled and said that rape was sort of like a sports game, that I should look back on the night and try to figure out if there was anything I could have done differently. You know, did I drink too much? I'm eighteen, underage drinking is illegal, so I have to admit I kind of contributed to what happened, don't I? Maybe I drank so much I was in a blackout, not drugged? Perhaps I could have chosen not to go upstairs with Dylan? All in this vaguely British voice, and a tight, prim smile. Yolanda said I should simply think about how I could've done things differently, and “use that knowledge going forward.”

In her mind, this was my fault. If I'd only behaved like the proper young lady Yolanda Skanadowski was in 1952, or whatever, I wouldn't have been raped. She seemed more worried about what I did than what he did.

I knew it would be hard to face Dylan. His frat brothers. My classmates. Kids can be mean, you know? I'm afraid of being judged, blackballed, laughed at. But being slapped down by the school, which is supposed to protect me? That was a surprise.

I guess that's what stings most—getting punched by someone I thought was supposed to be on my side. If a bully hits you, your body hurts. If a friend hits you, your soul hurts.

When I went back outside, Fenwick jumped up, put his paws on my chest, and kept licking my face. Maybe he was just happy to see me. Or maybe he liked the salty taste of my tears.

B
y the time Mrs. and Mr. Shapiro were carted off to the jail and hospital, respectively, it was two
A.M.
Anna was exhausted, but there was no time to stop and sleep. Every minute that passed was a barrier separating her from the likelihood of finding Emily alive. So she and Sam got back in the Durango and drove to Emily's dormitory.

As they drove, Anna called Jack. “Things have gotten messy.” She described her night so far.

“So,” Jack said slowly. “The suspect assaulted you, you assaulted him back, and the victim's mother assaulted her father. It
has
been a busy night.”

“I'm sorry.” Anna's chest was tight with the urgency of finding this girl, and the feeling that things were only getting worse.

“You're not the one who needs to be sorry,” he said. “I want to punch him myself.”

“I didn't want drama. I just want to find the girl.” Anna was relieved that she wasn't in trouble. Sometimes, with Jack, she felt like she was a kid and he was her parent. A benevolent, logical, loving parent, but still. She wondered if many young women felt that way about their lovers. Ex-lovers. Whatever.

“I'm not surprised by the drama,” Jack said. “Case like this, emotions are running high. But I'd put money on President Shapiro asking not to press charges.”

“He's gonna need stitches. A lot of stitches. There was so much blood.”

“Head wounds tend to bleed a lot. But this is a man who doesn't like bad publicity. He'll want to keep this as quiet as possible, believe me. Plus, their daughter is missing. If anything makes people distraught, it's a missing kid. I can't imagine how I'd feel if Olivia was missing. I'd cut Nina some slack in that situation, even if she went a little crazy.”

The idea of Olivia being missing, possibly abducted, sent cold shivers down Anna's spine. She got a glimpse of what it must be like to be Beatrice Shapiro.

When Anna and Jack had been engaged, Anna devoted herself to earning Olivia's trust and becoming a substitute mother. She'd read parenting books, learned how to roast a chicken, gone to parent-teacher conferences. One of the things Anna loved about marrying Jack was becoming Olivia's mom. Then Nina returned to town, a move no one expected. She'd been gone for years as part of an undercover operation. Nina wanted to be a mother to Olivia again, and a wife to Jack. In the process, Anna saw that Jack still cared deeply about his ex. When an emergency rocked the courthouse, he had gone to protect Nina, not Anna.

It was almost a year ago, but Anna recalled with perfect clarity composing the e-mail telling friends and family their wedding was canceled. She had still been deeply in love with Jack. Soon after that, Anna had been called to Michigan to defend Jody in a murder trial, and she'd stayed there for almost a year to see it through.

“I'm not so surprised the father stonewalled you,” Jack said. “Tower University has been slow to cooperate in the task force investigation, and their Clery Act compliance is a joke. The good news is, our investigations dovetail. We can both get different information and share it with each other.”

They hammered out a plan. Eighty percent of practicing criminal law is logistics, though there's no class for that in law school. Jack would contact the local prosecutor to try to get Beatrice released as soon as possible; they needed her active in the investigation, holding press conferences, giving information, available for calls. Anna would try to interview Emily's friends. They'd meet when they were done. Anna's stomach clenched at the idea of seeing Jack in person. She hadn't seen him in six months, and seeing him was always a visceral experience for her.

Sam pulled the Durango in front of a massive stone building with ivy creeping up the sides. Springer Hall had arched windows, carved pillars, and a recessed stone front porch. Its foundation stone said 1872. The dormitory had been standing on this corner for almost a hundred and fifty years. For the last six months, it had also been the home to Emily Shapiro.

A few kids were stumbling back into the dorm, making their way home after the bars' two
A.M.
closing time. Several rooms had lights on, but most of the windows were dark.

Inside, modern amenities supplemented the historic architecture. A stately marble floor held a whirring robotic vending machine, offering items from energy bars, earbuds, and disposable razors to condoms and lube. Anna did a double take on the condoms. She'd started college only eleven years earlier, but condoms hadn't been displayed in her dorm lobby then. Sex was an obvious part of college life but hadn't been so frankly and openly on offer. She supposed it wasn't a bad idea to have protection easily available. Still, she wasn't sure about the wisdom of packaging sex as an option as casual as a snack.

Anna and Sam walked up two floors, then down a long, quiet hallway. They knocked on the door to room 217. It was opened by a petite young woman whom Anna recognized as Emily's roommate, Preya Parikh. Anna had been worried about waking the girl, but she clearly was wide-awake. Anna and Sam introduced themselves. Preya said, “Everyone will be so glad to see you. They're all here for Emily.”

Preya invited them into the living room, which was bright, crowded, and buzzing with conversation. All the available seats, and even the tops of the desks, were covered with students. Anna counted ten besides Preya: seven women and three men, all in their late teens or early twenties. They were talking to one another, peering at one anther's phones, tapping on laptops. A few glanced up at Anna and Sam, but many were engrossed in what they were doing. Preya clapped and said loudly, “Guys! Hey! It's the feds. Give them your attention.” The room quieted as the students looked up.

“Hi, I'm Anna Curtis, a prosecutor.” Anna met their eyes one by one, trying to make a connection. These students, she knew, saw her as The Man, even though she was closer in age and perspective to them than to many of her colleagues at the Department of Justice. The students simultaneously wanted her to fix things and were skeptical that she would. “Agent Randazzo and I are looking into Emily Shapiro's disappearance. I understand you're all here for the same reason?” The kids nodded. “So first off, I'd like to ask, has anyone seen or heard from Emily since midnight Friday night?”

Crickets.

“We've been comparing notes,” said a woman with plastic cat's-eye glasses. “No one's seen Emily. She hasn't texted or Snapchatted. All her social media's quiet. She hasn't posted to Facebook, Twitter, Yik Yak, Vine, Instagram, Words with Friends, anything, since Friday night.”

Of course she hadn't; her phone had been in the bottom of the Pit. Anna glanced over to make sure Sam was listing all the apps in her notebook. They would subpoena the tech companies to get access to everything Emily had posted and anyone she'd interacted with.

“We'd like to talk to you one by one,” Sam said. “And hear anything you've learned. Plus any information you have about Emily—her friends, her interests, and whether you've heard anything about what happened to her last night.”

The kids nodded; they would cooperate. Anna thought of the kids partying at the frat house, how different they were from this crowd. A college as big and diverse as Tower had a place for everyone. Environmental activists and young Republicans. Jocks and nerds. Boozy good old boys and millennial feminists.

Anna asked Preya, “Can we talk somewhere alone?”

Preya led them through a bathroom and into the bedroom. There was a bunk bed and one single bed by a window. Preya pointed to the top bunk. “That's Emily's.”

On the nightstand was a picture of Emily as a girl, maybe ten years old, standing with her mother and father in front of the clock tower on a sunny spring afternoon. The good old days. Anna looked at the picture and sensed the longing of a girl whose family had exploded. Anna's own family had exploded, in a different way. She'd felt a similar urge to remember the good times.

“I haven't seen Emily smile like that in a long time,” Preya said.

“Why do you think that is?” Anna asked.

“It's been a hard year for her. You probably heard what happened with Dylan.”

“Tell us about it.”

“She didn't like to talk about it,” Preya said. “So I only know bits and pieces. I know he assaulted her at a frat party, like our first night here. And she took her case to the campus Disciplinary Committee. When Whitney found out—Whitney's our third roommate—she was pissed. Whitney's dating a guy at Beta Psi, and she thought Emily was taking everything too far, bringing down the house. They haven't really spoken to each other since.”

“Sounds like a tough living situation.”

“Yeah, it wasn't good. But Whitney spends most of her time at the frat. So that helped keep them away from each other. But after Emily saw her reaction, she didn't like talking about it, not even to me. So I don't know much about what happened to her case within the university. What I do know is that Beta Psi has a reputation. They call it the ‘rape factory.' ”

“Who calls it that?” Anna said.

“Everyone.”

“Do you know anyone else who was sexually assaulted there?”

“No. Just lots of talk, rumors. Older girls tell you never to go upstairs with a boy there. But Emily probably hadn't heard that the night Dylan attacked her. It was her first week as a freshman.”

Anna nodded. The first week was a notoriously dangerous time for freshman girls, who came in bright-eyed and naive. A disproportionate number of rapes happened in that first week; experts called it the Red Zone.

“You're the one who called in the missing persons report this morning—or I should say Saturday morning,” Anna said, glancing at her watch. “What made you do that? A lot of college students might spend a night and a morning out, and their roommate might not think anything of it.”

“Mm, yeah. Emily wasn't that way. After that first party, she didn't go out much. We've been roommates for six months, and she hasn't really partied at all. If she did go out, it'd be with a bunch of girls, like to see a movie. She didn't like being around guys. But last night I asked her to come with us to Lucky's. And she finally agreed.”