Summer Session (22 page)

But no sheet of paper with numbers written on it.

Harper sat on the bed, puzzled, staring at the small mountain beside her. It had to be here. It had been there earlier; she’d seen it when she’d called for help. Damn. Where was it? Had she inadvertently stuck it in a folder? She rifled through them, the textbooks, the grade book. Nothing. She knew she hadn’t tossed it out. But had she accidentally dropped it? Not noticed it floating to the ground?

Impossible. She distinctly remembered stuffing it into her bag.

Well, probably it was nothing, anyhow. But, then, maybe it was. Either way, it bothered her that she couldn’t find it. So why couldn’t she?

Probably, it was right in front of her. Probably, she couldn’t see it because she was looking so hard for it. That happened a lot, didn’t it? Things turned up when you weren’t searching for them. What she needed to do was think about something else. Do something different. And that’s when, looking around the room, her gaze landed on Hank’s computer.

Harper shoveled her things back into her bag. She’d look for the numbers later, with fresh eyes. Meantime, she’d log on to Hank’s computer and find out why Hank didn’t want Trent to use his notes.

Problem was, though, she didn’t know Hank’s password. She stared at the blank box on the screen, resenting it. Hank was her husband. Under the circumstances, she should have access to all his files, shouldn’t need a damned password. The computer, however, was unimpressed with her opinion; it waited, not letting her in.

Harper wouldn’t give up. She was entitled; Hank was her husband. She knew him better than anyone and ought to be able to figure out his password. It wouldn’t be their address or his middle name; too obvious. Harper watched the screen, realizing that she had no idea where to start. She needed sustenance. Chocolate.

She found a mini Snickers bar in her sack, nibbled at it as she typed in Hank’s Alma Mater: S T A N F O R D. Nope. She tried his mother’s maiden name, his father’s first and middle. She tried her birthday, their wedding anniversary; was unsurprised when neither worked.

OK, she told herself: think like Hank. She popped the last of the Snickers into her mouth and focused on her husband’s past, his passions. The mutt he’d had as a child – she typed ‘Ralph’. No luck. His first car – Mustang. Nope. OK. Maybe his first sweetheart – what was her name? Suzanne? No. Probably it was something about his work. About geology. She tried earthsci, geology, geodoc, earthdoc, earthman, earthling. Mountain, stalactite, stalagmite, volcano, seismic, striation, crystal, geode, rocks, petroleum, oilfield – every related term she could think of. Still nothing.

Harper leaned back, crossing her arms, frustrated. And in a furious burst, typed in Vicki, then VickiManning. Smiling when neither worked.

She thought back to Hank’s insistence that Trent shouldn’t get hold of his notes. Harper couldn’t imagine why. What would Hank need to keep from Trent? And then she remembered Hank saying something else.

Harper typed it into the computer. A C U M A L. She was in.

Harper browsed the files, finding page after page of notes, lectures and articles, with no idea what she was looking for. Finally, she decided to stop. The simple fact was that Hank didn’t want Trent to have access to his notes. It didn’t matter why or which ones. She shouldn’t even have begun the search.

Yawning, she was about to shut down the computer when she noticed the envelope icon. Hank had mail. She sat for a while, looking at it. She shouldn’t open it. Email was private. But in her case, as Hank’s wife, she had to handle his affairs; something important might be there.

Gingerly, as if the mouse might bite, she clicked the icon. Two hundred seventy-four emails. Lord. Most of them had arrived after the accident. Faculty memos, student messages. Spam. Calls for papers and publication submissions. Invitations to conferences. Departmental announcements. But there were other messages, too. Older, from before the accident. Most were from Trent. A few were from clients; some from journal editors, one in particular.

Randomly, Harper opened one. The editor thanked Hank for his submission and asked for clarification on a few specific points. She opened another, from Trent, and found a list of citations. Opened another.

‘What the fuck, man? Do NOT go that route. I promise it will end badly.’

Harper read it again, stunned. She pictured Trent sputtering as he wrote it. What had he been so mad about? She searched sent mail, trying to match the date of Trent’s message with email from Hank, but she found nothing from Hank to Trent on that date. She tried the preceding day and the one before that. Nothing had been sent from Hank to Trent that whole week. Whatever had angered Trent must have transpired by phone or in person.

Harper went back to incoming mail and found more email from Trent. All normal stuff. Nothing that indicated anger. Whatever the dispute had been, they must have worked it out. After all, right up until the accident, the two had been inseparable. And Hank had never mentioned any trouble. She thought of Vicki. Had she been the issue?

But then Harper opened a message from Trent sent in April, just days before Hank fell: ‘Congratulations, Pal. You win. Do whatever you want. No doubt, you’ll get it. But what goes around comes around. It’s your karma now.’

Harper reread it, relieved; Vicki wasn’t an ‘it’. So the conflict wasn’t about her. In fact, she was pretty sure that Trent’s ‘it’ meant tenure. But there was something disturbing in his email, almost a premonition. As if Trent were warning Hank. But no. Trent had been bitter about some professional issue, nothing more. Partnerships, after all, were like marriages, full of ups and downs, high drama, complex emotions. And, sometimes, betrayal.

Harper moved on, scanning email until her eyes burned, finally tired. It was after two a.m. Time to shut down the computer, try to fall asleep.

But she didn’t close it down. She started to, but stopped when she saw another block of email. From Vicki.

‘Honestly, I understand how you feel,’ Vicki had written. ‘But while you’re both up for tenure, it would be unfair of you to expose this thing. For now, can’t we please keep it
entre nous
?’

Harper let out a breath. What ‘thing’ was Vicki asking Hank not to expose? Was it the same ‘thing’ Trent had talked about, Vicki’s ‘thing’ for Hank? And why had Hank saved the email?

Harper massaged her temples. There were lots of possibilities other than an affair. The email could be about Trent and Hank’s professional rivalry, something that, if revealed, would give Hank an edge. Still, she pictured Hank and Vicki in a seedy motel room, neon lights reflecting on the sheets. Stop it, she told herself; suspicion was destructive. She needed to stop spying on her husband. And she would. As soon as she finished reading Vicki’s emails.

One had been sent a week before Hank’s accident. ‘Hank, I’m begging you not to say anything. Trent has no idea. He’s not as strong as you and wouldn’t recover. I mean it, Hank; he’d be destroyed. It’s not too late to fix it so he’ll never know. Whatever you decide, I love you and always will.’

Harper reread the message several times. Especially the last line: Vicki loved him and always would. The words seared Harper’s eyes, inflamed her brain. Her stomach knotted and her lump throbbed.

Vicki and Hank had had an affair. And Vicki had begged Hank not to tell Trent about it.

The air in the bedroom was suddenly thin; Harper’s stomach churned. Even so, she opened another email, written a few days before Hank’s fall.

‘Trent knows. I don’t know how. He won’t talk to me. He’s moping. Drunk.’

Drunk and moping? Just because his wife was having an affair with his best friend? Shocking.

Vicki’s next email sounded frantic. ‘Trent’s self-destructing. He says whatever I did was your fault, that it was all because of you. He says I’d never have done it otherwise. He swears you’re ruining his life, and he’s going to make you pay. You’ve got to talk to him before he does something crazy.’

Harper stared at the screen, her mouth dry, her hands cold. Stop reading, she told herself. None of these messages will help; they’ll only hurt you more. But she read on.

Vicki’s messages – at least the ones Hank had saved – began with Vicki’s plea to protect Trent from the truth and ended, just before the accident, with her plea to help Trent deal with it. She wrote that he was drinking himself into stupors, talking about leaving the university, swearing he’d never write another article or trust another soul. He’d moved into the guest room. He’d asked for a divorce. He was going to talk to Dr Hayden, the department chair, about what had happened.

Good God. Trent was going to the department head about Vicki and Hank? Well, that capped it. Absolutely everybody except Harper had known.

Harper held her wrenching stomach. Why hadn’t she seen it? She replayed their shared beers and dinners, looking for clues. Hank and Vicki might have had a few side conversations, maybe some eye contact. But nothing to indicate an affair. They’d been awfully discreet. Or she’d been awfully blind.

‘Damn it. Damn you, Hank.’ Her fist pounded the mouse, closing the window that held his mail. Harper stood, pacing and cursing. Seething. What a chump she’d been. Her lungs felt raw, her eyes burned, her leg ached, and the lump on her head pulsed with pain.

‘OK,’ she heard her voice repeating. ‘OK. No more drama. Calm down.’ The affair was over; Vicki had said so herself – that whoring, two-faced, slime-ball bitch. And Hank’s cheating days, like his conversations, were over, too.

Finally, Harper obeyed herself and sat, making herself breathe evenly until her pulse slowed. And then she began to think. Not about murders or stolen drugs. Not about the killer who might be watching her. No, all she thought about was her husband’s infidelity. Right up until the accident, Vicki had been emailing him about their affair, worrying about Trent’s reaction. Harper closed her eyes, saw Hank sliding off the roof, falling. And behind him, she saw Trent, his arms out, reaching for Hank . . .

Or pushing him?

No. Not possible. Even though they were both up for tenure and Hank was likely to get it? Even though Trent had learned that Hank was banging his wife?

Oh God. But Trent was no killer. His only weapon was his sharp tongue. Besides, Hank was much more agile and athletic. Trent could never have overpowered him.

Unless Hank had been taken by surprise. Shoved while he was off balance. And it might not have been premeditated. It might have been a spontaneous act of rage.

Harper envisioned it again and again. Hank kneeling, maybe checking a shingle; Trent watching as he began to stand, coming at him with the full force of his body, knocking him over, watching Hank fall.

It was possible. It would explain why Trent never visited Hank, and why Hank was so insistent: ‘Trent. No.’

Enough uncertainty. Harper had to know for sure. This time, she wouldn’t let Hank change the subject, blindsiding her with questions. This time, the only questions would be hers.

Once again, Harper headed outside. She didn’t care about darkness, danger, pain or exhaustion. She cared only about Hank. About getting the truth.

The room was dark, the curtains closed. It was way past visiting hours, but Harper told the night guard that she’d left her phone in Hank’s room. Hank was asleep, breathing evenly. Harper stood at his bed, imagining him sneaking around with Vicki. When had they done it? Late at night? Early morning? And what about their pillow talk? Had they invented pet names for each other? Was Hank her Snookums or Teddy Bear? Damn. Vicki deserved to smolder in hell. And how could Hank look so innocent, lying there, dreaming peacefully without a single pang of regret?

‘Hank. Wake up.’ Harper nudged him without tenderness.

His eyes opened, and he grunted, confused. She nudged him again, and he squinted up, identifying her. ‘Hoppa?’ He looked surprised, then happy, then concerned.

‘Wake up.’ Still no affection in her voice.

He sat, rubbed his eyes. Looked at her blankly, with no clue why she was there. God, she wanted to throttle him. Or maybe to jump into bed with him, reclaim him, feel his body next to hers. Half asleep, he looked mussed and cuddly. Strong. Damn, who was this man? What did she know about him?

Do not be sidetracked, she told herself. Make him admit the truth. He watched her, eyebrows knitted, yawning, no doubt wondering why she’d awakened him.

‘You have some explaining to do.’ Her tone was harsh, unforgiving; she took a seat on the side of the bed.

He blinked, waiting. ‘Do?’

‘Yes, you do. Tell me about Vicki.’

‘Vicki. No.’ Or, maybe, Vicki know.

Harper tried again. ‘What’s your relationship with her?’

‘Vicki? Why. Hoppa?’

Good. They were having a conversation. And it was Harper’s turn to talk. ‘Why? Because I want – no – I deserve to know.’

Hank’s head tilted, puppy-like, confused.

‘I was looking in your computer for the notes Trent’s been looking for—’

‘Trent. No.’

‘And guess what? While I was looking for the notes, I found Vicki’s emails.’

Hank scowled. ‘Snoop. Mad.’

‘Mad? You bet I am. Damn you, Hank. I know about you and Vicki.’ Harper’s eyes welled up. ‘I know what you did.’ Her words came out too fast and shrill, accompanied by unanticipated angry tears.

Hank looked stricken. He put his hand on her back. She squirmed at his touch, pushed it away.

‘No. Hoppa. Not. Wrong.’

Harper was stunned, humiliated by his denial. Apparently Hank felt no need to admit his behavior.

‘Why, Hank? Just tell me why.’

Hank didn’t respond. He sat, silent, staring at her.

‘Stop pretending you can’t talk, Hank. I know you can if you want. You can tell me why you cheated. Go on. Tell me how you screwed your best friend’s wife.’