The Last Good Girl (10 page)

“Try the rape factory.”

“The Beta Psi frat?”

“Yep.”

“We already have.”

Heide smiled angrily. “You haven't even scratched the surface.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you seen the Underground?”

“The underground what?”

“See, this is exactly what I'm talking about. If anyone cared about the women on campus before this, you guys would already know.”

Anna fought back her frustration. “
I
care, Heide. And if you care about Emily, you'll tell me what you know, as quickly as possible.”

Heide pursed her lips, but met Anna's eyes. “They say nothing important goes down in the Beta Psi house aboveground. All their secrets, all their crimes, all their skeletons—it's all below the Crypt, in what they call the Underground.”

My dad doesn't mean to be a dick. It's like—he just can't help himself.

I thought I was doing him a favor, actually, going to tell him myself so he wouldn't hear through the university grapevine. I still think that was the right thing to do. But, holy crap, it did not go well. I guess I started off wrong by going to see him in his office. I thought I could avoid his girlfriend there. She's, like, totally moved into Dad's house. But the thing is, there in his office, sitting at his big old desk, he's the president—not the dad.

His door was closed, and Zelda said he was in with donors, so I sat in the waiting area. Zelda asked all about my first semester—more questions than my dad has, actually. Hell, maybe I should've told Zelda. She's been his secretary forever, used to let me play on her copying machine and stuff. When I was little, I loved to make copies of my hands and face while Dad worked. He worked a lot.

Anyway, he finally came out, laughing with a bunch of Chinese guys who must've come with big checkbooks. I said hi, and Dad said they were all going to lunch. I told him I really needed to talk to him. That was my second mistake, I see that now. He was distracted and busy. But Zelda stood up and said she'd take the Chinese group to the restaurant and Dad could meet them there. Dad kind of hesitated, but then let me come into his office and sit in a guest chair. He sat behind his desk. That's kind of messed up, when I think about it, actually. Why didn't he just sit next to me? There's another guest chair. But he never did, the whole time I was growing up. If I saw him in the office, he was behind that big desk, like a wall between us.

So, anyway, this was the first time we'd been in the same room since he dropped me off for school. He'd called me once or twice to check in, but I hadn't picked up. It was so weird to look at him across the desk. To him the world probably looks pretty much the same. But my whole universe had, like, totally changed.

I said something polite like, “How are you?”

He said something polite back like, “I'm well. How are you?”

And then he went like this, looking at his watch. Like could I hurry up, please? I should've left. But at that point I felt like I just had to get through it.

I said, “Dad, I have to tell you something. I went to a frat party. I was drugged and raped. And I'm going to bring charges against the boy.”

He rocked back in his chair and studied me like he was wondering if this was a practical joke. Here, this is my best President Shapiro impression.

“Oh my God, Emily. Are you serious?”

And I'm, like, “Do you think I'd interrupt your meeting for a prank?”

And he's all like, “No, of course not, honey. My poor girl.”

He actually got up and sat in the guest chair next to me. He reached forward and put an arm on my shoulder, almost a hug. He's a famous hand shaker, but he's never been great in the hugs department. I let my head rest on his shoulder. It felt so good, for just a moment, to be supported by someone. He asked me to tell him what happened, but I really didn't want to get into the details. It's, like, so embarrassing to talk about that stuff with your dad. So I said I just wanted to tell him who it was and what I was doing. And then I said it was Dylan Highsmith, and that I'm filing charges through the college.

Dad sat back in his chair. Hug time was done.

Okay, so this vlog is for theater class. I'll act out our conversation. Imagine I have on a power tie and a stick up my ass for the President Shapiro parts.

“Honey, that's a big step. Maybe we should talk about this some more before you decide to pursue such a major decision.”

“I've thought about it, and talked about it, and I know what I need to do.”

“It's not an easy process, for anyone. I would imagine especially for the president's daughter. And even more so if the accused is a Highsmith.”

“Are you worried for me?” I asked, “Or for your college?”

And he said: “I have to consider both.”

I couldn't believe he came right out and said it. I mean, I know it's true. But couldn't he at least pretend, while he's talking to me, that he cares about me more than his school? At least in the moment when I'm telling him I was raped? Like I said: he can be a dick. I guess he saw the look on my face.

So then he was all like, “Of course you take precedence, Emily. But sometimes what's good for the college might also be good for you. If you report this, it becomes a rape statistic for the campus, and then applications go down, the reputation goes down, the value of your own degree goes down.”

I was like, wow. I didn't know I could single-handedly destroy the school. Just by telling the truth.

“It's not an easy process.”

“It's a process your school runs.”

“That doesn't mean it's the right course for you, my daughter, to take on one of our highest-donor families.”

I hated him a little bit in that moment. He's such a politician, it's almost like a mental illness.

I stood up and left. And here I am, back in my dorm. Fuming. Because fuming is better than crying.

Dr. Blum says that when I'm talking about the rape, it's a hard subject for people to discuss; they don't know what to say, you know, so I should try to interpret their words in the best light possible. I've always been Daddy's little girl. The cute little university mascot. Maybe he has a hard time separating those two things, the girl and the mascot. Maybe Dad really was just worried about me. About how hard it'll be. About my overall happiness. Maybe if I hadn't stormed out, he would've said that.

But the impression I got was that he was worried about me second and the university first. Because that's how it's always been.

W
e have to get under the Crypt,” Anna said.

“Yeah.” Sam drove down Detroit's deserted Michigan Avenue. “But we don't have enough to get a warrant.”

“Not yet, anyway.” Anna thought about the young man in his underwear below the Ping-Pong table. “I might know someone who could just
invite
us in. Show us around.”

“Get on that.”

“I am. I have to massage it.”

“Interesting strategy for a sex-crimes prosecutor.”

“You're sick, Randazzo.”

“That's why you love me.”

The FBI's Michigan field office was a tall concrete building with a view of the Detroit People Mover. At three
A.M.
it wasn't moving many people. Sam pulled into the underground garage.

An impromptu command center had been assembled inside the FBI field office. A conference room was filled with agents in dark suits and computer technicians in khakis. They were talking softly, tapping on computers, picking through a bag of desiccated bagels. As Anna walked into the bustle, her eyes were caught by one person in particular: a handsome caramel-skinned man sitting at the head of the table. She stopped in the doorway and stared at her former fiancé.

Jack was pointing to something on his computer, talking to two police officers. He wore a dark suit and blue tie; his hair was completely shaved, which gave him a tough-guy aura despite his buttoned-up clothes. Heading up the command center, he radiated authority and control. He looked like the man you'd want looking for your daughter.

Sam cleared her throat, and Anna realized she was blocking the doorway. “Sorry,” she murmured, stepping out of Sam's way. She was exhausted. She wasn't prepared to see Jack for the first time in six months.

He looked up from the computer, and their eyes met over the heads of the officers. For a moment, everyone else faded into the background. She only saw the man she loved—the one she'd planned to spend her life with—gazing at her with a tender smile. He got up and walked over to her. She looked up at his green eyes and remembered what it was like to wake with them as the first thing she saw in the morning.

She stuck out her hand, projecting professional politeness as well as she could given her emotional state and sleep deprivation. “Nice to see you, Jack.”

He smiled back, as if they were sharing an inside joke, which in a way, they were. He shook her hand with gentle formality. “Nice to see you too, Anna. Thanks for agreeing to join the team.”

His hands felt warm after the cold outdoors. She saw that he was still wearing the watch she'd given him. On the back, she'd had inscribed:
I want to spend all my time with you.
Her left thumb touched her ring finger, the empty space the diamond engagement ring used to encircle. For a while, it had been like a phantom limb—her thumb would go to tap it, to connect with the security and safety it represented, and for a moment, she'd be panicked to find that it was gone. Had she lost it? Was it stolen? Then she'd remember handing it back to Jack when they broke up, and she'd feel a greater sense of loss than any jewelry theft could cause. She wondered where the ring was now.

Sam was watching as she poured coffee. Anna realized the handshake had gone on too long. She drew her hand away from Jack's.

“Glad to help,” she said. “First things first. Has anyone eaten anything besides bagels all day?”

Jack shrugged and looked at the crumpled Bruegger's bag like it was the first time he'd noticed it. “We're mostly running on coffee and adrenaline.”

“No one can do their best work on an empty stomach. I'm ordering pizza.”

She pulled out her phone, turned away, and called for Domino's to deliver ten extra-larges. She used the time to take a deep breath and refocus herself. When she hung up and turned back to Jack, she pointed at his computer.

“What leads have you got?” she asked.

He led her to the laptop and gestured for her to sit next to him.

“Unfortunately, not much.” His voice was so deep it resonated inside her chest. “The purse and shoe are the last best signs of her. There's no video of her anywhere after the ones you saw. No activity on her e-mail, social media, and so on. Based on what you and Sam found tonight, we've upgraded the case from ‘missing person' to ‘missing under suspicious circumstances,' and a possible abduction. We sent a BOLO to every police station in the state, sent out a Missing Endangered Person alert, got more personnel on the search teams.”

“Okay,” Anna said. “I'm subpoenaing the university for every document related to Dylan Highsmith—including every sexual assault charge brought against him. I don't have anything solid yet, but it looks like he might've targeted other girls on campus during the four years he's been here. We're also trying to get enough probable cause to get a warrant to search the frat. Hope to have it soon.”

“Good.”

She told him about Emily's vlogs. “So obviously, I'm going to subpoena BlueTube and try to get the videos. Do we know anyone in their subpoena compliance department?”

“Never even heard of BlueTube.”

“I looked it up. Apparently, it's like YouTube for Tower students and alum. It's not a university site, it's a private company started by a Tower alum a few years ago. Seems pretty successful—they have lots of hits. I don't know anyone there either.”

Too bad. Paperwork moved so much faster if you had someone inside. She set up her laptop and started typing up subpoenas. Usually, she would lose herself in the work, but not tonight. The whole time she was typing, she was aware that Jack was working right next to her. Less than an arm's length away. Their nearness, their shared goal—it felt both foreign and heartbreakingly familiar.

They worked until there was nothing else that could be done. A little before five
A.M.
, Jack said, “Go home. Get some shut-eye.”

“I could help the search team.”

“Out in the cornfields? You're a lawyer. Your talents are better employed in a court than in a ditch. Get at least four hours of sleep. That's an order. It will do you good when you start back later this morning. The university has been reluctant to turn over any information. I hope it won't continue on that course—I hope the president will come through to help his daughter. But up till now, every one of his actions has been to protect his university. Your subpoenas are likely to spark a legal fight. I need you at your best. Sleep.”

“Okay.” Anna appreciated his concern, even as she felt a bit like a kid listening to her dad say it was bedtime.

Sam drove her back to Detroit. “You want to sleep in a spare room?” Anna asked. Sam shook her head. She had a hotel room. The FBI agent waited until Anna was in the dark house before driving away. Anna tiptoed up the staircase, stripped off her suit, and climbed into bed with Cooper.

“Everything okay?” he asked, turning to her sleepily.

“Not really. We didn't find her. Yet.”

He stretched out his arm, and she curled into his chest.

“I spoke to Wyatt,” Cooper said. “He'll meet with you.”

“Oh, good! Thank you. When?”

“Tomorrow.” Cooper glanced at the clock. “Today, actually. Breakfast at my parent's house. He's not happy about it. You'll just have to charm him.”