Текст книги "Where They Found Her"

Автор книги: Kimberly McCreight

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Frat Chat

Here are the chatters in your area. Be kind, follow the rules, and enjoy the ride! And if you don’t know what the rules are: READ THEM FIRST! You must be 18 to Chat with the Frat.

I think it’s Sadie Cresh. She’s been getting seriously round in the belly.

Fat, I didn’t even think of that. Why don’t they just round up all the fat girls and test them or something?

1 reply

Because there ARE too many!

What about Ellie Richards and Jonathan Strong? They’d definitely kill a baby before they’d risk not going to Harvard together.

2 replies

Jonathan Strong is totally gay.

He grabbed my ass in the locker room.

You guys, it’s Harry Trumble with the candlestick in his mom’s room. Have you seen her? She’s hot as shit.

You are all disgusting pigs.

3 replies

I agree. I can’t believe I know you people.

Pretentious bitch.

You are some sick shits. Funny as hell but sick as shit.

You know you’re supposed to be in COLLEGE to be on this thing.

1 reply

Fuck off, loser.

I think it was Aidan Ronan. His baby. He killed it.

9 replies

I heard he did some fucked-up shit in his old school.

And have you seen his mom? I heard she fucks everybody. That probably messed him up.

I saw him last week with some skanky bitch downtown.

I’ve seen him with her, too. Total crack ho.

I heard he once tried to kill his little brother.

I heard that, too. Choked him so hard he had to go to the hospital.

That’s bullshit. He’d be in jail.

Not bullshit. His parents lie for him all the time.

I heard he got kicked out of St. Paul’s for bringing a hunting knife to school.

MOLLY

APRIL 17, 2013

Justin and I had our first argument today. The first since we lost the baby. It was stupid, about dinner plans for our anniversary that I don’t even care about.

Lost the baby. Lost the baby. Lost the baby. I’m supposed to keep writing that in here. Not supposed to—Dr. Zomer never tells me what I’m “supposed” to do. But she says I need to normalize the experience.

But how to make killing your own baby normal? Because I know what happened is my fault. Who else’s fault could it be? I was the one who was supposed to keep track of how often she was moving. I was the one who was supposed to notice the second she stopped.

And I didn’t. I didn’t notice a thing. And I let myself get so stressed out the night before. That whole weekend. So stupid when I think about it now. The doctor made a point of telling me that none of that mattered. That it wasn’t my being upset that made her heart stop.

But how can they know that for sure when they don’t know why it DID stop?

The saddest part about my fight today with Justin was how relieved he seemed. So happy to have a regular old fight. Like the ones we had before. Before we lost the baby, before we had Ella, before there was even really an us. Because that’s where we are: a place where a fight is the best hope we’ve got.

Molly

When I arrived at Ridgedale University’s main administration building, I spotted Deckler, the Campus Safety officer from down at the creek. He still looked weirdly muscular, now in a long-sleeved lemon-yellow spandex shirt and the same snug black bike shorts. He was standing next to the building’s front steps, hands on his hips, like he’d been expecting me. Or maybe he’d just been expecting someone like me. There were several news vans parked around the green, and I’d seen notepad-carrying people milling around in town, pointedly avoiding eye contact. Like if they pretended they were the only one covering the story, they’d beat everyone to the headline-grabbing punch. Surely this was only the beginning. How big the story became depended entirely on how salacious the details.

“I wondered when you’d get here,” Deckler said.

“Oh, hi,” I said, hoping I sounded glad to see him even though I was not. “Deckler, right?”

“Yes, Molly Sanderson from the Ridgedale Reader,” he said in this odd robotic way that was maybe supposed to be funny but was extremely creepy.

“Yes, that’s right.” I forced myself to smile. “That’s me, Molly Sanderson. And what did you mean that you wondered when I’d get here?”

He shrugged. “You’re a reporter who’s going to cover all her bases. Campus property and all that.”

That wasn’t it. He’d meant something else that he wished he hadn’t hinted at. He was wrong anyway. Coming to campus hadn’t been my idea. Erik had suggested it after I’d updated him about Rose.

Univ. student in the hospital. New mother. Hospital refusing release, I typed away, wanting to tell someone, not fully considering the implications. Might be related.

Okay, came Erik’s quick reply. Follow up on campus. Get her story. Try dean of students. He usually comments without referring to Communications Department.

As a reporter who’d stumbled onto a lead, I knew that was the natural thing to do: follow up. But I did feel conflicted. It had been easy to say that I wanted to find out what had happened to the baby, to get at the truth. But what if that truth implicated the baby’s mother? And what if she’d been one of those desperate terrified women I knew all about? Not to mention that it felt wrong pointing a finger at Rose when I didn’t know for sure that she was an official police suspect. That was one thing the arts beat had going for it: no moral complications.

But asking a couple questions about Rose on campus was hardly the same thing as running a headline calling her a baby killer. It seemed likely that the police already knew about her, and soon others would, too, including the press. I could at least poke around, see what there was to find out, and commit to reporting whatever it was, if and when the time came, with great care.

“I’m surprised they let you leave the creek,” I said, trying for friendly chitchat with Deckler, even though there was something about him—the weirdly intense way he had of looking at me, perhaps—that made me genuinely uncomfortable. “With all that ground to cover, I’d think they’d want every available set of hands.”

“Let me leave?” Deckler asked. “I’m surprised they didn’t run me over with one of their ‘cruisers.’” His fingers hooked the air dismissively. In the Ridgedale Police’s defense, I found it hard to take Deckler seriously, with that baby face and tight bike-cop outfit.

“Sounds like you don’t think much of the local authorities.”

Deckler shrugged. “It’s a club, and some of them have been in it a long time.” He stared at me pointedly. “They treat all of us on campus like we’re second-class citizens, even though we’ve had the same training and passed the same damn tests. Plus, we get paid about twice as much and get free housing.”

“Sounds like a good deal to me.” So why do you seem so pissed off about it?

“It is,” Deckler said, eyeing me like he was trying to figure out if I was mocking him.

“Okay, well.” I took a step past him toward the building. “The dean of students’ office is in here, right?”

“Why?” Deckler asked protectively.

Why, indeed. I shouldn’t have mentioned where I was going. It had been something to say, an excuse to leave. “I have some questions about a former student.”

“Who?”

Why did I keep saying things that led to more questions? I wanted to tell Deckler that it was none of his business, but there was a chance I might need his cooperation later. A change of subject seemed a better tactic than confrontation. “Actually, there’s something I was hoping I could clarify with you first.”

“Oh yeah?” Deckler looked intrigued. “What’s that?”

“You mentioned there were some crimes that you dealt with entirely on campus. Did you mean they don’t get reported to the local police?”

I suspected whatever gap there was between Steve’s assertion that all crime on campus got reported to the Ridgedale Police and Deckler’s implication that the opposite was true had everything to do with the enormous chip on Deckler’s shoulder. But I did wonder whether Rose Gowan, whose last name Stella had given me somewhat reluctantly, could have been sexually assaulted by the father of her baby—maybe the baby—and whether Campus Safety would have a record of it even though the police did not. Ridgedale certainly wouldn’t be the first university to prioritize the confidentiality of an accused student over a full and fair investigation.

“Life on campus can be complicated that’s all. These are all just kids,” he said, and with this look like I was supposed to get what he meant. “But if you want details about our procedures, you’ll have to talk to our director.”

“You must know what happens when you’re the reporting officer, though. From what you said before, it sounded like there are all sorts of procedures in place. Is one of those calling the local police?”

Deckler narrowed his eyes at me. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but if you think I’m going to be the one to start speaking on behalf of the university about a thing like this, then you must think I’m as dumb as Ridgedale’s finest do.”

Guess where I am? I texted Justin as I waited inside the dean of students’ suite for his bulldog of a secretary to see whether he was available. It had occurred to me that I should have warned Justin that I was on campus, headed to speak with the dean of students, or at least trying to. Justin didn’t report to him, but this dean probably had a close relationship with the dean of faculty and the university president, both of whom Justin did report to.

There was no response to my text. No ellipses signaling an answer on its way, either. I checked the time. I was pretty sure Justin was in the middle of office hours. If he was in a meeting with an advisee, he’d never notice his phone.

I tried again. On campus. Interviewing dean of students. Waited. Still no answer.

“Ms. Sanderson? I was told you wanted to speak with me?” When I looked up from my phone, there was a long-haired man standing in front of me in a sport jacket. He had a hand outstretched. “I’m Thomas Price, the dean of students.”

He was much more attractive and younger than I’d been anticipating. Dashing, that’s how I would have described him. My thinking that would have made Justin gag. He didn’t like Thomas Price very much. He’d mentioned that more than once. Seeing Price, I understood why. In general, Justin wasn’t fond of dashing men, found them too precious and pretentious. In addition to being good-looking, Thomas Price had an air of easy sophistication—an excess of money and education that probably went back for generations. I always thought Justin and his family were so fancy until I met someone like Price, who was actually fancy.

“Yes, thank you so much for seeing me.” I reached out to shake his hand. “I imagine you’re incredibly busy.”

“You are correct,” he said with a warm but tired smile. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band. I felt a guilty thrill that I’d noticed. It had been a long time since I’d been capable of registering such a thing. Price waved me toward his office, checking his watch: large and silver and expensive. “I have a meeting soon, but I have a few minutes.”

Thomas Price’s office was spacious and bright, a large, paned window filling most of the back wall. Through it was a view of the athletic center and the hospital beyond and, in the very distance, the woods that led to Essex Bridge.

“Please, have a seat.” He pointed toward two red wing-back chairs facing his desk.

“Thank you,” I said, admiring the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. “Your library is amazing.”

“And thank you for not immediately dispensing with common courtesy. You’re not the first reporter I’ve spoken with today, but you are certainly the most pleasant,” he said as he sat behind his beautiful mahogany desk. “I suppose it’s the nature of this situation, but I don’t recall reporters ever being this aggressive. You wouldn’t believe the number of people who have threatened to park themselves on campus if they don’t get answers immediately. Answers we don’t have. Answers I don’t believe anyone has yet. In any case, if even a small fraction make good on their threats, it will be quite crowded around here.”

“Well, I bet none of the other reporters has a husband who’s a brand-new professor here,” I said. “Having your spouse’s livelihood hanging in the balance tends to encourage good behavior.”

“Sanderson, of course,” Price said, pressing a palm to his forehead. “You’re Justin’s wife, right? He told me that you were going to be working at the Ridgedale Reader. Welcome to town. I know you weren’t convinced about leaving the city—and that’s understandable—but Ridgedale is a wonderful place to live. I’ve only been back for a few years, but I also lived here when I was in high school; my father was a professor in the English Department. I apologize for not making the connection immediately. It’s been an extremely long day.”

“All the more reason for me not to take up too much of your time.”

“Yes, the university president just called to summon a group of us to discuss the problem of the police being on university property.” Thomas Price took a deep breath, his body sinking into the chair as he rubbed his hands over his face like someone trying to rouse himself from sleep. He seemed so genuinely overwhelmed that I felt disarmed by the intimacy it had given our conversation. “How exactly he expects us to make this very big, very bad problem go away is another matter entirely.”

“That sounds stressful.” And it did, but the words came out awkward, canned.

“Stressful, indeed.” Price smiled at me, holding eye contact for an extra beat as if he were noticing something for the first time. What was it? That I was pretty? Once upon a time, men had often responded to me that way. Maybe they had never stopped even though I’d certainly stopped noticing. Price added, “I’m sorry, here I am complaining, and you came to ask me questions.”

“There was a student here named Rose Gowan,” I said, stumbling to get back to the reason I’d come. “Do you know why she withdrew this past year?”

He frowned. “This is connected to the baby?”

“It’s part of a broader set of circumstances we’re investigating.”

Good. That didn’t expose Rose unnecessarily, and it wasn’t a lie. It was simply what I hoped would be true.

“In other words, you don’t plan to tell me?” he asked, eyes locked on mine.

“No, I don’t.” I held his stare.

“Fair enough,” he said, smiling a little, as if enjoying our push-and-pull. “I suppose that would be inappropriate. I’m afraid it would also be inappropriate for me to answer.” Thomas Price narrowed his eyes, considering, then turned to face his computer. “But because you have been so nice, and because you are part of the university family, as it were, let me see what I can find out for you here.” He turned to point a finger at me. “This is off the record, however. I’ll claim you broke into my office and rifled through my files before I admit to having told you.”

“Understood,” I said. Erik probably wouldn’t have agreed to “off the record.” But what choice did I have?

We sat in silence for a minute as Price clicked through various screens on his computer. “Ah, here it is. VW,” he said finally. “Voluntary withdraw. That doesn’t tell you much, I’m afraid; it could be for personal reasons, socioeconomic, almost anything. But it does mean that Ms. Gowan would be welcome back at Ridgedale University anytime. She wasn’t asked to depart for academic or behavioral reasons.”

“And is there any record of her filing any complaints against another student?” I asked.

“Not here,” Price said. “But there wouldn’t be. This is solely her academic record. Complaints like that are handled confidentially. The security office would have those records, not that they should be disclosing them.”

I waited for him to ask why I wanted to know. He didn’t. Instead, he looked down at his watch. “And now, unfortunately, our time is up. I assure you, I’d much rather stay and chat with you, but the president is expecting me.” He held my stare again, long enough that I felt another little twinge. He was . . . well, not quite flirting—noticing me. Price smiled almost bashfully, as though he knew I’d noticed his noticing. “Feel free to send an email with more questions.”

Respectful, too. Not come see me again. Because that would be inappropriate. He knew I was married.

“I definitely will. Thank you,” I said as he showed me out.

“Good,” he said. When he shook my hand, he held it for an extra second. “And send my best to Justin. The three of us should get together. I used to live in the city, too. We could reminisce.”

When I came out, Deckler was waiting for me in the hall.

“The director of Campus Safety will see you now,” he said, as if we’d had a whole conversation about my wanting that very thing. “Ben LaForde. His office is right there.”

“Meet with me about what?”

Deckler was blocking my way, pointing to an office a few doors down from Price’s. I did need to speak to LaForde. Still, I had the distinct impression that I was being sent to the principal’s office.

“You had questions about campus crime reporting. He’s the one who should answer those. He’s waiting for you.”

Indeed, Ben LaForde seemed to be. He jumped right up when I peeked in his open door. A small man in his sixties with a thick head of salt-and-a-little-pepper hair and a trim matching mustache, he made his way over with an outstretched hand. He had a decidedly unfancy way about him.

“You must be Ms. Sanderson,” LaForde said. “Come, have a seat. Deckler said you had some questions for me?”

“I just wanted to confirm the university’s procedure when there’s a crime on campus, particularly how these crimes are reported to the local police.”

I braced myself for a defensive “Why?” or “What are you suggesting?” But LaForde’s face remained relaxed.

“When the victim comes to us?” he asked, as though he wanted to be sure he’d gotten the question right so he could be as helpful as possible. “Because they can go directly to the police if they want. That’s always their right. They’ll come to us if they want the incident reported as a disciplinary violation in addition to or instead of a crime. Students are entitled to confidentiality, however. We report the crime to the police as a courtesy, but we don’t disclose the students involved. In the case of a sexual assault, no such disclosure would be made at all unless a student requested it.”

“‘As a courtesy’ sounds as though it isn’t legally required.”

“It’s not mandated, but we do typically let the Ridgedale Police know about crimes on campus in real time. Can I promise that it happens with every single missing-iPhone report that later turns out not to be a theft? No, and I’m sure the local police wouldn’t want that.” The procedure sounded a lot more vague than he was making it out to be. “There are federal reporting requirements as well. Some things are so serious that we also handle them as a disciplinary violation even if they were only reported to the police. And in some circumstances, the police are going to get involved regardless of what we do—like this situation with the baby. Confidentiality, though, is always critical. Students need to feel protected.”

Especially the guilty ones, I wanted to add, but didn’t.

“There was another death on that same part of campus years ago, is that right?” I asked instead. It was too early to be getting that aggressive no matter how much I would have liked to. “A high school student?”

He shook his head. “It was a real tragedy. An accident, not a murder, just to be clear, but a terrible coincidence nonetheless. A shame for the boy’s parents if that gets dragged back up.”

“Did campus police participate in the investigation?”

He nodded. “Teenagers drinking. It’s always a recipe for disaster.” He paused, then reached behind him and picked up a pamphlet, slid it across the desk toward me. “If you want to know more about our procedures, they’re all set out in the university charter, which is a matter of public record. Not sure you want to comb through all that. This booklet here is what we give to students; it’ll probably tell you everything you need. But the two-minute version is that there is an involved procedure—an investigation, a hearing before a panel, a verdict—we call it a finding. Finding has to be by majority.”

“Who’s on the panel?”

“Five people appointed by the dean of students. Two professors, one administrator—which would be me at the moment—and two students. We’ve all gone through extensive screening and sensitivity training. The students change every year. The professors do five-year stints. Right now that’s Miles Cooper, who’s an English professor, and Maggie Capitol, biology. They’re both at the end of their five-year tenure. The dean of students presides.”

“And who investigates complaints?”

“Campus Safety officers.”

“Like Deckler?”

“Yes.” LaForde’s face tightened at the mention of Deckler. “Among others. There are ten officers on staff, plus supervisors. It’s all in the pamphlet.”

“Did a student named Rose Gowan ever make a complaint of any kind?”

“Does this have something to do with the baby?”

Lie. This time there was no question in my mind. “No,” I said firmly. “It doesn’t.”

“Oh.” He frowned and looked confused, but also concerned. “Regardless, Ms. Sanderson, I can’t comment on a specific student’s complaints. I’d like to be helpful, but my hands are tied. Confidentiality, I’m sure you understand. The only thing I’d be able to respond to would be a subpoena. And you’d know better than me, but I’m not sure they’re in the business of giving those out to reporters.”

When I came out of LaForde’s office, I caught a glimpse of Deckler, some distance down the hall. He was just standing there, staring in my direction, like he was waiting to see me again. I waved when he kept on staring, then darted for the door, hoping I could avoid him. I didn’t slow down until I was walking through the front gates of the university.

On the sidewalk, I pulled out my phone to check how much time I had before I needed to pick up Ella. A small scrap of paper fluttered to the ground—Justin’s note. I’d forgotten to read it after feeling it in my coat pocket when I was in Steve’s office. I knelt to pick it up, and sure enough, there was Justin’s jagged script.

In order that two imperfect souls might touch perfection. E. M. Forster

I smoothed my fingers over the words, feeling the grooves Justin’s pen had left in the paper. He must have slipped it into my pocket that morning before I left the house, or maybe the night before. Did he wonder why I hadn’t mentioned it at the Black Cat? Did he think I’d read it and not cared? I wouldn’t have said that I needed one of Justin’s notes right then, but it suddenly felt like the only reason I was breathing.

I was going to send Justin a text, thanking him for the note, when I checked the time: past two thirty, barely enough time to pick up Ella. I also had an unread text from Stella, sent a half hour earlier. You were right, it read. Police are holding Rose for questioning! Call me ASAP!

Tuesdays were always a light day at school pickup because many of the students went on to an after-school swimming program. Barbara and Stella weren’t there, only a dozen or so parents whom I knew by sight but not by name. Waiting in the hallway for Rhea to finish the afternoon meeting, I glimpsed Ella through the little window in the door. She was sitting in the circle with her hand raised, still dressed in her bright green outfit, eyes eager and wide. Whatever Ella said when she was finally called on made Rhea clap her hands and laugh loudly, which sent Ella into a fit of giggles.

She was a happy little girl. Justin was right. However much I had failed her in my darkest moments, I must have done something right.

“Mommy!” Ella shouted when Rhea opened the classroom door.

I crouched down as she ran at me full speed, jumping hard into my open arms. I buried my face in her mass of loopy curls and squeezed. She smelled like blueberry shampoo.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I said. “How was the show?”

“It was great, Mommy!” I waited a beat for the but—but you weren’t here, but I missed you, but I was sad. Instead she just squeezed me back, so hard it was difficult to breathe. “I’m so glad to see you!”

“Me, too, Peanut.” I took a deep breath. Already I felt so much better, the thoughts that had been weighing on me—the baby, Rose, Stella, my other baby—already floating up and away as if someone had pushed open a vent. “How about you and I go to Scoops and get some ice cream?”

It was past four by the time Ella and I arrived at Ridgedale’s picture-perfect ice cream shop, which sat on a sunny, tree-lined stretch facing Franklin Street and the university. Scoops had homemade flavors like Cocoa Conniption and Strawberry Slalom, and kids could churn their own ice cream on Saturdays using the shop’s famed bicycle ice cream maker. It was the kind of magical place I couldn’t have imagined as a child.

“What do you want, Ella?” I would have bought her everything in that store if she’d promised to keep on smiling.

“Vanilla!” Ella shouted like she’d never heard of a more thrilling flavor in her entire life. “In a cone!”

“Just vanilla?” I laughed. “Are you sure? No sprinkles, nothing?”

“Nope,” she said, rocking back on her heels as she gripped the edge of the counter. “Vanilla is the best!”

As the sweet-faced teenage girl behind the counter set to work digging out the ice cream, I put my hand on Ella’s head, marveling at how perfectly it still fit in my palm. Through the etched front window, the late-afternoon sun lit up the university gold. The moment was so beautiful and perfect—Ella and the ice cream and the sun. But it didn’t feel like it belonged to me, not in any permanent sense. Happy was my adopted country, not my native land. I was still bracing to be expelled without warning.

I was about to turn from the window when I saw Steve Carlson walking quickly in the direction of the station. He nodded to someone going the other way, but it wasn’t until they’d exchanged brisk pleasantries that I realized the other man was Thomas Price. Neither seemed to want a real chat, understandable under the circumstances. Depending on how things progressed, they could easily be forced to turn against each other.

“Here you go,” said the girl behind the counter, handing a wide-eyed Ella her cone and winking at her. “I’m with you, vanilla is the best.”

We found our way to a bench in front of the shop, where Ella took a huge bite of ice cream with her teeth, which made me shiver. As we snuggled against each other, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. A voicemail, not a text. And from a number that I didn’t recognize.

I tapped on the message and put the phone to my ear, twisting my fingers through Ella’s curls as she pumped her legs back and forth under the bench like she was reaching for extra height on a swing.

“Molly Sanderson, this is Officer Deckler,” the message began. “Just checking to be sure you got everything you needed on campus today.” Deckler paused, breathed loudly into the phone. My stomach tightened. How did he even have my number? Had he looked it up in Justin’s file? “If you, you know, have other questions, you can, um, call me. This is my cell. Okay, bye.”

The second part of the message had been rushed and nervous, like he’d realized halfway through that he shouldn’t have called. And he was right. Deckler was hovering like someone with something to hide.

“Mommy?” Ella asked as I slipped the phone back in my pocket. She paused to take another lick.

“What, sweetheart?”

“What’s a slut?”

I coughed, choking on my own saliva. “My God, Ella, where did you hear that word?”

“From Will,” she said with a shrug as she took another bite. Like where she’d heard it was the least interesting part and also should have been obvious. “His mom said it to Aidan.”

“She called Aidan a slut?”

Stella was bound to lose it on Aidan eventually—it was hard to blame her. But it was weird that she hadn’t mentioned some big fight. Stella confessed compulsively to me. Why not this? Had the argument escalated further? Had something even worse happened, something so terrible that Stella didn’t want even me to know?

“Come on, Mommy. Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“What’s a slut?”

“Oh, Ella,” I said, trying not to sound too horrified. But the way the word kept popping out of her innocent little mouth was making me feel sick. “Please don’t say that again. It’s not a nice word.”

“Then why did Will’s mommy say it?”

“Oh, maybe she was really tired when she said it to Aidan,” I offered. “People sometimes say things that aren’t very nice when they’re tired.”

“You never do that. And she didn’t call Aidan a slut, Mommy,” Ella went on, saying it again as if I hadn’t just asked her to stop. She was focused on licking the edges of her cone, catching the drips. “She called his girlfriend a slut.”

A girlfriend? I’d heard about Aidan’s drinking and drugs and stealing money. I’d heard about the time he got arrested and how Stella fantasized about leaving him in jail. These were not good things that Stella had told me, and yet she had done so willingly. Now she was leaving out something innocent, like Aidan having a girlfriend? Why? Who was the girlfriend?

“And then she broke his phone,” Ella added.

“Stella broke Aidan’s phone?”

“Boom!” Ella imitated an explosion with her chubby little hands. “That’s what Will says. But when Daddy’s phone broke, it didn’t blow up like that. I think Will is lying. He lies a lot.”

Except Stella had complained—with great annoyance—about having to replace Aidan’s broken phone. “What’s Aidan’s girlfriend’s name?”

Ella shrugged. “Will calls her the flower girl,” she said, then rolled her eyes. “But I know that’s not her real name. No one’s named that. He’s lying about that, too.”

Rose: the flower girl.