“Me too.”
I give her arm a gentle squeeze, then walk down the front steps toward the gate. Halfway there she calls, “Brent?”
I turn around.
“This doesn’t change anything. About the case, I mean. On Monday, I expect you to come at me with everything you have. If you go easy on me it’ll mean you don’t respect me—that you think I can’t handle it. And I’d never forgive you for that.”
I give her a quick nod and she goes inside, closing the door behind her.
My eleven-year-old self was right: girls are weird.
? ? ?
I wake up earlier than usual on Saturday, with the echo of Kennedy’s words in my head. Curiosity rubs me raw, like two jagged sticks sparking a fire. So I skip my morning run and spend an hour in my home office doing online research.
It’s amazing, and kind of fucking frightening, how much of our personal information is floating around out there, and how simple it is to access. After I get the info I wanted—an address just an hour outside of DC—I tap the address into Google Maps, then I head out.
When I knock on the door, I hear muffled voices inside, then the sound of walking feet.
And then the door opens.
And Victoria Russo, Kennedy’s old boarding school roommate, stares at me. “Brent Mason?”
I nod. “Hey, Vicki.”
She looks good, almost exactly the same. Her laugh lines are a little more pronounced, but her shoulder-length hair is still jet black with a streak of bright blue, her nose is still pierced with a diamond stud, and she still has that sharp, no-bullshit-taking shine in her eyes. The last time I saw her she tried to kick me in the balls.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
I look her straight in the eyes. “I need your help.”
9
Ten minutes later, Vicki sets a coffee cup down in front of me at her kitchen table. She has a nice house—a family house—in a development with green lawns and brick-paved driveways and swimming pools in yards lined with arborvitaes to have some privacy from the neighbors. Her kitchen’s huge, with mauve-colored walls and cream cabinets. There are framed pictures all around—some of dark-haired little girls, some of Vicki and Brian Gunderson.
Brian was a student at Saint Arthur’s too. A tall, lanky kid who sagged his pants, listened to Snoop Dogg, and attended on scholarship. I remember seeing them together around campus—he was her date the night of the senior dance . . . and it looks like they’re married now.
In the den off the kitchen, there’s a cluster of book covers with shirtless men in various stages of embracing equally hot, half-naked women. And the author is V. Russo.
“You’re a writer?” I ask, sipping my coffee.
“Yeah. I write romance.”
I glance at the pictures again. “Brian’s a lucky guy.”
She chuckles. “Yes, he is.” Then her expression turns thoughtful. “A romantic hero with a prosthetic leg would make for an interesting story.”
“Well, if you need a technical advisor, give me a call.” Then I ask, “Do you still talk with Kennedy?”
She lifts one perfectly penciled brow. Then calls down the hallway, “Louise! Come here please.”
A tiny little thing, maybe about five years old, with long black messy hair walks into the kitchen and stands next to Vicki. “Yes, Momma?”
Vicki crouches down next to her. “Louise, this is an old classmate of Mommy’s—Mr. Mason. Can you say hello?”
The little girl smiles, not at all shyly. “Hello, Mr. Mason.”
“Hi, Louise.”
“Can you tell Mr. Mason your full name, honey?”
“Louise Kennedy Gunderson.”
I nod in understanding. “That’s a beautiful name.”
Vicki pats her daughter’s shoulder. “You can go back and play now, baby.”
As Louise leaves the room, Vicki raises her coffee cup to her lips. “Kennedy’s the godmother to all our girls. And she gets full custody if we kick the bucket, even though I have two married brothers and Brian has a sister.”
That’s going to make this conversation slightly more complicated, but it shouldn’t be a problem.
“I assume Kennedy’s told you about our court case?” I ask.
“The case where she’s wiping the floor with you? Yeah—heard all about it.” She smiles a little too broadly for my liking, but I let it go.
“She also told me about your chat last night. How you proclaimed your innocence.” There’s a bite to her words at the end.
“I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to her at the dance.”
“You had everything to do with it. Your girlfriend and her friends made life hell for Kennedy because of you—and you did nothing.”
“I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“You knew enough.”
And I’ve got no comeback. Because she’s right. It’s easy to look back, with the knowledge and confidence of an adult, and see everything that we should have done differently.
My words are strong and demanding. “That’s why I’m here. I need you to tell me what else I don’t know.”