Tripp stood stoically behind her—she could feel the heat of him less than a foot away—but he stayed silent. Infuriatingly so. She wanted him to get angry, speak up for his friend, protest Harper’s steamroll, despite his job being at stake. She knew he wouldn’t, that simply standing there was enough for him, and it should probably have been enough for her.
“You may think that, Ms. Peterson, and I can’t even say for sure that you’re wrong. But it’s simply not compelling enough to chase it down the rabbit hole. Now, what I will do is send it over to Clark Mackey, the other detective here in town, to look into it as a separate case. There’s no doubt that the video is disturbing.”
“So a rape investigation?” Bridget pressed, and she might have imagined the sharp intake of Tripp’s breath behind her, the way he shifted his weight. The way so many men were inherently uncomfortable with the word rape, like just saying it invoked some unspoken appraisal of all men. She’d found less bristling among cops, who’d seen the worst of the worst, the dregs of humanity on a daily basis. But she’d found it among the kids. Being a creative writing teacher gave her a sort of latitude not employed by her colleagues. She could plunge the depths of her kids’ minds, or as deep as they’d let her in, broach subjects like abuse and rape, consent and sexuality, all under the guise of writing. In previous years, she’d used it to her full capacity, and her desire to understand the new generation was worth the price of an occasional talk with Bachman about appropriate classroom content, and concerned parent phone calls.
“I said maybe,” Harper stressed. His face slacked, his eyes softened. “I have a teenage niece, do you know that? She’s fifteen, lives up north a bit. Social media, Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, Instagram, Yik Yak, Kik, it’s all terrifying. I get that. You see it every day, you live with the effects of it day in and out. I understand that, Bridget.”
“Then help me. Help them,” Bridget said, even though she knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
“I can’t spend my days policing teenage behavior,” Harper said. “As much as I’d like to. We have a heroin problem around here, did you know that? I’m tied up in that most days.”
“Is this because of who it is? Andrew Evans? Porter Max? The baseball heroes of Mt. Oanoke?”
Harper’s face hardened, his eyes narrowed. “Ms. Peterson, I’ll pretend you didn’t say that. I’m not saying this video isn’t incriminating. I just think it’s not ironclad proof of a crime. There’s no sex, he said on the video himself, ‘You called me up here.’ There’s consensual drinking, that much is obvious. But I can’t chase down an underage drinking charge.”
“It depends on your definition of consensual. Just because she said yes means she consented?”
“Isn’t that what consent is?”
“Not if she’s so drunk she’s passed out. All she hears is ‘say yes’ and she says yes.”
“Who are you angry at? Who are you fighting for?” Harper asked Bridget quietly, leaning forward.
She thought about this—it was valid question. “I don’t know. The truth. I don’t think Nate did anything to this girl. He loves his students.”
“Maybe that’s the problem, do you think?” Harper reached behind him to scratch his back, his armpits wet and yellowed. Bridget realized how hot it was in the station, the sweat trickling down her neck. “I’m done, Bridget. Okay?” He stood up, ending their meeting. “If Lucia walked in here now and reported a rape, I’d have a different answer.”
Bridget hiked her purse up onto her arm and pressed her mouth closed, her lips dry, her tongue sour. “And what if she can’t?”
?????
“So that’s it, then?” Tripp stood next to his truck in the parking lot, the sun bouncing off the gleaming red paint, a blind spot in Bridget’s eye.
“Not for me. For you?” Bridget squinted up at him and he looked around the lot, his blond hair reflecting light like his truck. He toed the dirt like a teenager.
“I don’t know. I can’t go off half-cocked like you can. I have a job to protect here. You get that, right?”
“Yeah.” She did get it, but she felt deflated anyway, the pinprick of disappointment in her gut.
“It’s too hot for May,” Tripp said, suddenly changing the subject. They’d settled it then, sunk to talking about the weather, the hotness, the sweat. Even the dust seemed wet with humidity. Tripp pointed to the back lot, toward the diner, The 543, the letters blinking. Bridget nodded and they walked, wordless, the gravel kicking up at her feet, and she marveled about their comfort level, how easily they’d slipped into friendship.
Inside the diner, seated, they ordered dessert and coffee, sharing a quarter of an apple pie off the same plate, talking very little while Bridget tried to think of what to do next, but it felt easier than she remembered, being with a man. Tripp didn’t press her to talk, like even Alecia did sometimes. Then again, Alecia had known her when Bridget herself avoided silence, filling the hole with endless chatter. Alecia still thought of her as that person. Tripp hardly knew her at all.
“I think I need to talk to Nate. Any idea where he is today?” Bridget asked. “I have to show him the broadcast. He’s going to flip, I think.”
“Why?”
“Andrew Evans is his golden child. His star baseball player. The Evans family has supported Nate, one of the only ones who have.” They’d been at the original pavilion meeting after the story broke. Bridget remembered the way Mrs. Evans nodded, her head bobbing like a puppet. The way she didn’t speak, her teeth working the soft skin of her lip.
“I think he’s home. He sleeps a lot when I’m not around. When I’m home, he goes out. I think he avoids me.”
“He won’t take my calls. I’ve tried twice. I still don’t know what to say to him.” She shrugged, pressed her finger to the crumbs on the plate and then stuck it into her mouth, thinking. “I haven’t talked much to Alecia, either. A few times. She’s coming undone, but I don’t know how to fix that.”
They finished the pie and the waitress ambled up, her apron sagging below an ample bosom, her hair slicked back into a tight bun. She had a red, wintry face, bursting and shiny. “I know y’all, don’t I?” Her neck wobbled as she nodded. “You’re that teacher, the one who’s friends with Winters. Y’all think he didn’t diddle that girl, his student.” She spat the last word out like it was a cuss word and Bridget found herself shaking her head. “I saw you at the meeting a few weeks back. And now she’s missing. You still think that?” Her apple cheeks huffed with the effort, her fingertips with bright red nails flitting in their direction as she pulled out the pad to write up the bill. “My cousin, she goes to that school. She’s a senior. You know her? Ashlee Williams?”