Once I was downstairs, I spread the files out on the floor, looking for connections between Price and each one of the girls. The first three were easy—he’d taught the American studies course as a last-minute replacement for Christine Carroll, the professor listed on their fall schedules. It took nearly an hour of cross-referencing various university sources, but soon I had linked each of the other young women to Price in one fashion or another. Jennifer Haben (2012) had been an intern for the dean of students’ office, and Willa Daniela (2013) had worked in Student Services, in the office adjacent to the dean of students. Rose Gowan (2014)—whose name Thomas Price had convincingly pretended not to know—had sat with him on a seven-member student advisory committee that had met weekly for the past two years.
I was studying the remaining files when my phone buzzed, making me jump. I took a deep breath, not that it helped much. A text from a blocked number.
Find Jenna Mendelson.
That was the whole message. Who the hell was Jenna Mendelson?
I turned back to the folders spread across the floor, wondering if I’d somehow missed a Jenna Mendelson. There was Jennifer Haben, but no Jenna and no Mendelson.
Who is Jenna Mendelson? I texted right back, even though I felt conflicted about engaging. The last thing I needed was another mystery to solve. But already those three little ellipses had appeared, an answer on its way.
She’s missing.
Then contact the police.
The police are WHY she’s missing.
Who is this?
I waited for the ellipses. But this time, nothing.
I was still staring at the phone when I saw something move out of the corner of my eye, on the far side of the room. When I jumped and whipped around, there was Ella, standing at the bottom of the steps, gripping her blanket and trying not to cry.
“Ella, what are you doing?” I shouted, way too loud and angry. I closed my eyes and pressed a hand to my chest, trying to slow my heart. Then I heard a sniffle, followed by a squeak. When I opened my eyes, Ella was full-on bawling.
“Oh, Ella, I’m sorry.” I rushed over and scooped her up in my arms. “I didn’t mean to yell. You just surprised me. What’s wrong?”
She pushed back my hair to whisper in my ear. “The bugs. They’re everywhere.”
One of her bad dreams, at least I was hoping. “All over where?”
“My bed.”
A bad dream, definitely. “Come on, Peanut. You’re safe. Mommy’s here,” I said, lifting her against me as I stood. “Let’s go upstairs and get this sorted out.”
A half hour of lying in Ella’s bed, rubbing her back, and she was finally back to sleep. I made my way downstairs, wondering if it was possible that I’d imagined the blocked texts. But the conversation was still on my phone, my last question—Who is this?—still unanswered. And now I wanted to know who Jenna Mendelson was and what it meant that the police were “involved” in what had happened to her.
Why should I try to find her if I don’t know who she is? I tried again, hoping they’d answer me now. Or who you are?
An instant response this time. Because we know what happened to the baby. Find her and we’ll tell you.
How do I know you’re telling the truth?
Baby was found with her head crushed. No one knows that but the police. And me.
I didn’t know whether that was true. Steve hadn’t told me those details, but it would fit with his reference to the “condition of the body.” It would also fit with how disturbed he’d seemed.
OK. What do you want me to do?
There was no answer.
According to Google, there were—unhelpfully—many Jenna Mendelsons, and none appeared to be in Ridgedale. I spent close to an hour clicking through all those other Jennas. It wasn’t until I was so completely bleary-eyed that I accidentally typed a new query into my email search bar instead of Google’s that I stumbled on something: an email from Ella’s teacher, Rhea, one of several we’d exchanged back when I’d done the profile on her tutoring program.
Subject: Follow-up Interview Questions
Hi Molly,
Just wanted to get back to you with the names of some students from the program you might want to contact. The student I really think you could do an entire piece on is Sandy Mendelson. She’s so smart and hardworking. I have such high hopes for her. She’s really the poster child for this whole program.
All the best!
Rhea
Rhea had given me Sandy’s phone number, too. I remembered leaving several messages for her at the time, but she’d never called back. I’d run the piece with comments from two other students Rhea was tutoring.
I dialed the number and held my breath, gambling on the fact that it was Sandy texting me about Jenna—her sister or maybe her mother. I hoped I wasn’t going to be the one delivering upsetting news.
“Hello?” came a wide-awake voice.
“Is this Sandy Mendelson?”
There was a long pause. “Yes,” she said finally.
“This is Molly Sanderson. I think you were trying to reach me?”
In the morning, I found Justin in the bathroom, already back from his run. He was standing at the sink, wrapped in a towel, neatening the edges of his beard with a razor.
“I think Thomas Price may be—or has been—sexually assaulting girls on campus,” I said. I leaned forward and wiped the steam off the mirror with the back of my hand, so I could see his face in the reflection.
“Really?” He stood motionless, razor hovering in midair, head tilted to the side as he eyed me in the mirror—concerned, wary. “Where’s that coming from? This has something to do with your story about the baby?”
He was probably worried about getting fired from his hard-won beloved job because I was rushing around making possibly groundless accusations. It would be understandable.
“I don’t think it has to do with the baby, but I don’t know. Right now it’s more of a hunch anyway.” Why was I downplaying it for Justin? I might not have been in a position to write a front-page story, but I wasn’t pulling it out of thin air. Pretending otherwise wasn’t going to help either of us. “No, it’s more than a hunch. I’m pretty sure it’s true. I just don’t have enough evidence to do anything about it.”
Justin shook his head in disgust, then leaned closer to the mirror and went back to shaving. “I don’t want to say I told you so. But you know I never liked that guy.”