Arch Enemy (20 page)

A
lex was alone and everything was dark. A figure that came out of the shadows, and somehow
was
the dark, chasing her. Her leg wasn't broken or in a cast anymore, but the more she struggled to run, the slower she seemed to go. The figure just came closer and closer until it knocked her on the ground and climbed on top of her, his face inches from hers, a horrible, twisted face—

She woke up, panting. It was late morning already, but she had stayed up so late the night before out of fear and adrenaline that she only now was pushing herself to get up.

Katie's bed was empty. She had been there the night before, but by the time Alex came back she was already asleep.

Alex was groggy, and the world had taken on the sheen of unreality that followed disturbing events and a night of poor sleep. She looked at the day outside. Gray and snowy. Big surprise.

Still in her pajamas, she knocked on Simon's door. Both had locked their respective doors when they had gotten back as a precaution. Some thirty seconds later, the knob turned and there was Simon, rubbing his eyes.

“Hey,” she said. “How you holding up?”

He let her in without a word and they just sat in each other's presence, side by side on his bed. This wasn't the first time she had feared for her life, but she was pretty sure it was for Simon. It had raised the stakes, and she didn't quite know how to deal with it. Neither, it seemed, did he.

Her phone buzzed: an e-mail from Dr. Strimling. She opened it, without thinking, if only to break the awkwardness. She couldn't focus and its contents were a blur, but certain choice phrases jumped out at her, such as
recommend academic probation
,
by the end of the semester,
and
may be facing expulsion
.

Simon must have caught it as well, because he yanked her phone from her hands and held it away from her. He mumbled the words under his breath as he read them.

“Alex, what the hell is this? Probation?
Expulsion?
Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because it's my goddamn problem, all right?” She grabbed her phone back from him.

“And you didn't think to talk about it with your friends?” he huffed. “Are you talking to
anyone
about this?”

She looked at the carpet and crossed her arms. “I've got it handled, all right?”

“Oh, that is
abundantly clear
.” He swore and looked out the window. “I'm worried about you.”

“Forget about this!” she said. “What about the Ekklesia? What about our case?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“We have a purpose, Simon. We have a mission.”

“Our purpose is this!” he yelled, motioning all around him. “College. Classes. You know, the reason we're actually here?”

“Girls are being drugged—”

“And we've done what we could. In fact, we've gone way past what is reasonable for someone to do in this situation. But it's over. There's nothing more to be done, except maybe alert someone in a position of authority.”

“We can't let them—”

“You can't keep doing this to yourself.” He was stern. “I won't let you. You're in a spiral, and I don't know where it ends, but I know it's not good. And I think you're using it to run away.”

Painful as it was to admit, he was making some kind of sense. Everything in her life was a shambles. She was close to flunking out of school. She didn't even know what was going on in her classes. She had not spoken to her father in weeks. And her one true friend in college she was using to chase this strange new obsession of hers. Maybe she was holding on to this so that she wouldn't have to face the difficult work of getting everything else back on track.

She broke down in tears. Simon embraced her.

“Alex.” His voice was gentle now. “It's time to pull the plug on this.”

“Okay,” she said weakly.

“I'll help you with your classes. We'll see about getting you a tutor or something in case it turns out you need it. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“I just want to be alone with my thoughts for a little while.”

He nodded. “Promise you'll call if you need me?”

“Yeah.”

“All right,” he said, getting up and opening the door for her. “I'll be here.”

She shuffled to her bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. A horrible sensation came over her. It wasn't the dull self-loathing she'd been sharing her mind with for the past several months. This was sharper, more painful. It made her want to cry out. To scream. So she put her pillow over her head and did, over and over again, shrieks of pain and anger muffled in memory foam.

And it began to feel better. This was, she realized, what it was like to let go of an obsession. To jog yourself out of something that seemed so important it eclipsed everything else in your life. She had to tear that away, and it took little parts of her with it. But it was also the beginning of healing.

She was startled out of it by her phone ringing in her pocket. She drew it out and looked at the screen: it was an unknown 617 number. She slid her finger across the screen to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Alex, it's Hillary Chen.”

“He-hi,” she said. “Sorry, I'm just surprised to be hearing from you.”

“Yeah. Listen, I lied. I do remember something. Quite a bit, actually. And I'd like to talk to you about it. Can you meet me in Boston?”

“I, uh, have a broken leg,” she said. “But I could take the bus—”

“Never mind, I'll drive up this evening. Where can I meet you?” Hillary asked.

And, just like it
was
a drug, she was hooked again.

B
ruce Ansley drove his boxy, steel blue old model Toyota Camry the familiar way home in the noontime sun. He and Annemarie rode together in silence, digesting what they had just been told.

Annemarie spoke first. “So what do we do about Pam?”

“How should I know? I had no idea about any of this.”

“We have to talk to her about it. Find out what's causing her to act out.”

“I mean, smoking in school?” said Ansley. “Caught
drinking
? What is going
on
with that girl?”

“It's not like she talks to me. But maybe if we sit down with her and offer her a safe space to—”

“She needs consequences. First thing we do when we get back is search her room. I mean
everything
. If she has so much as a piece of candy she's not supposed to have, I'm going to find it.”

“We can't!” said Annemarie. “It'll push her away. How is she supposed to trust us enough if she—”

“She needs consequences for her actions,” Ansley barked at her. “And that's what I'm going to give her, so help me—I mean, can you believe that two-bit school counselor, suggesting that it's our fault? That we're not
present
enough, that Pam is acting out because she lives in a
hostile home environment
? Oh please.”

“Well . . .” Annemarie began.

“Well what?”

“You could try to mellow out,” she said. “Sometimes. You yell at her an awful lot, and you don't really give her the space to—”

“Don't give her
space
? She's got all the space she
wants
! She spends all afternoon locked in her room. Doesn't even come down for dinner, and you think she needs
space
?”

“I just mean that she doesn't feel comfortable sharing anything when you're there. She needs to—”

“Oh,
typical
of you to blame me.”

“I was just suggesting that you—”

“Like I don't do enough for this damn family. I bust my ass at work, I come home tired every day, and I still have to deal with a sullen teenager and
you
pointing your finger at every little thing I do.” He made a brusque turn into the post office parking lot, braking hard at the space. “I have to get some stamps.” He got out of the car and slammed the door.

He walked into the post office and opened the post office box.

Empty.

He slammed it shut and locked it again.

As he turned to leave, he saw Annemarie standing there at the door of the post office, looking at him. He wasn't carrying any stamps. Hadn't even gotten in line. She'd caught him red-handed.

“Get back in the car, Annemarie,” he growled.

“I
t was like a bad dream.”

Alex sat cradling an
Americano
across from Hillary Chen at Campus Coffee. She was pretty—not in the sense that she was born with it, although that was also true, but she was one of those women for whom
pretty
was part of who they were and wanted to be. She had a certain bearing, an enviable poise. Alex could tell she was a master at doing her own makeup, too, with a heavier hand with the mascara in a way that complemented her eyes and a subtle and natural blush. Her hair was thick and lustrous. Her clothes were elegant and tailored, fitted to her form without a trace of vulgarity. And what was most remarkable: she had no reason to impress Alex. This, as far as she could tell, was her everyday attire.

Alex, in contrast, was wearing blue jeans and a tank top under her sweater, no makeup, no effort made on her hair except a couple bobby pins to keep her bangs off her eyes.

“I just pushed it out of my mind,” Hillary continued. “I thought I could get away from it by ignoring it. And I guess I did. I work, I lead a full life. But it never stopped nagging in the back of my mind. And your call, it brought it all back.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. I didn't have the capacity to deal with it then, but I do now. I'm not vulnerable anymore. I'm not afraid.”

Alex found herself jealous of Hillary's self-possession. Alex's own shortcomings became embarrassing, and her excuses for not becoming a better person felt petty. She wanted to be strong, like Hillary.

“Does that mean you'll come forward?”

Hillary stared out the window at the falling snow. She sipped her cappuccino. “I'm out of college now,” she said. “The bastard can't hurt me anymore.” She looked Alex in the eye. “Yes,” she said. “I'll come forward. I'll speak on the record.”

“Maybe you won't have to do it alone. There's someone else who I think they might have targeted, too. A girl called Annette Baig.”

Hillary's countenance darkened. Without a word, she searched for something on her phone and slid it across the table to Alex.

It was an article on Annette Baig—an obituary. Somehow, Alex and Simon had neglected to run a simple Google search. Alex read below the headline. It was dated three years before, which is why she never graduated. It said she—

“She took her own life,” said Alex.

“I remember it was a big deal at the time. They found her out in the woods beyond the observatory.”

“This was the semester Assistant Coach Groener went to talk to her. Do you think—?”

“We can't know.”

No, Alex supposed she couldn't draw a simple line from point A to point B. But—she curled her hands into fists—if Groener had any fault in this, he would pay. She would make certain of it.

“I want to take it to the press first,” said Alex. “I don't trust the university not to make this disappear. I want to make it impossible for them to ignore it.”

Hillary considered this. “That sounds like a plan.”

“I'm thinking of a reporter we can contact. Someone from the
Inquirer
. I've looked into some possibilities. There's this one girl. She strikes me as the kind of shark this story needs.”

“Let me know when you know. I'll tell her whatever I can to help.”

Alex smiled, and her eyes nearly welled with tears. She had it. It was within her grasp.

“You know,” said Hillary, “I don't know you very well, but I already admire the heck out of you.”

Alex choked on her coffee. “Are you kidding? You're, like, this totally amazing woman, making it in the big city. I can barely pass my classes in college.” Her shoulders hunched in shame. “I may not.”

“But you're doing something harder and more meaningful than any other student at this school,” she said. “I wouldn't—I
didn't
— have the guts to do what you're doing as a senior, let alone as a freshman.”

“You have a lot more guts coming forward. It's personal for you. For me it's only a weird fixation.”

“Don't minimize this.” Hillary stood up from her chair. “You're my hero, Alex Morgan. And I've got your back. You need help getting up?”

Alex waved her off, buoyed with pride. She polished off her coffee, scalding her throat in the process, and stood up without any major disasters.

Hillary held the café door open for Alex.

“So, I gotta get back to the city,” she said. “You need a ride anywhere?”

“I'm good.”

Hillary smiled. “Thank you again.” She moved in and hugged Alex, waving a silent good-bye before walking away.

Alex turned back toward Prather House.

It was time to get in touch with the reporter. She took out her phone and scrolled to the contact she had already saved in anticipation of this moment.

“Hi, Francine? You don't know me, but I have a hell of a story for you. I'd like to sit down and have some coffee. As soon as you can.”