In Quincy, the kids were already in their seats, stewing in tense silence. Foolishly, I thought maybe it was about me; maybe they’d gotten word that I was sexist and racist, an enabler of predators. Maybe they wanted out of the course. Maybe they wanted me off campus.
Britt said, “Can I talk to you in the hallway a minute?” But it was time to start class, and in any case she kept talking. “I’m thinking I could switch to the murder of Barbara Crocker.”
“We’re more than halfway through,” I said. “Your second episode could pivot to that, but—”
“No,” she said. “I want to scrap what I already did.”
Jamila sighed loudly. She said, “Britt, just get over yourself and finish what you started. It’s like you’re trying to punish me for my criticism.”
“I am not!” Britt shrieked. She seemed close to sobbing.
Alder said, “Hey. Hey. Okay.” He patted his thighs. “Hold up. Hear me out. I’ve been wrestling with my own project because honestly I don’t even know what it is anymore.” I wasn’t going to disagree. “What if—”
“I don’t want to trade with you,” Britt said. “I just want to stop.”
“No! What if we did yours together? I’m not gonna take over, but you know I’m obsessed with this case now.”
Jamila rolled her eyes, as if rescuing white girls from awkwardness was something Alder did all the time.
Alder said, “Would that work, Ms. Kane?”
“I think it would be fine.” Especially if it meant no one would cry right now. “And maybe you two can owe me a couple extra episodes, just to be fair.”
Britt looked hugely relieved, and Alder looked thrilled. Jamila whispered something to Alyssa, and Alyssa smirked into her notebook.
“Because honestly,” Alder said, “I’ve stayed up basically every night googling it.”
I said, “Britt? You’re okay with this?”
Britt glanced at Jamila, who wasn’t about to give her validation. “Yeah, I—that would be a lot better. Just having more—more points of view. And four episodes is no problem.”
“I think we’re in good shape then.”
Lola said, “So tell her the development!”
“Oh.” Britt managed a small smile. “I heard back from Thalia’s sister.”
I hadn’t known she’d contacted Vanessa. I tried to calculate how old she must be now.
“The parents didn’t write back, but she did. She seemed pissed, like not interested in talking. But she sent me this list of what she has, all the medical reports, and she has the on-campus interview transcripts from both the State Police and the private detectives. Which is huge, because that’s not on the Free Omar site. But she didn’t offer to share it. I think she might’ve thought we were doing, like, a more official thing.”
“She has all that?” Alder said. “What—okay, can I talk to her? I’ll Uber to wherever she is. Literally right now.”
Britt shrugged. “She sounded super not into that. I’ll show you what she wrote, at least.”
I said, “Would you mind showing me as well?” I wanted to see every document Vanessa had, and immediately. My sore throat and earache were gone. I felt awake for the first time in days. The interview transcripts were something I could spend hours in, weeks in. It occurred to me that my own words would be in there. I said, “I won’t interfere, but I knew Vanessa. I might—I could at least drop her a note and say you’re my students. I don’t know that she’d remember me, but it couldn’t hurt.”
I told them then about the flask, my theory of the timing. It seemed to cheer Britt up entirely; here was something to start her second episode. Lola said, “You can ask my uncle! If there was booze backstage, he was most definitely involved.”
46
Britt and Alder asked for more classmates of mine they could talk to, and I had to think hard who’d be open to it. I hit upon Geoff Richler, who’d barely known Thalia but who had, after all, been the one to develop Jimmy Scalzitti’s mattress party photos, and that was something. Besides, Geoff was funny and smart and would make a good podcast guest. He was living in New York, and occasionally over the years we’d made noise about having a drink when I was in town but had never gotten our act together. He would text me every time he listened to my podcast, things like I’m at the part where she’s hooked on amphetamines. Run for your life, Judy! I got back at him once by watching his TED Talk online and texting him constantly. （You’re turning to the left! You just cleared your throat! Oooh, the online marketplace as an unlikely spur for local growth!）
I texted him a heads-up about the students, and he sent back a GIF of a monkey eating popcorn.
My film class was meeting in the evening for a change, so after lunch I borrowed Anne’s snowshoes and Fran and I hit the fresh snowfall on the Nordic trail; Geoff was a topic of conversation. “The last girlfriend,” Fran said, “was ridiculously hot.” She had seen them both at our twentieth reunion, which I’d missed.
I said, “Like—I look at him objectively now, and I guess he’s attractive and successful. But this is our little Geoff.”
“Wasn’t there an actual model in there at one point? Or no, wait, a fitness coach.”
“That boy did not have a moment of action at Granby,” I said.
“Sure. He was too busy fawning over you and Carlotta.”
“Umm,” I said, “not me.” I tried to give her the look she deserved, but she was ahead of me on the trail. “Just Carlotta.” But Fran made a sarcastic humph.
She said, “Do you remember those shirts he wore? I think that was half his problem.”
It came back to me from the ether, how freshman year he’d had three of the same shirt in different colors—these jewel-toned rugby shirts with white piping at the collar and cuffs. Something you’d put on a five-year-old.
“Poor Geoff,” I said.
I was out of breath keeping up with her. One thing about living in LA is you forget how to move in clothing or gear that weighs anything.
We were up around where the mattresses must once have been, although the trees and even the trail had changed enough that I couldn’t have found the exact spot.
Fran said, “We’re good, right? You’re not mad at me about the other night? I just don’t want you falling into this whole conspiracy mindset.”
I wanted to ask if she thought I was morphing into Dane Rubra, but that would mean acknowledging I knew who Dane was, which wouldn’t help my case.
“Like I said, it’s not my project. If I knew how to brainwash teenagers, I’d be rich.”
“Okay, good. There’s so much crazy stuff out there. We all killed her in a satanic ritual, right?”
“I’m still mad I wasn’t invited.”
“And there’s all the stuff about Barbara Crocker’s killer. And the dot theory thing.”
I made her repeat herself twice and still had no idea what she was saying.
“Her planner? Oh my God, do not look this up, they’ll get to you. I guess her planner was in her backpack when she was found, but it was never admitted to evidence.”