JAMIE: Did the officer ask why?
SHAY: No. But I knew it was our only shot. Don couldn’t cause a fuss in the station. And it would probably take another one of us dying before we ever came back. My heart was thundering when the cop said yes. I’m sure he had no idea he was causing this tectonic shift.
When Don heard we were going back to campus, he said, “Of course, whatever they want,” like it was a perfectly reasonable request and not against all his rules. His mask was so convincing. He didn’t frown. He didn’t even blink fast.
When the officer dropped us off in front of Rothschild, we flew to our suite and locked the door, shoved the couch in front of it, checked every window. Then we held each other in bed and cried.
JAMIE: What happened to Don?
SHAY: I dragged Laurel to the dean of students. She didn’t want to go, but I was terrified he’d show up any minute and force us back. We told the dean everything. She was shocked, said she’d alert the cops, make sure someone extricated Rachel. She assured us we’d be safe.
JAMIE: And did she call the police?
SHAY: I have no idea. All I know is days went by, and we didn’t see or hear from the dean, or the cops, or Don. He didn’t go to Clem’s memorial service. It was absolute silence, as if the whole thing had been a dream. Finally Laurel and I couldn’t take it anymore. We had to know we weren’t crazy, so we snuck back to his house to look.
It was empty. Not a trace of Don or Rachel. After that, Laurel and I made a pact to bury what happened and never speak of it again, like everyone else was doing. As soon as we graduated, we’d leave New York and never come back.
JAMIE: You both broke your promises.
（Silence.）
Why did it take Clem dying for you to leave?
SHAY: I don’t…
（Silence.）
Actually, you know what, Jamie? You think you know me, because we were friends growing up, but there was a lot you didn’t see. If you had, maybe you’d get it.
JAMIE: Tell me, then. Help me understand.
（Phone ringing.）
Shay—
（Phone ringing.）
JAMIE: We’re not done—
End of transcript.
Chapter Seventeen
My husband was calling. I’d sworn to call him after dinner but forgot, and now, after Fox Lane and the interviews, we were creeping into the early morning hours. I didn’t want to talk to Cal, if I was being honest, but I wanted to escape Jamie and his questions even more.
“I have to take this,” I said.
Jamie stepped closer. “I want to understand.”
There was no room to breathe with Jamie in front of me, Cal buzzing in my hand, and the ghost of Don circling overhead. “Please,” I said, using every ounce of control to keep my voice cool and calm. “I need to talk to him.”
Jamie looked at the space I’d put between us, and for a second, he looked stricken—but it was only a flash, and then his face smoothed, and he was back to being professional. “Of course. Night, Shay.”
When he swept out of the room, I steeled myself and answered the phone. “Cal.”
“I’m stunned you answered.”
It was very late in Dallas, but I imagined Cal sitting in his library in his cognac armchair, one leg crossed over his knee, swirling a glass of whiskey. He was a handsome man, clean-cut, and he carried himself with ease, his untroubled mind obvious in everything, down to the graceful flick of his wrists. Unlike me, he wore his life on his sleeve: it was clear looking at him that he’d always been a favored son, a well-bred Dallas boy who’d slid effortlessly from church and football into a fraternity, then finance.