“You travel light,” David said. “You should have seen me yesterday. My parents took my Mom’s minivan, and I drove my car and we could barely fit in al my stuff. But I play keyboard, you know, and guitar. With my amps too it takes up a lot of space.”
“Right,” Hannah said.
“I’m in a band.” He looked at Hannah with an air of expectation. It was clear that he wanted her to ask him about his music, his gigs; maybe even ask him for coffee to talk about it. Hannah stared back at him blankly. She wasn’t there to make friends. They rode up in the elevator in an awkward silence, arrived on the fifth floor, and he led the way down the corridor. Inside, the building was bright and modern, the carpet very clean and the paintwork fresh.
David stopped outside apartment 5B and held out the keys.
“This is you,” he said. “See you around.”
“Thanks.”
He left, and Hannah turned and unlocked the door to 5B. She walked inside, dropped her bag on the ground, and shut the door behind her. The apartment was . . . great. It was a studio. It had high ceilings and two large windows that let in a lot of light. There were bookshelves, stil half-ful , and a kitchenette built against the wal to the left. There was a double bed against one wal , its mattress bare.
Suddenly everything felt strikingly unreal. Like she’d just taken a step into someone else’s life. Hannah crossed the room and sat on the bed, then sank back, pul ed a pil ow toward her and pressed it to her face. What was she doing? Was this crazy?
Ever since she had stumbled across the Vanity Fair article two weeks ago and found out exactly what was happening at the University of Virginia, she’d been too caught up in the frantic forward momentum of her plan to have time to think. Except, no . . . that was bul shit. She’d had plenty of time to think, she just hadn’t al owed herself to. And now she was in Charlottesvil e, at the point of no return. It wasn’t too late. She could stil leave, take her bags, head back to Maine. Except . . . she’d be going back to what? More of the same? No chance for change, for things to real y, truly, get better?
No. No way. She was here for a reason and no way was she going to chicken out before she’d even gotten started.
Hannah
TWO
SUNDAY, AUGUST 25, 2019
Hannah unpacked, showered, dressed, then grabbed her jacket and decided to explore the campus. The law school offices probably wouldn’t be open, but she could figure out where everything was, save time later. And it was a beautiful day, better to be outside. The sun was shining and the sidewalks were busy with students. Classes started tomorrow, and most students had already moved in, but a few stragglers were stil arriving. There were students out jogging, others lugging mattresses into apartment buildings, and more just walking with friends, coffee cups in hand. Hannah yawned widely.
Coffee. That was an idea. She bought a cappuccino from a friendly girl at a café where the speakers played Tracy Chapman, and fought the urge to sit there for the day.
The offices of the Innocence Project were in the law school building, which was a five-minute walk from the apartment. The law school was set among trees, with a beautiful y manicured lawn in the front. The building itself—built in redbrick and perfectly symmetrical —was modern and attractive and could not have been more different from the law school building at the University of Maine, which had been designed in the brutalist style, and had the dubious distinction of making an Architectural Digest list of the eight ugliest buildings in the United States. Hannah climbed the steps to the entrance hal and pushed open heavy double doors. She expected to find a security desk, an ID check at least, but there was nothing. Just a large, empty hal and wide corridors leading to the left and right. Hannah fol owed the sign that told her student services and clinics could be found in Slaughter Hal . This part of the building was older, a little more worn, a little more functional than the grand entrance hal .
She found the offices on the first floor after wandering for ten minutes. A simple door, with the words Innocence Project—Prof. R.
Parekh stenciled on the glass. It was Sunday. The place was likely empty, the office locked up. Stil , Hannah put her hand on the door and pushed gently. It opened. She stepped inside. The office was unremarkable, and Hannah let out a breath, feeling something between disappointment and relief. What had she been expecting, exactly? It looked just like any other midlevel corporate office. A large, open-plan space with a reception desk and behind that, multiple coworking desks and cubicles. There were three doors against the wal to the right that presumably led to other offices or meeting rooms. The place seemed deserted, except that the door to one of the private offices was open, and there was a light on inside.