That had been my rationale as well—to my sisters, to their parents and my parents, to the Panhellenic council based in Cleveland, who I knew were pleased with me for setting a date to move back into The House, for circling the Sunday in January on which we would ostensibly move on. The council did not want a couple of salacious headlines to overshadow a storied seventy-five-year history, and some people have perverted that over the years, as though our governing body cared more about our reputation than they did our safety. But wanting us to return to normal as quickly as possible came from a well-meaning place. In their minds, if a woman didn’t get back on the horse immediately after she was thrown, she stayed down.
At the end of the day, I did believe what I was parroting to everyone. That there was no safer place for all of us than The House. The odds of another bloody attack under our roof, with everyone’s eyes on the L-shaped property between Seminole and West Jefferson Street—well, they seemed more in our favor than they did anywhere else in the state of Florida.
In the elevator, Carl’s stomach grumbled loudly. He brought his hand to his abdomen with a laugh.
“I’m starving too,” I realized.
“Let’s meet back downstairs in ten,” Tina said as we headed for the elevator with our individual room keys in hand. I’d told Tina not to spend money on a room for me, that I was fine to share with her, but she got very flustered and insisted we each have our own space.
In my room, I found my small duffel bag already unzipped and splayed open on the luggage stand. I always traveled with a toothbrush and floss. To this day I am that person whom you’ll find flossing in the firm’s bathroom after lunch, though since 2001 the firm has been mine, so anyone who has a problem with that isn’t exactly in the position to take it up with management.
Without really looking, I took the toiletry kit into the bathroom and unzipped it. Inside I found men’s shaving cream and a battered box of Band-Aids. I went back out into the room and saw that the canvas duffel was a beaten army green, hysterically masculine, and when I went to return the toiletry kit, I noticed Carl had packed a copy of Helter Skelter, the firsthand account of the Charles Manson murders written by the lead prosecutor. My father had devoured that book too, wondered with a laugh if he should go the way of Vincent Bugliosi—prosecute a diabolical criminal and sell the story for a fat check. Spend the rest of his days on the golf course.
I called down to the front desk and explained they’d put Carl’s bag in my room by accident. While I waited for them to deliver my things, I dialed the number for Turq House. The cook answered and I asked for Brian.
“We’re spending the night now,” I told him.
“Spending the night?” I could hear the concern in Brian’s voice. “That wasn’t the plan, was it?”
“No, but we missed our flight.”
Brian laughed. “You missed a flight?”
“Please,” I moaned, “I already feel horrible enough about it. The interview didn’t start on time. I swear the sheriff did it on purpose. It’s clear he doesn’t want us speaking to the cellmate.”
“Did he manage to tell you anything worthwhile?”
The right guy. That had been Gerald’s response when Carl asked who might have information about The Defendant’s whereabouts. Something about it was knocking around my brain belligerently.
“No,” I admitted. “But one of the locals might.” I told him about the encounter with the waitress.
“I wouldn’t put too much stock in town gossip,” Brian said.
“We don’t even know what she’s going to say,” I snapped. There was a long pause, and I knew Brian felt like he was owed an apology. “Sorry,” I added reluctantly.
“Forgiven,” he said, and I surprised myself by rolling my eyes. “Speaking of gossip…” He trailed off tantalizingly.
I pressed the phone closer to my ear, intrigued. “What about it?”
“One of the guys here—John Davis. Freshman. He’s from Dallas.”
“Okay.”
“That woman—Martina, Tina, whatever—that’s where she’s originally from. He told me something. Pretty alarming. Makes me a little worried you’re there alone with her, actually.”
“I’m not alone with her,” I said. “I have my own hotel room, and the reporter is with us, the one who wrote that nice piece about Denise.”
“Hey,” Brian protested, an edge to his voice. “I thought you weren’t allowed to talk to the press.”