The Bachelorette Party, page 8
Lawyer: “Thank you, Thomas.”
Noah: “Noah.”
Lawyer: “Excuse me?”
Noah: “That’s my full name. But everyone calls me Noah.”
Lawyer: “Oh yes. My apologies. Noah. Can you tell the jury how you know Ms. White … Nicole?”
Noah: “She was my friend.”
Lawyer: “Thank you. Were you … in classes together or …”
Noah: “Yeah. Math class.”
Lawyer: “Great. Okay. Could you describe the victim for us?”
Noah: “Sure. She was blonde. Um, sort of medium height and—”
Lawyer: “No, I’m sorry. Not her physical description. We can all see she was a beautiful girl. I mean, what was she like? As a person?”
Noah: “Oh. Yeah. She was … well … she was really nice.”
Lawyer: “Great, could you go into a little more detail there?”
Noah: “Um. Sure. She … was cool to everyone. You know? She was, like, really popular. But she still was nice to everyone. Like, she stood up to bullies. But not, like, physically or anything. She just kind of like … shamed them into being nicer. Yeah, so. Not everyone’s like that.”
Lawyer: “You’re right, Noah. Not everyone is like that. Not by a long shot. So … how well did you know her, would you say?”
Noah: “Not real well at first. But then, when she was tutoring me, I got to know her a little better.”
Lawyer: “As in …”
Noah: “Not like that. Just … better friends. She would even … confide in me. This made me feel, like, special. Like, she knew she could trust me.”
Lawyer: “Okay. Did the victim ever talk to you about the accused?”
Noah: “You mean about Eric Myers?”
Lawyer: “Yes. I’m sorry. Eric Myers.”
Noah: “Yeah. She did.”
Lawyer: “And what did she say about him?”
Defense Lawyer: “Objection, Your Honor, that’s hearsay.”
Judge: “I’ll allow it.”
Noah: “She … she was afraid of him.”
Lawyer: “She told you that?”
Noah: “Yes, she did.”
Lawyer: “And what exactly did she say? Can you tell us her words?”
Noah: “She said he asked her out a couple times. She went to a movie with him once, I think. But then she found out how old he was, and she didn’t want to see him anymore. Because she was like, only sixteen, you know. And he’s like … a lot older.”
Lawyer: “Twenty-five.”
Noah: “Right. And she said he was sort of stalking her. He would come up to her after school. More than once. And he texted her a lot. She showed it to me. Like fifty times or something crazy like that. She finally had to block him. She was afraid of him, I think.”
Lawyer: “Did she say anything to make you think that?”
Defense Lawyer: “Leading the witness, Your Honor.”
Judge: “I’ll allow it.”
Noah: “Yeah … she … said he was creepy. Like he was the type of dude who would shoot up a school.”
Lawyer: “Those words?”
Noah: “Those words. And … she said … she was joking, I think, but also kind of serious. She told her friend Talia if I ever get killed, Eric Myers did it.”
Defense Lawyer: “Your honor. That is definitely hearsay.”
Judge: “Agree. Jury, please disregard that statement.”
Lawyer: “Thank you, Your Honor. Thank you, Noah. That will be all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
NOW
Finally, I get to the street.
It probably took an hour, which means it’s about 2:00 AM.
I’ve never run a marathon, but I can see how the runners feel, endorphins spent, crossing the finish line. I want to cry with relief.
Standing under the dim streetlight, I can finally fulfill my promise to myself. I unzip the side pocket and rip out the chocolate bar.
I can’t stop at two squares. A monster takes over.
I am stuffing half the bar in my mouth, chewing without breathing, barely even swallowing, when I think of Chris, looking at me with unveiled disgust when I grabbed a candy bar at a Halloween party. You sure you need that? he asked, pinching my hip, a bulge of fat, pretending to be playful. I remember how the chocolate stuck to my tongue then, cloying and sickly sweet. A circle of friends saw what he did and looked away.
I once told Jay that story, after he saw me fretting, pinching a roll of fat on my stomach. If I ever see that guy, he said in a low voice, with muted fury, I’m going to kill him.
I wrap up the rest of the chocolate bar and shove it into my backpack before I can be tempted again. Flipping out my compass, I can see it better now in the faint streetlight.
I have a decision to make.
I’m not just following a driveway east anymore. I have to choose a direction. Should I turn to the right or the left, north or south? South should be toward home since we’re in the Catskills. But we went for miles without seeing signs of life. Going that way might be a miscalculation. Maybe there are more stores or houses to the north. I glance down one direction and then the other, as if that might steer me. Neither appears promising, both sides an equally bleak landscape of dark forest, monotonous snow, and endless pavement.
Then a memory strikes an off-handed comment that Melody made on the way in. Oh, a farm. How rustic. Could that be the Thompson Farm? Or if not, at least someone could be living there who could help. Though I only caught a glimpse. It might not even be active anymore. Either way, it’s worth a try.
So that means going back in the direction we came from. But for the life of me, I can’t remember which way that was. Again, it should be south, coming from home, but there was a detour. Did we take the road south for a bit before going north again? Is that where the farm was?
I look both left and right again, but nothing sparks my memory.
Then I remember the map and grab it out of the backpack, the paper waving gently in my mittened hands and snowflakes landing on the paper in little starbursts. I wipe off the scads of sticking flakes but can still barely see the map in the streetlight. When I take the flashlight out, I almost drop it while trying to push the worn-down rubber button on and hold the map. Finally, I manage it all, holding the trembling light over the map, which the wind keeps trying to close.
After a while, I locate the teeny line which might represent this street. The map flaps in my hand, the flashlight flickering. North appears to have more hilly regions, two of the circles embedded deep in there. The other red circle is far flung out in another elevated region in the south. I search every square inch of the map but don’t see any sign of a farm, which of course isn’t surprising.
With a sigh, I fold up the map and put it away with my flashlight. My best bet would still be heading south, back toward home.
Turning to the right, I’m heartened to have a plan. A pseudo-plan. Turn right, walk south. I reach for my phone to check the time, before remembering I don’t have it. Still, I don’t need to know the exact time to know that precious hours are falling off the night.
And Lainey and Melody are out there somewhere.
South, south, south.
The word repeats in my head as I plow forward.
The walking goes easier on the street at least, less strenuous than the slog through foot-deep snow on the ground. As I walk, the snow squeaks under me, my heel slipping at times. After righting myself, I slow down a pace. I have to be more careful. Things are bad, but they could be worse. If I turn an ankle and get stuck out here, that would be worse. If I hit my head and lose consciousness on the street, that would be worse.
Snow keeps filling the sky, which remains dark still, though I know it’s well past midnight. We’re far out here, away from the gray skies of the city that literally never sleeps, the light pollution reflected in the clouds. Piling snow weighs down my hat and flickers in my eyelashes. It seems impossible, the fact of even more snow, like the sky should be empty by now. But it’s not. Still, I’m from Vermont, where snow is a fact of life. We could be in a blizzard with three feet of snow and whiteout conditions. A travel ban, with no one on the road to help me. All of these would also be worse.
But I won’t let myself think of the worst worst thing.
If I can’t find my friends. If they’re already dead.
I shun the thought, banish it. I need every ounce of mental and physical energy in me right now. I can’t afford such soul-sucking thoughts. So I keep walking, mumbling the word with every step. “South. South. South.”
I imagine myself back home, thinking of Jay, maybe ordering pizza for Greg. Maybe they are watching television, or playing video games, Babushka sprawled out on the couch next to them. I don’t know what Greg likes on his pizza—another thing I’ll have to find out.
When I hint at my uneasiness to Jay about all the things I don’t know about his son, or even parenting at all, he gently scoffs. It’s just a little thing, he’ll say, trying to bolster me. You’ll be great. But all these little things accumulate into a mountain, threatening to overwhelm me.
South. South. South.
Then I stop.
I see something.
Straining my eyes through the snow, I see the barest glimmer of light coming down the road. I squint through the dotted air, afraid my eyes could be tricking me, and quicken my steps, careful not to fall. After a little bit, though, no doubt remains. A beam of light shines through.
Desperate, I start waving my arms around and yelling, even though the car would be too far off to see me. But I can’t help myself.
“Hey,” I scream, as loudly as I can.
The soft rumble of the car sounds in the distance, and the light shines brighter through the snow. Now I start waving around like mad. “Over here,” I scream, so loud my voice hurts. “Over here!”
The rumbling grows closer, louder, the headlights shining bright halogen-white through the snow. I inch just little closer to the street. Getting hit by the car, that would be worse. I wave as high and fast as I can, wind-milling my arms, stretching my shoulders. Please see me. Please see me.
“Hey!” I bellow out again. “Hey! Hey!”
The car engine growls, the headlights blinding bright, and the vibration of the wheels rumble under my feet. I lean into the street, screaming and waving my hands. It happens fast, like a dream. The car emerges through the snow, showing itself for a window of just seconds, like the prow of a ship though steep fog.
Then it’s gone.
The mammoth car roars and flashes by me. Snow thuds off the wheels in pellets, stinging my face like an insult. As fast as the car flew by, it disappears, slipping into the distance. I run after it, screaming. For minutes, I keep it up, running, crying, and screaming. But finally, slowly, I give up. I’m just yelling into wind. The car is long gone.
I slow down even more now, staggering. Either the driver didn’t see me or didn’t want to see me. Yelling after them won’t change that; it merely wastes energy stores I don’t have.
The street appears calm again, only a ghost of the car remaining. Like it never happened, like it was all in my imagination, the empty street seems to mock me.
Suddenly, I’m enraged.
I yell out in frustration, clenching my fists. I scream out a string of swear words, jumping up and down in fury. Then my heel slips.
This time, I don’t catch myself. My hip hits the ground, my elbow cracking on the pavement, then my head, and pain hurtles through me. My cheek swells as blood drips in my mouth from biting my tongue. I try lifting my head, but the pain concentrates whooshing into my skull. Overwhelmed, I close my eyes, trying to catch my breath.
A word repeats in my head, but I don’t remember what it means.
South, south, south.
Maybe I should just rest, conserve my energy. Rest.
Just for a second.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
JULY
“That’s really freaky.”
“Agree,” Lainey says, wiping off a mustache from her hot chocolate. We came here for our planned coffee-lunch, but Lainey has never developed a taste for coffee. I didn’t tell Wiley about the text, but as soon as I sat down with my best friends, the truth slipped out.
“What do you think it means?” Melody asks, her knee jiggling from her three shots of espresso. Unlike Lainey, Melody has been mainlining coffee since age twelve.
“Probably nothing. I’m sure it’s just some business thing and I’m overreacting.”
Lainey taps her long fingers on the table. “What did Jay say about it?”
I pause.
Lainey raises her eyebrows. “You haven’t asked him?”
“Not … yet,” I say, staring into my cold chai tea. “I don’t want to be making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“Yeah,” Lainey says, blowing on her hot chocolate. “You’re right. It’s probably nothing.”
“Yeah, but what if it’s not?” Melody insists, her face lined with worry. “What if it’s like some Bernie Madoff thing? Or he’s being blackmailed or something?”
Lainey answers with an eye roll. “You’re being overdramatic.”
“No, I’m serious,” she says, pushing aside her empty coffee cup. “You have to ask him.”
I look at Lainey, who shrugs but then nods in agreement.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” I stand up then and start clearing my napkin and cup. “Maybe I’ll ask him tonight.”
Melody gets up too, putting on her denim jacket, which smells faintly of weed. “Doing anything fun for the Fourth?”
“Oh,” I say, throwing my cup away. “I think we’re having drinks on some yacht or something.”
“Oh, we’re having drinks on a yacht or something,” Melody copies, in a rich lady voice.
“Shut up,” I say, laughing. “What about you? What are you all doing for the fireworks?”
Melody grins. “Mason got us tickets to the Empire State Building,” she sings, doing a sort of side-to-side jig, her voice bouncing.
“Mason the Med Student?” Lainey asks.
Melody rolls the sleeves on her jacket. “You don’t have to call him that, you know. It’s not like I’m dating more than one Mason.”
Lainey stands up with a stretch, making other patrons look over. An exceedingly tall woman always attracts attention. “Ruby and I are going to Coney Island,” she says.
“Old school,” Melody says. “Respect.”
“Hey,” Lainey says, turning to Melody. “Did you call the place yet?”
“It’s on my list.”
“The place for what?” I ask, grabbing my purse.
“I shall not disclose,” Melody answers, pulling her satchel over her shoulder. “Under the penalty of death.”
“This better not be a bachelorette party thing,” I warn her.
They exchange wry grins.
“I will kill you both,” I say. “I really and truly mean it.”
Armed with the files from Noah Thompson’s courtroom appearance, I decide to see what Eric Myers has to say about the accusations.
I’ve signed up for an actual office this time for our interview, instead of intern row. It still doesn’t afford much privacy, however. After some high-profile sexual harassment cases, all of the offices became see-through, walls converted to glass. (Though I’ll note, Fletcher Fox still has an office with actual walls.) Looking around the glass walls, people surround me on all sides, like I’m in a fishbowl. Maybe like how Eric Myers feels, being watched twenty-four hours a day.
I adjust the chair down with a pressurized hiss.
“Tell me about Esther Thompson,” I say, soon after he gets on the screen.
Eric Myers appears genuinely confused. “Esther who?”
Someone hums a tuneless song in the hallway, and I focus back on the screen. “Esther Thompson. The woman from the Thompson Farm. She claims she saw you earlier the week of the killing around the lodge. Casing it, is what she said.”
He stares off for a second, then the recognition seems to hit him. “Oh, yeah, her. The farmer’s wife.”
The podcast comes back to me. What, did she cut off his tail with a carving knife?
“She lied,” Eric says. “Through her teeth. I wasn’t anywhere near that lodge.”
I adjust my seat down again. “Any idea why she said that, then?”
“No idea. The woman just hated me.” He backs away from the table, tipping his chair on its hind legs. I have a vision of him falling backward and smacking his head on the hard floor, blood slowly pooling. “She had it in for me for whatever reason.”
A guy in jeans and a T-shirt peacocks down the hall, looking like someone born on third plate who thinks he hit a triple. He’s dressed to unimpress, but I recognize him as the executive director’s son. He gives me a peace sign, and I smile, unsure how to appropriately respond to that.
“Her son said Nicole White was afraid of you.”
“Her son? Right. That’s just because he had a thing for her,” he says, with an indignant huff. “I don’t even remember the kid’s name. He was only like fifteen or something—”
“Noah,” I say. “Noah Thompson is his name. And he was fourteen.”
“Yeah well,” he says, crossing his arms, his thumbs in his armpits. “He’s wrong. I barely knew the girl, like I said. A couple of dates is all.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, prepared for this oft-stated argument of his. “Fifty-seven.”
He watches me with misgiving. “Fifty-seven what?”
“Text messages,” I say, pausing to let this land. “Seems a bit much, doesn’t it? Like a little more than barely knowing her. Or dating her just the couple times?”
His head lowers an inch. “Listen. I know that looks bad but …” He tugs on the neck of his undershirt. “I was really into her. I’ll admit that. And she was … too young, I’ll admit that too. But … that doesn’t mean I killed her,” he says, knocking on the table with each word.
The beefy corrections officer throws him a look, and Eric flattens out his fist.
“Here’s the thing,” Eric says, softly, in the tone of a confidant. He moves closer to the screen. “Everyone in town knew about Esther Thompson. The woman was crazy. Nuts. And she hated Nicole too. Hoo-wee, did she hate her.”
