The Last Housewife (7)
On reflex, I stopped before saying, what happened to us in college. But I’d come here to do what Laurel needed of me, so I took a deep breath. “What we did back then.” That was probably truer, anyway. “I’d like to know where you are with her case.”
“Lady, first of all, I don’t have to tell you nothing.” Chief Dorsey settled back in his seat. “Second, I don’t care what a thirty-year-old woman got up to in college. Unless you have more updated intel, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to skedaddle.”
“Shouldn’t you hear what I have to say?” My voice was steely. I was no longer a scared eighteen-year-old girl. “Isn’t everything pertinent in a murder case?”
The chief slapped down his pen. “A murder case? See, I knew you were one of those podcast people. You crazies have been lighting up our call board for a damn twenty-four hours. If I ever catch that bottlenecked prick who stole our report, I’m going to skin him alive. Vultures, all of you.”
This was the Adam Dorsey I remembered.
“Sir, I’m not a ‘podcast person.’ I’m here with information about Laurel to help you with her murder case. Are you actually turning me down?”
“Her murder.” Chief Dorsey practically spit the word. “It’s a goddamn suicide, like we’ve told every one of you. We made the official ruling this morning. After considering the full evidence, it was cut and dry. A depressed woman hung herself. The end.”
“You made the ruling?” I blinked at him. “What about the cuts all over her arms?”
“You ever climbed a tree and tied a noose to hang yourself? The cuts were from that. Just because some moron with a microphone says he has questions doesn’t change a thing about the facts of the case.”
“Why did you even talk to me, then? Why bring me to your office?”
Dorsey’s eyes gleamed. “You’re the first crazy to show up in person. I wanted the chance to tear you a new one. So here it is: You’re a disgrace with no respect for the law. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
The familiar words were a trigger. I shot from the chair. “You don’t even remember me, do you? Or that Laurel sat in front of you when she was eighteen and cried her heart out, and you did nothing to help her. Do you remember you left us to fend for ourselves?”
Dorsey’s face was bright-red now; his stubby lashes blinked quickly. “I read Laurel’s file, so yes, I’m aware I was her intake officer. But no, I don’t happen to remember her. Do you know how many sobbing women cycle through this place?” The chief stood and gripped the edge of his desk, forearms flexing. “Telling their pitiful stories, reeking of booze. Oh, he hurt me. Oh, he kissed me when I didn’t want him to. Meanwhile they’re standing there in a dress that barely covers their ass, after spending all night pounding beers and flirting and doing God knows what else. And they have the nerve to ask why it keeps happening to them.”
“You’re the disgrace,” I said, mouth moving ahead of my brain. “You’re the one who should be ashamed.”
He thrust a finger in my face. “Get out of my office, and tell your psycho friends to stop wasting their lives on internet conspiracies and start contributing to society. Or you can all rot.”
I practically tripped in my haste to leave, wrenching open the chief’s door and storming out. I could feel the eyes of the officers at their desks following me until I disappeared into the lobby.
“Thanks for nothing,” I said to the woman at the desk and strode out of the station, chest heaving.
What a disaster. Why had I thought going to the police was the right answer, when they hadn’t helped before? It was like the years I’d spent away, safely nestled in Cal’s blue-blood crowd, had erased those lessons.
And Adam Dorsey—that motherfucker. I pulled at the driver’s door, cursing when it wouldn’t yield, stabbing the key fob until it finally unlocked and I could throw myself in.
He was every inch as terrible, as condescending, as he’d been when we were freshmen. Except now he had so much more power. Whatever nascent, half-formed fantasy I’d conjured about partnering with the police—my vision of coming here and sharing information, of helping them dig into my friend’s life until we found answers—was a crock of shit. Dorsey had shut me down as summarily as he had in college. I was on my own.
I peeled out of the parking lot and sped onto the street, foot heavy on the gas, no idea where I was going but going there fast.
The streets were familiar, even if the stores had changed. I found myself almost unconsciously taking turns, like I was pulled by a magnet. I only realized where I was heading when the streets turned wider, the urban sprawl surrounding the police station relaxing into residential homes, pine trees lining the road, dense branches forming an awning over the asphalt.
I was going back to school.
And there it was, the long, perfectly groomed hedge and large silver letters announcing Whitney College. Behind it, a swell of trees, vivid green lawns, and muted brick buildings, a campus that looked more like a summer camp, or another tony suburb. I turned in, driving down a street I’d traveled a million times, half in waking life, half in dreams.
I passed the science center, the faculty house, then Davis, the large, sprawling dining hall. There was no looking at Davis and not remembering going to their cheesy themed dinners with Laurel and Clem, or studying together in the lounge until ungodly late hours. Their famous weekend brunches, heaven for a kid like me who’d grown up worrying about her next meal. Clem’s plate stacked unapologetically high with waffles—soccer carbo-loading. Laurel downing thimble after thimble of espresso, a habit that had started as a way to impress the other theater students, then morphed into an addiction.