The crybaby, thinks Louise. The canary.
There is no doubt in Louise’s mind that Annabel talked.
• • •
Finally, a knock.
Denny Hayes enters without waiting for a response. In his hands he is holding something Louise recognizes.
He says nothing. Sets the brown paper garbage bag on the vanity to the left of Louise. Then sits down opposite Louise, regarding her, silent.
Louise brushes some nail shards off her lap.
The smell of Annabel’s vomit, still inside the potato chip bag, reaches her, and she retches. Hides it.
Why on earth, she asks herself, did she assign Annabel the task of disposing of this evidence? Why did she not deal with it herself?
Denny clears his throat.
“Found your bag,” he says.
Louise half laughs. “Annabel’s bag.”
“Not what she says.”
It takes Louise a moment to process this. She expected Annabel to cave—to confess that both of them were absent overnight, that Annabel was out partying when she should have been watching the girls. That Annabel was drunk, high. That she was sick the next morning. This wouldn’t have surprised Louise. Annabels always cave.
What she didn’t expect was an outright lie.
“Annabel told us about your night,” says Denny.
“My night?” says Louise. “Did Annabel tell you about her night?”
Denny stands and steps toward the vanity, opens the bag. Again, Louise gags. Denny, on the other hand, betrays nothing. If the smell affects him, he doesn’t show it.
From the bag he extracts the beer bottle, the end of a joint, and a smaller bag: this one contains white powder. A substantial amount of it.
“What the hell is that?” says Louise. Though she knows; of course she knows what it is. She’s been dating John Paul for four years. The substance has been a point of contention between them for nearly that long.
“Did you get this here,” says Denny, “or back in Shattuck?”
“That’s not mine,” says Louise. “If that was in there, Annabel added it.”
Annabel, Louise is beginning to understand, is not the innocent kid she pegged her for.
“I’ve never done coke in my life,” says Louise.
Denny pauses. “But you know what it looks like?”
Louise says nothing.
“The lawyer you mentioned,” he says. “Can you reach him?”
• • •
Louise, accompanied by Denny Hayes, walks slowly up the hill toward the main house. Her feeling of breathlessness is unfamiliar: years of long runs up steep inclines have caused her resting heart rate to be low, her demeanor to be generally calm. But now she breathes quickly, nostrils flaring, armpits damp.
John Paul, she reminds herself, owes her this.
Four years of togetherness. Four whole years of her life. Their relationship has meaning, she tells herself. She is right to do this. It is not unusual to ask one’s fiancé for help in an emergency.
This is what Louise intends to do: at the top of the hill, she will knock on the great double doors of Self-Reliance and ask to speak to John Paul McLellan.
John Paul, whose father is a lawyer.
When Denny asked where they’re heading, she left out specifics. All she said, instead, was that she had a family friend up at the main house.
“You do?” said Denny. Skeptical.
In front of the house now, a small group of young women Louise’s age are gathered, talking in low tones. They eye her. Her counselor uniform.
It’s Denny who lifts the iron door knocker, forged in the shape of a blackfly. He batters the door three times with it.
Louise stands behind him, heart racing, rehearsing the words she will say first.
After a moment, a young woman opens the door, clad in a kind of silk nightgown. She’s shockingly beautiful, and Louise blinks, trying to decide if she’s famous.
Denny, too, looks dumbfounded. For a moment he stands there, mouth open.
“Need something?” the young woman asks.
Denny steps back theatrically, makes a sweeping gesture with one hand, indicating to Louise that this is her show, not his.
“Is John Paul here?” says Louise. “John Paul McLellan?”
The young woman takes her in. Louise shifts a bit. Tugs at the uniform shorts that ride up on her legs.
“Father or son?” the young woman asks. In her voice, Louise can hear an accent. Italian, perhaps.
“Son,” says Louise.
The young woman nods, and disappears down a hallway. Louise closes her eyes, imagines what this person will say—“There’s a counselor for you, John Paul”—some sort of smirk on her beautiful face—and experiences one moment of reflexive jealousy. Despite everything.
Denny Hayes, she notices, has moved a respectful distance away.
She can’t remember much about him from the year or years he was dating her mother, but if she thinks about it, she does remember a certain kindness in him. Or at least a lack of cruelty.
She wonders if he, like her, feels small in this moment, standing before the grand facade of a house in which they are not welcome.
