“What happened at Georgetown all those years ago?” I press. “What did you people do?”
Nobody offers anything up and instead, they all look down at their hands, seeming to be physically withdrawing. The fear and shame on their faces are tangible. But nobody seems to want to be the first to break the pact they made. Not even the threat their kids are facing because of whatever they did seems to be moving the needle much.
“Do you think we’re playing a game?” Astra finally snaps. “The lives of your children are in danger. Because of you. What aren’t you getting here?”
She walks over to stand beside me, glaring angrily at the people seated around the table. All of them, seeming to be acting as one, raise their heads, eyes narrowed, faces painted with the same arrogance and outrage.
“You need to watch your tongue, Agent Russo,” Barlow growls. “You would do well to remember who you’re talking to.”
“Frankly, at the moment, we don’t care who you are,” Astra says. “All we care about is bringing these kids home. Your kids.”
“And what’s become abundantly clear to us is that these abductions were motivated by something the four of you did back in college,” I say. “The sooner you tell us what you did, the sooner we can figure out who is responsible for this and find your children.”
It feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room as silence descends over the room for a couple of minutes. I can’t believe these people are hesitating. I am astounded that they seem more worried about covering their own butts than bringing their kids home.
“Chief Wilder,” Olange says softly. “What is it that makes you believe our children were taken in response to something we did?”
“The cards you all received. The quote from the Merchant of Venice, the sins of the father, is to be laid upon the children,” I quote. “I honestly don’t know how much clearer it can be.”
Unbelievably, all their phones chime at once with an incoming text message. My face flushes with annoyance as they all pull out their phones and check their messages. As I watch the blood drain from all their faces and matching expressions of horror spread across their features, my curiosity is suddenly piqued.
“What is it?” I ask.
Olange looks up at me, her eyes shimmering with tears. She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, she holds her phone out. Astra takes it from her, then walks back and hands it to me; when I read the text message, the blood in my veins turns to ice. The timing of the message seems an unbelievable stroke of luck. I know it’s impossible given the electronic security of our war room, but it’s almost as if the sender knew I needed a means to give these four a push to tell me what they know and provided it for me. More than likely, this was timed to be sent out, and them being here is just dumb luck.
“Exodus 12:29. And it came to pass that at midnight the Lord smote all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, from the firstborn of Pharaoh that sat on his throne unto the firstborn of the captive that was in the dungeon; and all the firstborn of cattle,” I read from the phone, then look up. “Am I wrong in believing it was your firstborn children who were taken? Do you people need any more evidence that this is all about you and what you did back in school?”
Barlow runs a hand across his face, his expression somber as he turns his gaze to me. He swallows hard as he sits back and crosses his legs, then folds his hands atop his knee. He seems to be resolved. Or perhaps just resigned.
“Twenty years ago, the four of us were all friends at Georgetown. Actually, we’d been friends since we all went to Drury Prep together—”
“Elliot,” Berenthal hisses.
“This is my little girl we’re talking about, Patrick,” Barlow replies tersely. “And it’s your daughter too. And your sons, Susan and Denise. Our children are all that should matter right now, and if you disagree with me, then your priorities are screwed up. I’m going to do whatever it takes to get my little girl back, regardless of the consequences for me. Or any of you. Maybe if we had faced some consequences back then, this wouldn’t be happening.”
The others look away, wearing matching expressions of mortification and fear. Nobody says anything to stop the Senator from telling his story though. Barlow turns back to me.
“One night, when we’d just finished our midterms, we went out and partied at the Banks—it’s a spot on the Potomac where Georgetown kids go to hang out and get drunk,” he says. “Anyway, we partied with our friends out there that night to celebrate being done with exams for the semester—”
“We should have known better. We should have. But when the party on the Banks wound down, we drove home,” Olange picks up the narrative. “It was dark that night and kind of sprinkling. I remember it was cold and hard to see. But we were driving, probably too fast for the conditions—and our condition—and when we came around a bend in the road, we were in the wrong lane. There was a car coming straight at us—”
Overcome by emotion, she bites off her words and buries her face in her hands. Olange’s shoulders shake as she silently cries, but nobody moves to comfort her.
Berenthal, looking upset and resigned that the story is coming out, sits forward. “We swerved but clipped the car. The driver spun and went down into a ditch and hit a tree. Hearing the sound of the crash was… horrific. That sound still haunts me.”
“I’m sure being in the crash was even more horrific,” Astra mutters.
“What happened to the driver?” I ask.
“We were told that the driver… died,” Olange answers.
“You were told?” Astra asks.
“After the crash, we were all terrified, and we didn’t know what to do, so we left. We went home, and we told our parents,” Moore says, her voice soft. “They quietly made some calls and found out the driver had died on impact with the tree.”
“Who was the driver?” I ask.
“We never knew. Our families said what was done was done and there was no sense in ruining our lives for a mistake,” Barlow tells us. “So, they used their influence to cover it up and told us to never speak about it again. So, we—the four of us—made a pact. We all vowed to forget what happened that night.”
“It was more difficult than we expected it to be, and our friendship broke apart after that,” Olange says. “We all left Georgetown soon after and enrolled elsewhere.”
“And none of us have spoken to each other since that all went down. Not until today,” Barlow finishes and looks away.
Absolute silence envelops the room, and the air grows thick and charged with emotions that have been buried for two decades. I had been anticipating a terrible story. But frankly, I’d been expecting a tale about bullying or some other form of abuse. I hadn’t expected them to tell us they’d killed somebody and then had it covered up for them.
“Wow,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “The arrogance and privilege.”
“We don’t need a lecture from you,” Berenthal snaps.
“No. What you needed was to face some consequences for taking somebody’s life.”
“I think they’re facing consequences now,” Astra says. “The chickens are coming home to roost.”
Olange looks at me, her lips trembling. “Do you really think what’s happening now is because of what happened back then?”
“Yes,” I reply. “I do.”
“It was twenty years ago,” Berenthal growls. “How can you possibly know?”
