Long May She Reign (39 page)

Susan nodded.

And, sadly, she had lacked the good grace. She'd noticed, more than once, that something was a little off in a few of their conversations—some extra hostility about the press, the “did it ever occur to you that maybe I know what I'm talking about” remarks, and that kind of thing—and had just never bothered following up on it. Which was pretty damned unforgivable—and self-obsessed.

And not something she was going to be able to rectify anytime soon.

“Why Dowd?” she asked.

Susan shrugged. “My mother's maiden name.”

Meg nodded. “When'd you change it?”

“Right before my freshman year,” Susan said, and indicated her hair. “After the trial was over, I started cutting this really short, too. My parents and I thought—well, there was still so much publicity going on then, and—it seemed like a good way to try and get a fresh start.”

Made sense. “But, people like Juliana knew about it?” Meg asked.

Instead of being spooky, Susan's smile was sad this time. “All my friends here know. I might not want to advertise to the whole world, but it isn't some deep, dark secret, either. Why wouldn't I tell them?”

In direct contrast to people who
weren't
her friends.

“That didn't come out quite right,” Susan said, and then sighed. “Or, I don't know, maybe it did. I only meant—”

Someone knocked,
loudly
, and they both jumped.

“Hey, Susan!” a female voice said, and then there was more knocking. “Are you in there?”

Susan got up to answer the door, and an African-American girl Meg had seen around the dorm before came rushing in. She might have been among the flurry of upperclassmen to whom Susan had introduced her that time at the Greylock party, too. Carla, or Kylie, or—Courtney, maybe.

“You okay?” the girl asked, looking very upset. “Fred told me what happened, and I was trying to call you, but the phone was—I decided I should just come over. You all right? God, this really
sucks
. Madison's coming, too.” She glared at Meg. “Do you
mind
?”

Right. Meg got up, not looking at either of them.

Susan sighed, and followed her to the door. “Meg.”

Meg just shook her head. “Let me know if there's anything you want me to do, okay? Because—I will.”

“All right,” Susan said. “Thank you.” Then she said something else over her shoulder, in such a low voice that Meg didn't catch it.

“I don't know why you keep defending her,” Susan's friend was answering, as she left. “I mean, I'm sorry about what happened to her and all, but why should
you
be the one to—”

Susan quickly closed the door, cutting off the rest of the sentence.

The friend, whoever she was, and regardless of her general lack of tact, had a point.

There were quite a few people in the common room now, and on the stairs leading up to the third floor, mostly from her entry, and Sage D and F, and they all stopped talking when they saw her. Tammy looked as though she might be about to say something, but then she glanced at Juliana—who wasn't hiding the fact that she was mad as hell—and subsided.

Well, terrific. This was just—terrific. Weeks of trying to make friends and feel like a part of the dorm, erased in a matter of seconds. There didn't seem to be any way to combat the situation at the moment, so Meg went into her room and shut the door, very softly and unobtrusively.

She spent most of the rest of the night on the telephone. First, with each of her parents, who were upset. Neal, who was happy he had just seen her on television. Steven, who seemed to find it all kind of funny, which bugged her. Her father again, at length. Then, Preston. Trudy, who was
un
happy to have seen her on television. Beth, who was in a near-panic, because a girl who lived on her floor had just come shouting down the hall, something about the President's daughter and shooting. Her father, Preston, and then finally, her mother, in one last, very-late-night, guilt-ridden call, which Meg was pretty sure left them both feeling even worse, rather than helping.

The upshot of the whole deal was that Preston, Ginette, and the head of the White House Presidential Protective Detail, Mr. Gabler, would be showing up in the morning, and in the meantime, the White House was doing what it could to convince—persuade—
strong-arm
—all of the more reliable news organizations into shutting down the story as fast as possible. What the less reputable media outlets and tabloids were going to do was still anyone's guess.

She knew she wasn't going to be able to sleep, but she didn't turn on the television. Neal might have enjoyed watching her, but she had a feeling that she wasn't going to find it nearly as pleasant.

It felt very wrong, but finally, at about four-thirty in the morning, she couldn't stop herself from going on the Internet and pulling up some of the archived news stories about the Boston Prep School Murders. After saying, “Wait, her last name is McAllister?
That
Susan McAllister? Damn,” Beth had filled her in a little more, since she remembered the case better than Meg did.

The details were ugly. A clique of rich kids, who had too much money and too much free time, and were using enough drugs so that at least one of them, the ringleader, pretty much went around the bend, and began dealing heavily—and killing anyone who got in his way. Another student at the school ended up dead, and apparently, Colleen Spencer had been unusually courageous and idealistic, because she'd been stubborn enough to try and find out on her own what had
really
happened.

And was found in front of the prep school, dead of a massive drug overdose herself, for her troubles. The initial news stories were uniformly vicious, describing her as a beautiful, spoiled, All-American debutante who'd been hiding a self-destructive, possibly suicidal, drug addiction—and those character assassinations must have been what had triggered Susan's involvement, all indications being that she turned out to be extremely god-damn courageous, idealistic, and stubborn herself. She had apparently managed to insinuate her way into the group, and gain their trust, which culminated in a near-fatal confrontation with the guy who'd lost his mind and thought he was smart enough to get away with murder. More than once.

Christ, if she were an ambitious, somewhat ethics-challenged television producer, Meg might have wanted to option the damn story, too.

Wealthy parents, expensive lawyers, cushy plea bargains, reduced sentences—it was all pretty sickening. She couldn't bring herself to do more than skim the articles, but given the absolute lack of direct quotes, Susan must never have given an interview or responded in any way to the media, despite the saturation coverage of the case. But when she came across a file photo of Susan, leaving a courthouse with two people who looked as though they must be her parents, she instantly clicked off. Even the briefest glance at the unhappy expression on her face was too much.

It seemed quiet out in the hall, and she decided it would be safe to venture out to the bathroom, and at least make a feeble attempt to get ready for bed.

Despite its being almost five-fifteen.

There had been a shift change while she was—well—
hiding
, and now, Martin was the one sitting at the security desk. They nodded at each other, and she repressed an urge to sink down into the chair next to him and cry for a while.

“Fielding's the brightest guy I know,” Martin aid. “I'm glad he's coming up here.”

She never thought of Preston as
Fielding
, or even
Mr.
Fielding. “Yeah.” Meg looked around. God, it was quiet. Except now, she could see that Juliana's light was still on, although she sure as hell wasn't about to go knock on her door. She started towards the bathroom, then stopped. “You knew, right? I mean, with all of the security clearances and everything, you must have.”

Martin nodded reluctantly.

Right.

“I just assumed you did, too,” he said. “I mean, we're going out of our way to try and be as inconspicuous as possible, so I would never—” He paused. “I don't know, Meg. I thought women just naturally
talked
about things to each other.”

Normal women, as opposed to self-obsessed ones. “Yeah,” Meg said. “I guess they probably do.”

She never did fall asleep—among other things, her knee was throbbing enough to make her feel feverish and sick to her stomach—but she went back out at about seven-thirty, to get ready for Preston and the others. At the very least, she desperately needed a shower. But, unfortunately, Juliana and Mary Elizabeth were already in there ahead of her. Juliana was wrapped in a large towel, while she wound another one around her wet hair.

“Uh, good morning,” Meg said.

“Yeah, right,” Juliana said, and banged the door on her way out.

Meg glanced at Mary Elizabeth, who was industriously flossing. It was hard to be sure, but she appeared to be both sympathetic—and a trifle amused by it all.

“Boy, you're sure unpopular around here today,” Mary Elizabeth remarked.

Meaning that Juliana—who actually
liked
her, or had, at any rate, this time yesterday—was just the tip of the old iceberg.

“Your tough luck that they had to go after someone so completely beloved,” Mary Elizabeth said.

Yeah. Meg sighed. “Think anyone's going to sneak up behind me, and give me a little shove down the stairs?”

“Well,” Mary Elizabeth untwisted the cap from her mouthwash bottle, “if they try, your agents can just start shooting the bastards.”

Meg winced. Christ, it sounded even worse being quoted back at her. “Right. There's always that.” She didn't want to bring this up, but it was only fair. “Um, I don't want to borrow trouble, but are you out to everyone, or just people you know pretty well?”

For a split second, Mary Elizabeth looked petrified. “You think they'd do that?”

Yes.

Mary Elizabeth recovered herself. “Yeah, well, let them come after me, if they want. I don't care.”

“I'm sorry,” Meg said. “I know Preston's going to do everything he can to protect everyone's privacy.”

“No big deal.” Then, Mary Elizabeth closed her eyes. “Except, I haven't told my father yet.”

So now she was on the verge of possibly screwing up yet another innocent person's life. “He should be able to head them off,” Meg said. Yeah, since the mass media was
always
so cooperative and compassionate. “I didn't want to mention it, but I thought I should, just in case.” So that at least she wouldn't be blindsided, the way Susan had been.

Mary Elizabeth's nod was resigned, but then she grinned. “Tammy's going to start worrying about having ‘Coed Dumped by Slimeball Ex-Boyfriend's Cruel Email' headlines show up everywhere.”

Yeah, she probably was. It wasn't funny—except, okay, maybe a little.

“Might as well laugh, instead of cry,” Mary Elizabeth said.

Yeah. Meg managed a smile. “Might as well,” she agreed.

23

AFTER SHE FINISHED
showering and getting dressed—and received yet another worried, albeit not terribly productive, phone call from her father, she left her room to find all of her hallmates, as well as Susan, standing around near the stairs. That was strange, in and of itself, but it was also extraordinarily unusual for everyone—especially Jesslyn—to be up and about this early in the morning.

“They mostly seem to be on Park Street,” Juliana was saying, obviously reporting back from a trip outside. “And there're a whole bunch more out near Spring Street. I guess campus security's booting them off college property for trespassing wherever they can.”

Susan nodded, her hands tight fists in her pockets.

“Uh, hi,” Meg said.

Juliana frowned, Jesslyn shrugged, Mary Elizabeth smiled slightly, Tammy looked ill at ease, and Susan just nodded, staring down at the floor.

“Are you going to classes today?” Meg asked her.

“With midterms coming up, I kind of need to, yeah,” Susan said, without looking up.

“Are you?” Tammy asked.

And contribute to, or maybe even provoke, another media melee? Meg shook her head. “No. I'm just going to—I don't know—wait for Preston to get here, I guess.” Keep the lowest possible profile.

“Fuck 'em,” Mary Elizabeth said unexpectedly. “Fight back. Get some breakfast, go to classes, hang out at Goodrich, do your normal stuff. Don't let them change any of that.”

It probably wasn't realistic—but, hey, it was plucky.

Juliana nodded. “We'll walk with you wherever you want to go, Susan. Hell, the whole entry wants to come along. Maybe even the whole dorm.”

Good. Safety in numbers, one would like to think. Meg retreated back a couple of steps.

“Hey! Aren't you part of the entry?” Mary Elizabeth asked.

“Yeah, but, the
White House
is coming,” Juliana said, before Meg could answer. “That's what's important. I mean, you know, to hell with Susan, let's get our priorities straight here.”

Jesus, Juliana was holding a grudge—and Mary Elizabeth had become her loyal advocate. Maybe this was an alternate universe, after all.

Susan, who didn't seem to be paying attention to any of this, sat down on the top step, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

The rest of them just stood there, waiting for—well, Meg wasn't quite sure what. For someone, presumably Susan, to react. Take charge. And, surrounded by these random, hostile strangers who had been
so close
to maybe turning into friends, she suddenly felt more isolated than she ever had up here—which was pretty god-damn isolated. Unbearably so. When Preston got here—what the hell was taking him so long, anyway?—they were going to have to map out some respectable way for her to return to Washington, once and for all. She should never have—