The Twisted Thread (16 page)

It was the first time Madeline had been back in the suite since she'd seen Claire's body. She didn't know how this was possible, but something of the girl flickered through the space. As if she were wondering what they were going to do next, watching them with her cold little smile. Madeline fervently hoped that she was the only one to experience this discomfiting feeling. “Did you see Claire?” Mrs. Duval asked, looking now out the window. “After she was dead?”

“Yes,” said Madeline, edging herself toward the door, the memory of Claire's bent neck and taut breasts springing uncomfortably back to the front of her mind, though she had tried hard not to revisit that image. The father had sat down at Claire's desk, his gaze still unreadable. He hadn't removed his dark glasses, although it was far dimmer indoors than it had been in the thick, bright light of the courtyard.

“This is our fault, William.”

Madeline felt her heart seize slightly, and she made the subtlest of motions, as if to duck out as discreetly as possible. She wanted nothing more than to dash from the room before a scene could be played out in front of her. Claire's father apparently felt precisely the same way. “You may leave now, Miss Christopher,” he said. But Mrs. Duval raised an imperious hand and said, “No. Madeline can stay.”

“Flora,” Mr. Harkness said, standing, though his eyes were still concealed behind the shades. For the first time, Madeline heard something waver in his voice.

“Shut up, William. Just shut up,” Mrs. Duval said softly, her fingers now propped on the pillow on Claire's bed, which had been stripped to the mattress, its sage green duvet no doubt being examined in some police lab.

Someone coughed just then, and they all snapped their heads to look toward the open door. Madeline thought it must be Sarah, discreetly announcing her arrival. But she was stunned to find Porter there.

“Hello, Porter,” Mrs. Duval said, tears running openly down her face now. “Although I consider myself guilty here, I'm also holding you responsible for this.” She made her comment almost conversationally. “I am going to want to know about everything that happened. And I want my grandson back.”

Only afterward, when Madeline was back in her apartment, shaking having migrated from her hands through her whole body, would she be fully aware of what Porter had said and done next. He had stood there at the edge of the room, his whole tall body crammed inside the frame, an expression running across his strong face as if someone had slashed his jaw with a straight-edged razor.

“I understand, Flora. I accept that responsibility,” he'd said. And then Mrs. Duval had started to sob, and it wasn't her former husband or Porter to whom she turned but Madeline, who held the slender woman as she grieved for her daughter. She would never have guessed that such ragged noise could emerge from someone that beautifully groomed, but she held her and listened to the echo of her cries through the building, where the sounds were free to travel, unimpeded now by the gossip and merriment of girls. It was why, Madeline knew, as she held the elegant woman, she had bothered with the stockings. There was a chance that such fine silk might contain all that regret.

By five, Madeline was finally back in her apartment. Sarah had left a message and said with a note of real apology that she was sorry she couldn't be there; her meeting had run far later than expected. Would Madeline call her to check in when she had a chance? There was also a call from Fred, and ones from Grace and then Kate. The last message was someone breathing heavily before clicking off. More Reign nonsense, Madeline guessed, but she looked longingly at her bed. Could she wrap herself up there for a few minutes to digest what had just happened? Madeline shivered as with the advent of a flu, remembering how fragile Mrs. Duval had felt and how her perfume had smelled of freesias.

Madeline wondered why Claire's death had struck her with such grounding force. She had survived her parents' divorces, her haphazard education, life as the unfavored child, and emerged amazingly cheerful and quite competent. The death of a girl whom she hadn't liked seemed an odd thing to unmoor her. That was bothering her, as were two other things she'd noticed in Claire's room. First, why had Mrs. Duval spoken to Porter as if she knew him, not just knew him as the headmaster at her daughter's school but knew him for real, as a man? The second thing was that, when Madeline had seen Claire's room the morning the girl died, she had noticed that the long mirror usually on the back of the door had been removed and placed near the window. But it wasn't there now. Had someone hung it back in place? Had the police done that? If not, who?

Madeline steeled herself and went back up the stairs to see if her memory could be believed. The mirror, beveled and unsmudged, was hanging where it had when Claire was alive: on the back of the door that led to the hall, without a single mark on its bright surface. She wondered if she'd imagined its different placement and quickly turned to leave. She was still troubled by the sensation that something of the girl remained, even considering the tack-pocked walls, the mattress and its institutional blue ticking. And in spite of the investigative remnants—the tape and the powder—as bare and impersonal as if a new student might arrive any day. As if nothing of consequence had ever happened there.

She ought to have supper, but for once Madeline wasn't hungry. Instead, a cold shower and a hair wash with some of the new shampoo she'd acquired from the girls was the most appealing option. In the cool stream of water, she chose a brand that said it was made with coconut and awapuhi, substances that would strengthen the shafts of her hair and make her scalp tingle with vitality. When she went to pour a dollop in her hand, however, something curious happened. Water pounding on her back, she tried to shake the bottle and get it to cough out enough shampoo for her to wash her hair. But the neck was blocked. Madeline turned off the shower and tried to pry at the container. Finally, she snagged a nail on what felt like a plastic bag. It was a Ziploc, sealed tight, and it came out slimy with pearlescent goop. But that didn't mask the fact that it contained a note. Those girls, Madeline thought, those horrid girls. They even got inside my bathroom. Dripping liberally on the tile, heart clanging away, Madeline opened the baggie. But the note wasn't addressed to or even aimed at her. It said, in the same scarlet letters that had graced her own message, “Terror is a by-product of virtue, it is nothing less than swift, stern, and unbending justice. MF: Remember what happened to RQ. You're next.” MF? RQ? Who were they? Madeline grabbed a towel and daubed her face dry. Then she knew. MF was Maggie Fitzgerald, that mousy freshman who had been so stunned someone as beautiful as Claire could die. The seniors were harassing her for some reason, perhaps to do with Claire. And RQ had to be Rosalie Quiñones, Maggie's former roommate and a local girl on scholarship, who had withdrawn in November. Madeline, caught up in her own first-semester angst, had barely known who the girl was and had no real idea why she'd gone. Now she wondered if the Reign had been responsible for Rosalie's abrupt departure, too.

As she dressed, she planned to call Sarah and then Matt. This had gone too far. But then she had another thought. It was time to go see Sally Jansen at the infirmary. She'd probably be barricaded in a room behind her parents and a bevy of nurses, but it was worth trying. Sally might just tell her about Maggie Fitzgerald and Rosalie.

Although everyone called it the infirmary, the low, graceful building that had once been the school's stables was technically known as the McFarlane Wellness Center. Health was no longer enough.
Wellness,
with its emphasis on spiritual as well as physical vigor, was the new ideal, though the term made Madeline feel dreadfully inadequate. Inspired by a course she'd taken on Buddhism, she had tried several meditation classes, sponsored by her own college wellness center, and done nothing more than fidget and then fall dead asleep in all of them. Once she'd woken snoring, only to find the instructor looming over her, raising his enlightened eyebrows.

Inside McFarlane, therapeutic hush prevailed. Large ficus trees flanked the front desk, at which, for the moment, no nurse fussed with paperwork or answered phones. Perhaps it was time for a shift in staff. Madeline peered at the whiteboard that noted which rooms were occupied and saw that Sally was supposed to be in Room 12. Trotting down the hall, carpeted in a soothing blue, Madeline sniffed at the combined scents of antiseptic and lavender. She knocked on the door of Room 12 and, when no one answered, cracked the door open. But Sally wasn't there. Heading back down the hall, she found herself in a room that billed itself as the solarium. Filled with potted plants and lofty windows, it was making an earnest effort to create a sense of sunny peace. And in one of its cavernous chairs sat Sally Jansen, curled like a dry leaf inside a fleece blanket.

When she finally noticed Madeline, she jumped the way surprised cats do, and Madeline startled along with her. “I thought you were one of those nurses coming to give me another pill. Sorry, Miss Christopher.”

Madeline pulled up an ottoman and sat down next to Sally. The girl, close up, looked even worse than she had from the corridor: skittish and anemic, with red eyes and lank hair. “I'm not supposed to talk to anyone,” she said, looking not at Madeline but at some point of the soothing vista that the wide windows offered. “My parents told me not to get involved.” But her mouth was quivering, Madeline noticed, perhaps with the advent of tears but also as if a million words were waiting there, ready to be spilled.

“Where are they, Sally?” Madeline asked, aware she might have no more than a few minutes until one of the girl's protectors descended.

“At their hotel for a little while. They want to take me home. We have tickets to go back to San Francisco tomorrow.” She wrapped the green fleece more tightly about her narrow shoulders.

“But you don't want to go, do you?”

Sally shook her head no. “I want to find out about the baby. I can't leave until I know what's happened to him.” Her eyes began to glisten with tears, and her mouth quivered even more.

“Sally, of course you don't have to talk with me. But I want to ask you about the Reign. I think it's important. It might have something to do with why Claire died.” Madeline was using her firmest teacher voice, although she tried to keep it low and almost casual. But both she and Sally knew their time together was limited. Madeline heard voices down the hall and worried that they were getting closer.

If Sally was concerned that Madeline knew about the group, she didn't show it. Maybe she assumed the adults in the community were more aware than they actually were. “Claire was trying to change it. Make it less exclusive,” Sally whispered, apparently grateful for the opportunity to talk without being monitored. “I mean, she was in a bad situation, and she needed help. She knew we'd give it to her. But she also wanted to make it what it used to be, something nicer, more supportive.” Sally leaned forward in her fleece cocoon and continued to talk as quickly as she could. The Reign had been getting really bad. They were hazing again. Did Madeline remember Rosalie? When Madeline answered “Yes,” she said, “They—Lee and Portia and Suzy, mostly—tried to drive her out. But she fought back. And Claire protected her. But then something really bad happened, Miss Christopher. I don't know what it was. But Claire was furious and then Rosalie was gone. That's when she asked us to be part of the Reign and to twist the thread with her. And we took care of her. We gave her prenatal vitamins and made her stop drinking coffee.” Sally sniffed, but even that couldn't hide the pride she still felt at having earned Claire's recognition. Claire might have used her, but at least she hadn't been cruel. Another nuance of the adolescent social hierarchy that Madeline hadn't realized existed and a facet to Claire's personality she would never have guessed at. Sally's color was improving. Every adult around her was trying to silence her, but all she wanted was someone to talk to.

Madeline said, “I'm confused. Lee told me that she had done a lot of the work of looking after Claire.”

Sally shook her head. “Claire didn't want anything to do with them anymore. They just wanted you to think that. Me and Anna and Margaret and Kelly, we did most of it. Claire wanted us to help, not them.”

There was more, Sally said in a rush. The Reign had been picking on Maggie, and Maggie and Rosalie had been close. There was some connection there, but Sally didn't know what it was. The voices were indeed getting louder. Clearly, someone was now at the reception desk.

“Sally, one more thing,” Madeline said, leaning forward. But the girl interrupted her. “You want to know if Claire told us who the father was. She didn't. She never said. Just that it was important she have the baby at school. That it would change things here.” Then she continued hotly, “Claire wasn't like everyone thought she was. She wanted to know about our families. She wanted to know if we were close to our parents. If we had brothers and sisters we liked and talked to.”

Madeline sat up straight. That was interesting, yet another layer to Claire. “She did? And what did you say?” By “we,” Madeline assumed Sally meant the other girls with whom Claire had broken tradition.

Sally gave a small shrug. “Well, of course we are. I mean, my parents would do anything for me. We all had families like that.” She looked a little bewildered, as if unable to imagine any other possible reality. “Claire said we couldn't tell them about the thread or about her, but she wanted to know all about them. About what we did and where we went on vacation and if anyone had told us about our periods and stuff like that.” Now Sally blushed a little and looked flustered. “She wasn't as mean as she looked. She was even kind of lonely,” Sally started to say, and then a light clicked on in the hallway and Madeline knew she had to scamper out of the McFarlane Wellness Center or face either Sally's parents or some fearsome nurse.