Like a journalist collecting elements for a story on deadline, the Big Bad Wolf looked around. He took in the policemen working in the river, he counted the people watching from the bridge, he noted the news crew packing up their cameras and sound equipment and readying to leave for some bigger and better photo op. This made him smile. They don’t know it, he thought, but this is the best damn story around. By far.
But this story is all mine.
The Wolf decided he would give the river searchers another half hour to pluck Red Two from the black currents, but no longer. He settled in and waited for answers that he didn’t really expect to get from his perch above the waters.
The dean stood in his doorway and half-smiled at Mrs. Big Bad Wolf. He seemed troubled, as evidenced both in his soft tone of voice and his hunched-over posture. “Did you read the report from the girls’ basketball coach? They had some trip back to school,” he said, shaking his head.
On her computer screen, Mrs. Big Bad Wolf began reading a copy of a single-page account that the coach had e-mailed to the dean. It was short on description, just a brief recitation of the reasons for their delay getting back after a victory. She had the distinct impression the coach would have preferred to write about the win, not the aftermath. Nothing in the coach’s report indicated that the suicide victim Jordan saw had red hair. Or that Jordan knew the victim. Or that they were connected in any way.
She nodded her head to the dean to let him know she was finished reading.
“Will you send a text and a follow-up e-mail to Jordan Ellis’s history teacher-that’s where she’s in class next period. Ask him to tell her to come to my office before lunch.”
“Will do,” Mrs. Big Bad Wolf replied cheerily.
The dean thought for a second, then said, “Tell him she’s required to be here.”
She typed out the messages. After sending them, she punched up Jordan’s schedule on her screen. Then she glanced at the clock on the wall, and guessed that Jordan would walk through the office door at eleven.
She was off by two minutes.
Jordan seemed hurried, distracted. Mrs. Big Bad Wolf put on her most sympathetic look and used her most understanding voice. “Oh, dear, that must have been simply terrible last night. I can’t imagine how frightened you must have been. It must have been awful for you. And so sad.”
“I’m fine,” Jordan said briskly. “Is he in?” She gestured toward the inner office.
“He’s expecting you, dear. Go right in.”
Mrs. Big Bad Wolf felt a quickening in her heartbeat. She had not realized how exciting it would be for her to find herself close to Jordan-knowing that she was a literary model for a murder victim. She suddenly felt alive, as if caught up in a swirling confection of secrets. Jordan’s sullen responses and slouching, contemptuous attitude made Mrs. Big Bad Wolf imperceptibly nod her head in total comprehension. She’s perfect, she thought. No wonder he chose her. She could suddenly see hundreds of reasons to kill Jordan.
Kill her, Mrs. Big Bad Wolf thought. On the page. Her hands trembled slightly, quivering with a delicious sort of intrigue. It’s like being caught up in my own private novel. Mrs. Big Bad Wolf felt herself sliding, as if slipping into some world where what was real and what was fiction were no longer different. It was like descending into a warm and soothing bath.
Jordan strode past her desk, and Mrs. Big Bad Wolf watched her from behind. She could suddenly see arrogance and selfishness and teenage isolation and nastiness all wrapped up in Jordan’s every step.
Her breathing was shallow, and she wanted to burst out in a laugh. It was a little like being let in on a huge, wonderful secret. She could suddenly imagine the entirety of the writing process, turning a self-centered, privileged young woman into a character in a book. Just like being present at the Creation, she thought, although she admitted that was overstating matters slightly.
She suddenly rose up and trailed Jordan into the dean’s office. As Jordan slipped into the chair across from the dean, Mrs. Big Bad Wolf cheerily said, “Don’t forget about the phone meeting with the trustees.” This phone session was not until later, but it gave her an excuse to leave the office door ajar, which she guessed neither the dean nor Jordan would notice.
A production assistant, she thought. A good production assistant listens to everything. I’m a lot more than just a secretary.
Mrs. Big Bad Wolf returned to her desk and craned her head to listen, arranging a pad of paper on the desk in front of her to take notes.
The first thing she overheard was: “Look, I’m okay. I don’t need to speak with anyone, especially some touchy-feely psychologist. I’m fine.” Jordan’s voice seemed angry and filled with contempt.
“I understand, Jordan,” the dean replied slowly, “but these sorts of traumatic incidents have concealed impacts. Seeing a woman kill herself the way you did can’t just be shrugged off.”
“I’m okay,” Jordan stubbornly repeated. She was desperate to get out of the office. Every second she spent distracted from the real threat was potentially dangerous. She knew the only respite she had from the Big Bad Wolf were her moments on the basketball court, when she could lose herself in exertion. She wanted to scream at the dean, Do you know that I’m doing something far more goddamn important than any class or any meeting with a shrink or anything you can imagine in your closed little private school mind?
She said none of this. Instead she could feel tension within her tightening like a knot and she knew she had to say the right thing to get out and get back to the more serious business of avoiding being murdered.
“Well, yes, I believe so,” the dean continued. “And I’ll take your word for it. But still I’m insisting that you speak with someone. If you do that and the doctor signs off, says all is okay, then so be it. But I want a professional involved. Did you sleep any last night?”
“Yes. Eight hours. Slept like a baby,” Jordan trotted out the cliché, not actually imagining that the dean would believe her.
He shook his head. “I doubt that, Jordan,” he said. He didn’t add Why do you lie to me? although that was what went through his head. He handed her a piece of paper. “Six o’clock. This evening at Student Health Services. They will be expecting you.”
“All right, all right, I’ll go, if that’s what you want,” Jordan said.
“That’s what I want,” the dean replied. “But it should also be what you want.” He tried to say this in a softer, more understanding tone.
“Can I go now?”
“Yes.” The dean sighed. “Six p.m. sharp. And fail to show up and we’ll just be back here tomorrow morning, doing all this all over again, except this time someone will escort you to the appointment.”
Jordan stuffed the appointment slip into her backpack. She rose and exited without saying anything else. The dean watched her leave, thinking he had never seen anyone as determined to throw away every opportunity as Jordan.
Outside his office, Mrs. Big Bad Wolf hurried to jot down everything she had heard. Six p.m. Student Health Services. She looked up as Jordan swept by her, then reached for her telephone. The teenager hadn’t even looked in her direction.
31
Outside the window Jordan could see nothing except growing darkness. Her angle through the glass showed empty playing fields blending into distant stands of trees that marked the beginning of undeveloped conservation land. This was typical of private schools in New England: They favored the woody, isolated, forest look that gave visitors the impression that there were no distractions from the world of studying, sports, and the arts that was cultivated at the school. Jordan knew that in other directions there were bright lights, loud music, and all the typical sorts of trouble that teenagers routinely found.