Page 93 of The Death Row Club
He braces both hands against the edge of the trunk and lets out a deep exhale. “What happened back at the lodge,” he says, “I had no right to show anyone those photos.” He backs away from the trunk and shoves his hands deep in his pockets. “I thought you were guilty, and separating you from the others seemed like the easiest way to keep them safe. But I went too far.” He finally meets my eyes. “And for that, I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t mention the other accusation he leveled against me: that I was somehow responsible for my best friend’s murder. Perhaps that’s best left in the past. I nod stiffly, returning my attention to the abandoned car. “What were you looking for?”
He lifts up a contractor bag to reveal a bundle of red nylon cord and white plastic cylinders. “What’s that?” I ask. He pulls it out, and as the rungs untangle, the answer to my question becomes clear. It’s a rope ladder.
“She likes to be prepared,” he says, noticing my confusion.Prepared for what?I’m about to ask, but then I remember her father, waiting across the street in his blue Ford Taurus. He might be dead, but she hasn’t forgotten.
“Hey!”
The coach bus’s door folds open, and the driver leans out of his seat. “Do you two need help?”
“We’re good,” Connor says. “We might be a while, though. Just charge us for the wait time.”
We affix the ends of the ladder to the railing and feed it through the posts until there’s a jerk. “Got it?” I shout down to Greer.
“Got it.”
The ropes start jittering back and forth, and I watch as Greer slowly climbs, hand over hand, out of the fog. A nasty cut splits her cheek, but that doesn’t stop her from grinning up at me. “Well,” she says, wrapping her fingers around the top rung. “Guess I can check that off my bucket list.”
Her smile dims when she notices Audrey lying in the middle of the road. “Fuck,” she murmurs. “She deserved better than that.”
“She tried to kill you.”
“I know.” Greer pulls herself over the railing, her combat boots thudding hard on the pavement. “She still deserved better than that.”
The fog swirls around us, and Greer tucks her curls behind her ears. One immediately falls loose, and I start to reach for it when Kemy clears her throat, shattering the illusion of privacy. “So, what are we supposed to do now?”
I don’t hesitate this time. “Call the police.”
The others remain silent, unconvinced, until Greer says, “Nic’s right. She has friends, family—all of whom are going to be looking for her.”
“Wait,” Ros says, “how do you know she has anyone? We’re not calling the police because shemightbe missed.”
Greer scratches the back of her neck. “So, I wasn’t entirely honest with you this weekend—”
“Well, color me surprised,” Ros murmurs.
“Steffani wasn’t the child of a serial killer. In fact,Steffaniwasn’t even her real name.” Greer meets each club member’s eyes in turn before telling them the truth: “She was Tom Woods’s final victim.”
Shock rolls through the group as she explains how Audrey came to the lodge to confront her, how she murdered Zach when he threatened to disclose her identity. And how she tried to run Greer over in a fit of rage. “I didn’t tell you who she was,” she explains, “because like all of you, she worked hard to keep her name out of the press. She had a right to her privacy.”
“Sure, but that doesn’t give her the right to murder someone,” Ros sniffs.
“She’s dead, Ros. I don’t think she got away with it.”
“Nicola’s right.”
The words are so small, so timid, they almost dissipate into the fog. Hannah steps out from where she was hiding, pulling her hoodie tighter around her. “We need to call the police.”
Ros looks stunned. “But everyone will figure out who we are. If we call the police, and they take our statements, someone will leak them to the press. You know that, right?”
Everyone’s discomfort is clear—everyone’s except for Hannah’s. She breaks away from the group, scurrying across the empty road until she’s reached the railing. Until she’s standing next to Greer and me.
Connor’s the next to step forward. He screwed up, accusing me in front of the others, which might be the reason he says to Greer, “If that’s what you think is best,” before crossing the road. Imogen follows, her desire to do good winning out over any concerns she might have about the lawsuit pending against her.
That leaves Kemy and Ros. “I can’t risk my position,” Kemy insists, “not when I’m this close to tenure.”
The conversation we had on the hiking trail comes back to me. “She was Tom Woods’s only surviving victim,” I remind her. “He has his own television show. What does she have? If she disappears today, we’ll be finishing the work he started, erasing her from the narrative. Is that what you want?” A muscle in her jaw twitches. “There are other colleges out there, other professions where you can make a difference. Is tenure really worth it if you have to throw away everything you believe in?”
