The Herd - Andrea Bartz Page 0,98

what I don’t understand,” I said. “Obviously I barely know Cameron, way less than you two. But if he was driving down to New York to talk to Eleanor, why would he bring a scalpel? Or whatever sharp tool?”

“I don’t know.” Hana shook her head sadly. “We don’t know what she said, what went down. I don’t think it was planned, I really don’t.”

“But what about the graffiti?” Mikki added. “And this stolen phone? The original one, from back before—before any of this.”

I took this one. “I don’t think it was related. Some people really did just hate her. And the Herd. All of it.” I sighed. “Some people are just shitty.”

Hana dropped a fistful of silverware into the dishwasher. “Another thing I don’t understand: He knew she was trying to get a fake passport. He suspected she was getting ready to make a run for it.” She repositioned a spatula. “If he thought she was about to disappear, wouldn’t that be a pretty good outcome for him? She would leave town, she couldn’t pin Jinny’s death on him, he could even turn us all in and start that…memorial fund, if that’s what he wanted.”

I set a stack of serving dishes on the counter. “Could be. Or maybe he was lying about wanting to help Jinny’s family. For all we know, maybe he was helping Eleanor disappear. Driving down to personally deliver her starter kit for a new life.”

“Well, let’s hope they find him and he can tell us himself,” Hana said.

I leaned against the counter. Mikki was going to town with the pull-out faucet, fire-hosing dishes with total concentration.

“You know, if he does, you might have to face charges in relation to Jinny,” I said. “There’s no statute of limitations on this stuff.”

“We know.” Mikki nodded at the backsplash. Her face looked miserable, but her shoulders softened, like frozen meat defrosting.

“I miss Eleanor,” I said. Even if she was ruthless; even if she’d threatened Cameron, and Mikki and Hana before him, in order to keep Jinny’s death a secret. She’d inspired us, made us feel sparkling and special and proud. That was a gift, even if it came with a lifetime of impersonating goodness, of being an impostor. Eleanor, unlike the rest of us mortals, didn’t give a shit what others thought, and for that we were all more than willing to adore her.

“I miss her too,” Mikki murmured, and Hana echoed her. I looked around and saw that they meant it, that their sorrow matched mine, and somehow this helped. Cleaning up her parents’ kitchen on Christmas Eve Eve, we all took on a third of the grief.

Mikki looped the dishtowel on its hook and walked upstairs. Staring at the sparkling kitchen, I registered that cottony end-of-day fatigue, more drained than sleepy, as if my body were eager to let today end.

“I’m going to go too,” I announced, then headed down the hall. But once I’d gotten ready for bed, I crept upstairs and knocked on Hana’s door. I found her and Mikki sitting on the floor, old books—children’s classics and Gloria Steinem and yearbooks—scattered around them.

I sat cross-legged and picked up a yearbook. Eleanor’s senior year, her photo bright-eyed and lovely. Below it, her chosen quote was from (who else?) Frida Kahlo: “I often have more sympathy for carpenters, cobblers, etc., than for that whole stupid, supposedly civilized herd of windbags known as cultivated people.”

“I wonder if she felt like she created a monster,” I mused. “Like, she wanted to build this feminist utopia, and then she accidentally made this—this thing that was even more bougie and see-and-be-seen than the boys’ club bullshit she was trying to get away from. ‘Windbags.’ ” I swiveled the book toward Hana and Mikki and pointed at the quote. “I was a tech reporter—Titan is run by Silicon Valley bros. So for them, acquiring a feminist company like the Herd would be a great PR move. But for Eleanor, for her original vision…”

Mikki looked up. “I bet an acquisition like that opens you up to scrutiny. Maybe she felt like someone was close to figuring out what happened in college, and that’s why she had to get away.”

It struck me: I’d been investigating Eleanor myself, and I’d had no clue. This sparked in my chest a flicker of something bright: absurdity? Humiliation? Laughter, even?

Hana leaned back. “We’re going to talk to Stephanie when she gets back from India. At the very least, they’re delaying the acquisition, she said. Maybe she