was younger and handsomer. They were both predators. It had enraged Luther, though, that Hull had gotten away with his sins and was in a position to make Luther pay for his. He would want to punish Woody Hull.
And Lila had given him that opportunity.
I stand in the kitchen, still holding the dustpan full of dirt, suddenly cold. Cora Rockwell’s diary was certainly an intriguing document. I could imagine Luther reading it with a keen eye, discerning the suggestion that Woody Hull was responsible for Noreen Bagley’s death. But if he—a disgraced teacher—had come forward to accuse Woody, he’d be dismissed as a vindictive predator seeking revenge for his firing. But if an idealistic young girl like Lila brought the diary to light . . . Lila was the perfect vehicle for Luther’s revenge. I can see him luring her to the Rockwell House, showing her the diary, letting her come to her own conclusions, knowing she’d confront Woody Hull—
And when she did Hull would have been furious. I remember the claw-like grip of his hand on my arm in the chapel. If they’d been standing on the Point he could have struck out at Lila and she could have fallen—
But why would Lila agree to meet him in an isolated spot? Wasn’t it more likely that she’d meet Luther? Rudy said that Lila had asked Luther to come up the night of the play, the night Lila died. Maybe he said he wanted to meet Rudy and Lila agreed to facilitate. Maybe after Lila and Rudy fought he walked back out to the Point with her. Maybe they fought—and Luther pushed her from the Point.
My hands are shaking so hard that dirt falls from the dustpan. I have to tell someone what I suspect. But who? Kevin Bantree has no reason to believe me. He doesn’t know Luther—
But Jean does. She was assistant to Hull when Luther worked here. Luther despised her and I believe the feeling was mutual. Jean will believe me that Luther is engineering the situation to incriminate Woody.
I dump the rest of the dirt in the garbage, not caring that I’ve left some on the kitchen floor. I have a bigger mess to clean up. I grab my coat and keys—and my book bag, which still contains Rudy’s birth certificate, the domestic violence report, and the hospital report and picture. My head feels clear now despite the little sleep I’ve gotten. Once I’ve discredited Luther, Rudy will have to see my side of the story. And as Luther pointed out, I was always a good storyteller.
Chapter Nineteen
My mood continues to brighten as I drive to campus. The rain has cleared, leaving a warm spring day—the kind of weather that transforms everything. There’s so much water here in coastal Maine—folded in between fingers of land, seeping up from bog and fen—that the whole land reflects the sky. The bay, which was a dead gray yesterday, is now the iridescent blue of a crow’s wing. The sun glitters on the manicured green lawns and gilds the old bricks of nineteenth-century Main Hall. Looking at it, you’d think the founders of the Refuge for Wayward Girls had only the best intentions in mind. It’s an impressive building—perhaps a little foreboding—situated on prime Maine coastal property. Jean has told me, though, that when the Refuge closed and became a school the buildings were decrepit.
Roofs leaking, mold in the walls, rats in the basement. There was no indoor plumbing in the “cottages” where the girls lived, and those rooms were squalid and freezing. There was one nurse on staff for a hundred girls. When the influenza struck in 1918 more than thirty girls died. Only an influx of money from the Haywood family was able to restore the buildings to anything like usable and the maintenance is still a nightmare. I have to beg Woody for more money every year.
How will the accusation against Woody Hull affect the school’s budget? I wonder. There are other benefactors, but none as significant as the Haywood family estate, all of which passed to Woody Hull when his uncle died in the late 1960s. Would the school survive financially, let alone in terms of reputation, if its chief benefactor and former headmaster is publicly accused of assault and murder?
Perhaps I shouldn’t care so much. When I first came to Haywood I hated it. I felt like I’d been sent here as punishment, like those fallen girls who were sent here for pregnancy and promiscuity,