The hollow echoes from stiletto heels worked their way down the long marble hallway, pillars of peach and bronze acting as sounding boards with gleaming oak doors decorating their sleek structure. Casey's steps were lazy, dragging themselves along the recently waxed tile settings that ran down the stretch, followed intimately by the heavy trodden strides of Chester Lake. She stopped in front of her door, turning to face her date, her red locks scattered over her bare shoulders. She tilted her chin up, her olive-shaded eyes twinkling from the warmth that radiated from the hanging lights, a champagne induced smile appearing on her lips.
"I had a good time tonight. A surprisingly good time," she said, her eyes focused on him, subtle dimples decorating her cheeks from her lopsided grin.
Chester took in her appearance, her face slightly reddened from the cold night and her paled skin boldly secured and accented in her emerald-colored gown. "I did, too. It was my pleasure Casey. I told you I'd keep your expensive taste in mind," he said, smiling and then leaning gradually forward, one hand resting on her hip as the other cupped her wind-chilled cheek. Stroking his thumb along her jaw line gently, his calloused fingers caused goose bumps to erupt over her skin. He added a slight pressure to her waist, pulling at her suggestively until she fell into his arms. "I'm going to kiss you now," he said, lowering his chin towards her, his forehead resting on hers as she nodded languidly, his lips descending first on her temple and then on her cheek.
She let her eyelids droop, finally shifting her face and capturing his lips with hers, letting her tongue tease his mouth open, yet prodding for permission. He parted his lips, feeding on her hers as he allowed her to explore his mouth, her tongue dancing firmly around his before caressing his palette. She opened her eyes when she felt his arm finally work its way around her waist, pressing her tightly to his body, his arousal nudging at her side.
He rested his cheek against her hair while he nibbled at her ear, his warm breath thawing her skin. "Are you going to invite me in?"
Casey reached for the doorknob, turning it as he tangled his hands in her hair; they stumbled into the darkness of her apartment, his mouth desperately feeding off of her. He nipped at her shoulders, his moist lips lingering and then working their way to her collar bone, gradually ascending up her neck and landing on her mouth once more. She carefully backtracked into her living room, the moon casting the only light through the window that spanned the length of one wall, overlooking the streets of Manhattan. The back of her knees collided with the couch, causing her to reach out with her hand to catch herself. Chester supported her back, slowly lowering her onto the sofa, resting his weight on his forearms and the knee that had become nestled between Casey's legs.
She opened her eyes, the illusion that had crystallized in her mind instantly shattered. She thought back to college when her roommate brought home Moonstruck, when she watched Cher with hair twice as large as her head, and fell in love with Nicolas Cage. When she first learned that the moon had a bewitching and mesmerizing power. And now, as she found herself drowning in the deep brown eyes staring back, the moon cast its invasive rays across a face and brows she hadn't seen in her mind. Brown eyes that she didn't want to see. A small gasp escaped her lips, her chest rising and falling steadily, as surprise registered in her expression. She pulled away from Chester's light grasp and turned on her side, her forearm pressing into his stomach as she pushed her body off of the sofa. She turned away from the man that for a few fleeting moments her heart had convinced her mind was John Munch. While she gathered her thoughts, her composure, her collected lawyerly self, she ran a hand through her hair, untangling the tresses that throughout the course of the evening had given up on being straight and had finally surrendered to the moist winter air, letting the thick waves resurface, and pressed her other hand against the skirt of her dress, ironing out the nonexistent wrinkles in the fabric.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled, turning on her heels to look him over. She wrapped her arms around her torso and cocked her head to one side. "This shouldn't have happened."
He stepped towards her, bypassing the coffee table that stood between their bodies, and placed his hands on her shoulders, soothingly running his hands up and down her arms as he tried to ease the awkwardness. "Hey, hey," he whispered, resting his index finger under her chin as he tilted her face in his direction. "What are you sorry for? That was great."
Casey pulled away, avoiding his questioning and confusing glance, and walked to the glass panes, reaching for the lace tie that collected the burgundy drapes. "You should go," she said, her back still facing him, "I've given you the wrong impression. I'm sorry, but this isn't right." She worked her fingers through the delicate bow that held the fabric in place, finally drawing a strand towards her which caused the thick material to cascade along the pewter rod, the delicate pleats scattering throughout.
Chester walked towards the door, pausing at the edge of the sofa and leaning his hip against it. A small lamp stood on the end table and he reached underneath the shade, turning the knob and letting the subtle light fill the room, a colorful array of beams radiating from the stained glass cover. He looked at her outline and let out a shallow breath. "I don't get it. Why isn't it right? What did I do wrong?"
"You didn't do anything wrong," she answered calmly. Stoically. With purpose and resolve. But you aren't John. Your eyes may be brown, but not like his.
He stood and walked into the entryway, his hand hovering above the knob. He turned back to look into the living room, her body now turned in his direction. "Casey, I really did have a good time tonight. I hope that maybe we can do it again sometime." He pulled open the door, a shrill sound pealing through the hall, an annoying reminder that the door hinges were long overdue for some grease. His hollow steps retreated from apartment 4D and as the door shut on its own and Casey walked over to bolt it, his resonating footsteps became inaudible.
She remained by the door, tilting her head forward and resting it on the glossy wood. She closed her eyes and drank in the dark, solitary atmosphere of her apartment. A vast loft in upper Manhattan where the only company was the delivery boy from Café East on weekdays, the pizza guy from Mama Mia's on weekends, and on occasion Olivia or Elliot when the weather dictated it impossible for her to arrive to court on her bike. She walked back into the room, reaching for the lamp that only moments earlier had been turned on and returned the room to darkness. A sad smile settled on her lips as only a flake of the moonlight's rays filtered through and danced on the glass lid of her mother's china cabinet. Rays that not so long ago had forced her mind and heart to collide, but now left her with an indescribable void and unsatisfied desire. She sauntered down the long hallway, her fingers dragging along the white wall as she approached her bedroom; she was suddenly exhausted by her unanswered and unsettling thoughts.
On the streets of Manhattan, where the city was still waking and vendors had yet to lift their gates, where steam ducts released white clouds of warm air that licked the winter morning, and the lights of holiday decorations that were sprinkled along the city blocks had now been turned off, John sat in the department sedan, the radio a soft hum in the confines of the vehicle. He struck the horn twice, looking up at Fin's apartment nestled in the east corner of the building, the breaking dawn striking the worn brick exterior. He brushed his hands together roughly, trying to warm them inside the thin lining of his gloves.
Fin zipped his jacket, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he pushed the door leading into his building open with his back, cursing the fucking weatherman that had cheerfully predicted a daytime high of twelve and wind chill of minus two. Dark patches of ice decorated the sidewalks, nearly unnoticeable obstacles that were scattered on the street; he walked to the sedan, carefully avoiding the hurdles, and welcomed the heat that radiated from the car's exhaust. He grabbed at the door handle, breaking away at the small bits of ice that sealed it, and pulled it open, the sounds of rusty and ungreased junctures echoing in the silence of the street.
John watched Fin get in and nodded at him, putting the car into drive and looking at the street over his left shoulder, "Good morning."
A grunt escaped Fin's lips as he worked the seatbelt, his fingers mildly numb from the short walk to the car, stumbling with the buckle before finally hearing it click into place. He leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs in front of him, and looked out his window, the view slightly fogged by the thawing ice. "Damn weather," he murmured under his breath.
John stopped at the light, looking for an empty spot in front of the coffee shop. He pulled into a tight space, shutting the engine off and unbuckling his belt. He propped the door open, placing one foot out onto the pavement, and looked at Fin who hadn't moved from his spot.
"Come on Detective Tutuola, coffee's on me this morning," he said, now standing outside of the car, leaning against the door frame. "And, cheer up. Jack Frost is in town, didn't you get the memo?"
Olivia sat in the sedan, the purring of the engine soothing her thoughts, pushing concerns into remote corners of her mind, tucking away the demons for a day, knowing that come nightfall they would return. Her thoughts lingered on the Bennett case, the line dividing the aspects of her life having blurred, leaving a cacophony of emotions she had never successfully dealt with but had rather sought to bury beneath what she could understand. And as her thoughts strayed off the tangents that were events in her life, hallmarks, she couldn't help but draw the parallel. She couldn't help but wonder if the death she had seen in the eyes of Audrey Bennett once also filled the eyes of Serena Benson.
Only one picture of a pregnant Serena Benson exists. At least only one that Olivia has ever seen. The hunger she had felt for some love to reflect off her mother's face was indescribable, and so when she thinks about the tumultuous nine months that followed her conception, when she thinks about the absence of a glow on her mother's face in that single picture, she remembers the shame she symbolized and the knowledge that she did not know love. She wonders if alcoholism can be predicted. If Audrey Bennett gets through these months, Olivia wonders if she will get through the next year. And if she does, will Jose Cuervo or Jack Daniels be at her side? She concedes to her weaknesses; she surrenders to the insecurities she strives to hide and the fragility that few times has been exposed; from a shadowed corner she begs that peace and calm will follow the nine-month storm. She wants to believe that Audrey Bennett is injured but not broken. A part of her wants to believe, is dying to believe, that Audrey's child will know love.
And so as she sits in the car, captivated by the serenity that embraces New York City on early winter mornings, when the canvas of the sky radiates subdued rays of light, she wants to believe that sometime in the next two months Audrey Bennett will glow; that sometime in the next two months she'll smile for a camera and be able to reflect on nine months that weren't entirely devoid of any satisfaction; that when her child is born Audrey Bennett will discover love instead of repugnance.
Olivia suddenly jerked forward, the seatbelt pushing her back into the seat and leaving its mark across her chest. The sound of car horns broke through the silence in the car and she turned towards the driver's seat, looking at a red-faced Elliot muttering obscenities under his breath. "Son of a bitch cut me off," he grumbled as if it were explanation enough. He cast a glance at Olivia, offering her apologetic eyes and a deep, soothing "Sorry 'bout that."
She turned back to look at the street, spotting the black SUV that had interrupted her thoughts, now a good two blocks away. Elliot's voice kept her at bay, its dark tone surprisingly soothing. "All right Liv, what's going on?"
She rolled her eyes, resting her face against the glass and letting out a shallow breath. "Does something have to be wrong?"
He glanced at her once more before returning his attention to the road, "No, it doesn't, but you haven't even suggested stopping for coffee. So, what's going on?"
Olivia didn't bother to look at Elliot but continued to press her forehead against the cold window, the temperature seeming to alleviate the impending headache forming behind her eyes. She watched as her breath settled on the pane and perched her elbow on the door frame, running her hand through her hair and tilting her head back against the seat. "I can't get Audrey Bennett off my mind. She's so scared, but seems so empty, too. There was this void in her…I wonder if my mom felt like that? These cases, where someone so young and spirited is injured time and again, they really get to me. I know I shouldn't let them but they do." She paused, running her left hand along her thigh, bringing it a bit closer to her chest. "I want to say that all victims are the same, that no single case is more horrible than another but right now I can't. I don't think I can."
John sauntered up the sidewalk, the concrete pavement cracked from the roots of trees that had lifted the foundation, while girls in white blouses and navy jumpers ran past him leaving only the remnants of small giggles. He looked towards Fin, clearing his throat to call to his attention.
"Administrator's office is this way," he said walking up the now pebbled walkway, thick, leafless trees towering above and casting web-like shadows on the snow.
John reached into his front pocket and produced a spiraled notepad, a ballpoint pen hanging off a small chain linked through one of the wire rings. He flipped the cover over, thumbing through the first few pages with wool clad fingers, finally settling on the most recent additions. He turned to Fin who was now walking alongside him before continuing. "Hewitt is divided into three groups- lower, middle, and upper school. Head of the upper school is a Mrs. Kimberly Dawson," he said as they neared the entrance hall to the Gothic architecture stone exterior building. "Sweet lady, very forthcoming with information," he added snidely, pulling open the heavy oak door leading into the office.
The antique grandfather clock towered from the corner of the ample office, to its side three wooden chairs, their frames thick and cushions lush. The rich cherry circulation desk was foreground to the window bay where the rays of light argued with the piles of snow that lay scattered on the branches of pine trees, the diffracted patterns of light teasing the windows. The minute hand shifted and sat snugly pointing up at the twelve; the iridescent pendulum that had hung still now swung, the weights behind the beveled glass fluctuating as the bob swayed
left…right…left…right…five…six…left…eight…
At a quarter after the door to Fin's right finally opened, a tall brunette woman in her mid-forties stepping out and leading a young girl to the front desk. She turned sharply on her heel, coming face to face with John. She nodded curtly and lifted her left arm, indicating for the detectives to enter her office, an annoyed smile plastered across her face. She walked back around her desk, sitting in the mahogany chair and leaning back away from them, fingers laced below her chin. She eyed the detectives coolly, far removed from them and the situation at hand, her cold and beady eyes surveying the two men. "I take it one visit was not enough, Detective Munch?" she asked, annoyance dripping from her voice as she crossed her fingers loosely and settled them in her lap, her thumbs resting at the base of her hands.
John leaned forward in his chair, his left elbow on the armrest supporting most of his body weight. "With all due respect Mrs. Dawson, this is a delicate criminal investigation. As I told you on Monday, it is critical for us to speak with other students, regardless of how many attempts it takes. The more cooperation we get from the school, the faster we'll be out of here."
She studied his expression, recognizing the resolve etched across his face, and succumbed to his request, realizing that the pair would not leave until the necessary information had been gathered.
"There is a reason parents pay us thirty thousand dollars each year for their children's education. We provide outstanding instruction, opportunities, and resources for our students. Badgering and questioning by the NYPD is not something we list in our school profile," she said, fixing her glare on Fin. "That being said, with the holidays approaching and the semester coming to a close the students are in the midst of preparing for final exams. I would appreciate it if your presence and prodding did not interfere with their routine."
She turned her chair away from the detectives and focused on the wide computer screen on her desk, her long fingernails tapping an erratic rhythm on the keyboard. She reached behind her for the papers being dispensed by the printer and brought them before her, licking her index finger to better skim the pages. Reaching across her desk, Mrs. Dawson handed John the small stack.
"You'll find a map of the grounds along with Audrey's schedule from last spring there. You are free to speak with faculty and students provided their routine is not disturbed. I would suggest speaking with Ms. Clarke from the art department. She is the photography instructor and shared a close tie with Audrey. She may be able to give you some answers or point you in the right direction. However, to access Audrey's lockers and belongings you must bring a warrant. We can't have parents going up in arms about fourth amendment rights."
Fin looked over at John, a mixture of pleasant surprise and relief masking his face. "If Audrey's not a student here, how come her locker is still in use?"
The tall woman stood, approaching the door and propping it open with her heel. "All of our students have lockers as long as they remain registered and dues are paid in full. Audrey Bennett's parents paid tuition through graduation when they enrolled her. Frankly, we were surprised when she left last spring, but Mrs. Bennett assured us that she would return in the fall and arrangements were made for her to complete her studies once she returned. Since she is still a student, per se, her locker has not yet been emptied."
John nodded, suddenly excited by the new prospect, and stepped out the door, turning to face Mrs. Dawson before leaving. "Thank you," he said, the first signs of a smile in the last three days finally appearing on his face.
Melinda Clarke sat at a light table, brown strands of hair falling past her shoulder, strips of black and white negatives splayed across the table; a stack of prints sat to one side, the faces of children and families gleaming during candid moments. She heard the approaching footsteps followed by a soft knock at her door, and without looking up said, "Come on in, I'll be with you in just a minute."
She slid a large negative into a protective sleeve, removing the pair of white fabric gloves and setting them aside before flipping the switch that darkened the table once more. The room was large, multiple light tables scattered throughout with stools situated on each side, viewing boards along two of the walls. To the back there was a small hallway leading to the darkroom and a large window spanned the fourth side of the room. The teacher swung around on the stool and stood, walking in the direction of the men. John studied her as she approached them. Melinda Clarke was young, no more than thirty years old, with an elegant and refined air; she towered over Fin, extending nearly six feet tall. She removed the blue frames from her face and crossed her arms in front of her, the glasses teetering between her fingertips.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her blue eyes studying the two detectives and her teeth pressing down on the pink flesh of her bottom lip.
Fin took a step forward and reached into his pocket for the golden badge that, after all these years, had yet to lose its luster. "NYPD," he said, flipping the cover and flashing the item. "Detective Tutuola and this is my partner, Detective Munch," he continued, turning his head in John's direction while returning the shield to his pocket.
She looked at the two men, a puff of her warm breath creeping past her lips as she closed her eyes and dropped one arm to her side, the other one pressed snugly against her body. "You are here about Audrey Bennett," she stated, turning towards her stool and perching delicately on its edge, motioning for the men to sit on the empty chairs.
"Every year, as part of our history and government education, students in their eleventh and twelfth year go to Washington – Congress, Capitol Hill, and such. Our buses didn't come in until late last night. I didn't know about Audrey until this morning." She stood up and walked around the light table, heading for the large window that overlooked the schoolyard. The blinds were closed, only a few rays of the morning sun seeping into the classroom, the atmosphere stiff and bleak. She reached for the handle, turning it gradually so that light filtered into the room, softening the harsh expressions carved into their faces. Melinda turned away from the window, her face flushed and eyes glossed by the early film of tears; she ran her fingers along her lids, discarding the scattered, moist beads. "I'm sorry. It's just that Audrey was my student and friend. I can't believe that after everything she has been through…" her voice trailed off, only the murmurs of unspoken thoughts remaining. The room fell silent, for a few passing seconds when the only sound came from the second hand on the clock that hung over the doorway. She looked at John, her eyes pleading with him, the unspoken request to let her help being communicated. "Please, continue. What can I do to help? Have you gotten any leads?"
John finally spoke up, deciding that Melinda Clarke's forthcoming attitude might reveal the details they so desperately needed. "We were hoping you knew something that could lead us to finding out who hurt her. How well do you know Audrey?"
"Audrey is a very talented young woman. Dedicated. Artistic. Brilliant. She has the ability to do something great. She doesn't believe that yet, but I know it. She would spend hours here after school. It's hard not to get to know someone when you spend so much of your time with them, you know? Audrey's class met at the end of the day. It was a small group and on most afternoons the girls would stay behind to work in the darkroom, sometimes late into the night. We were a tight knit group."
"And who would that be?" John asked, his notepad situated in his left hand with the pen gripped in his right, eager to finally make note of something.
"Jessica Richards and Evelyn Harris. You might want to talk with them, see if they have kept in touch with Audrey. They were both a year younger than her, but they were her best friends. The girls were inseparable."
John looked at Fin, his face obviously reacting with some surprise. He flipped through the pages littered with scribbles in black and blue, dog-eared pieces of paper scattered among leafs of information. Clearing his throat, he said, "On Monday Mrs. Dawson told me, and I quote, 'Audrey was a loner. She had very little interaction with others'. Care to explain?"
The woman glanced at John, her eyes tainted with irritation. "Dawson wouldn't know. Besides, that woman never cared for Audrey," she said, a mixture of venom and annoyance lacing her voice. "As far as she was concerned, the Bennett's were, for lack of a better word, snobs. She never hid her jealousy for them, even if it has been disguised as disapproval." She approached the detectives before continuing. "With all due respect, Detective. If you really want to know who Audrey Bennett is then I would suggest speaking with someone other than Mrs. Dawson about her. Yes, she was quiet. Reserved around certain people. But she wasn't a loner and she wasn't an arrogant snob as Dawson would have you believe." She turned away from the detectives, her fists clenched at her sides. "I can't believe she'd say that!" she murmured through an exasperated breath.
She looked back at the pair, her hand resting on the corner of the light table. "Talk to Jessica and Evelyn. They intern at the MOMA on Wednesday and Friday mornings. You can speak with them here this afternoon. They have Advanced Photography after lunch. "
While John's hand scribbled furiously on the small, six by three inch pad, Fin spoke up. "We'll do that, but first, a few more questions. Did you notice anything peculiar about Audrey's behavior last spring? Any indication that something was wrong before she dropped out?"
Melinda grabbed at the clip that held her hair back, letting down the heavy tresses. She ran her manicured fingers through the locks, gathering it at the base of her neck. "Audrey didn't really drop out. She was 'sick' during the last few weeks of the semester. Kimberly Dawson would have you believing Audrey was unappreciative, undedicated, and undeserving of a Hewitt education. I know Audrey wasn't really sick those last few weeks, but I had hoped she would return this fall." She returned the blue glasses to her face, hinging them on the bridge of her nose and returning to the stool in front of the light table. The stack of prints situated on the table sat on a binder filled with sleeves and images. "Last May, Audrey came in one day with a cast on her right arm. She was quiet, upset, and unlike her approachable demeanor, evasive. The broken arm was, as she put it, 'ruining her project'."
"And what project was that?" John asked, having paused his dedicated note taking to approach the table.
"At the end of each term art students are required to study a subject and compose a comprehensive portfolio of fifteen images for peer review. By the time May came around most of them were working on their prints," she said, finally settling on a page towards the middle of the book and swinging it around on the table to show the two men. "Audrey was shaken. Something was going on and she pulled back. She rarely wore make-up but once she had the cast on she had it caked on her face. Maybe others didn't notice it yet, we spent so much of our time together that it was hard not to. I think she was covering something up…" she said, resting her elbow against the wooden fixture. "For someone that was always complaining about it being too hot in the room, she wore the uniform sweaters for the remainder of the year. I knew something was wrong when she stopped staying after class but she wouldn't talk and Katherine Bennett insisted there was nothing to worry about."
"You must have been really close to Audrey to have noticed all that," Fin said, his head angled towards his shoulder.
"Audrey was special. She reminded me a lot of myself at her age. She was ambitious and devoted to the art. It was what she wanted to do. What she wanted to pursue. But, it was also a great source of conflict with her parents. Her dad especially, he saw this as a glorified hobby and nothing more."
She brought her finger down, tracing the plastic cover that protected sheets of black and white images. On the left page was a picture of a blonde girl, her laughter and apparent happiness radiating from the photograph. Her face devoid of pain and filled with the promises of a vivid and promising future. Her head was thrown back, her hair falling past her shoulders and her mouth parted open, the laughter tangible on the two dimensional image. A large camera hung around her neck; her fingers clasping it like it were oxygen, a source of existence. A small and light object that breathed into her and brought her to life, leaving a glow on her face and light in her eyes. The short blonde stood at her side, her back pressed against Audrey's with her chin resting on her shoulder, her eyes looking past the camera. The mirror in the back of the room in the picture showed the reflection of the photographer. Melinda Clarke with shorter hair, her face obscured by the curls that still managed to fall over her face and her focus resting on the medium format camera that rested against her chest, focusing on the two girls and the spirit evident on the eight by ten print.
On the facing page was another image taken in the classroom, more subtle and candid in nature. Rows of girls sat at their tables, prints and negatives lying across the lit surface. In the front row, near the window, sat Audrey Bennett, her right arm bulky under the dark sweater and her hair shielding the majority of her face.
"You see this? This was the Audrey we knew," Melinda said, her fingers sweeping over the image. Her other hand came down on the facing page, resting over the corner of the page. "And this…" she let out in a hushed voice, hints of distress coating it. "This is Audrey in mid-May, about a couple of weeks before she stopped coming to class."
Fin leaned over the side of the table, studying the images closely, his eyes drawn to the stockier arm. "Did you keep in touch with Audrey after that?"
She cupped her cheek and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. "I tried," she said, hesitating for a few seconds, the incessant second hand on the clock seemingly echoing in the classroom. "But she didn't want company. She didn't want to talk with anyone. And when I asked Katherine Bennett about it, she insisted there was really nothing to worry about." She paused, flipping through remaining pages until she found the last of Audrey's pictures in the album. "I met with her over the summer a few times. I was surprised she let me. The first time we were supposed to meet for morning coffee, but she never showed and I ended up going to her apartment. Her parents were out and when she let me in, God," she whispered, her voice trailing and becoming obscured as she pressed her face into her hands, her body trembling and causing her hair to disperse over shoulders.
In John's mind he no longer saw Audrey Bennett as a flat and lifeless victim. As a static personality. Over the course of the last half hour, Melinda Clarke had colored the unsaturated sketch of the young girl. She had given the detectives the third dimension, a before and after, and a timeline. A series of anecdotes and seemingly unimportant details that synthesized into a complex and lively girl. A surge of guilt settled in John's stomach, a voice accusing him for his lack of progress over the last two days. A voice reminding him that just because he couldn't get justice for Renee didn't mean that Audrey would suffer the same fate. An insignificant yet annoying voice that accused him of letting his personal life cloud his ability to perform. One that was hushed by the memories of Renee's voice which now whispered encouragement to him. He rested his hand on Melinda's shoulder, giving the woman who obviously cared for Audrey assurance and comfort. "What happened when Audrey opened the door Ms. Clarke?"
A sniffle escaped from beneath her shroud, her head lifting to expose her blotchy and moistened face, her hand running across her upper lip, wiping at her nose. "She looked awful. She was in sweats, her hair was pulled away from her face and her eyes were sunken in. I had to force her to let me in, and once she did she ran towards the bathroom. I thought she was sick, just with the flu or some other bug, but as the morning wore on I realized she was pregnant."
She held up her hand, palm facing outwards, stopping Fin from asking the question that never made it off his lips. "I've been pregnant before. Twice. I know the symptoms and I can see it on a woman's face. Audrey was pregnant," she said with affirmation. "And before you ask, no, I don't have children. I had a miscarriage each time."
Fin looked at her apologetically. "I'm sorry to hear that."
She brushed off Fin's comment, refusing to let the conversation focus on her. "I stayed for about three hours, making small talk and trying to keep her company. Or trying to lift her mood. By noon she seemed drained so I decided to leave and made a promise to come by again. She only asked that I not do it while her parents were in. So I dropped by about three times a week. By early August the small bulge began to show from underneath her shirts." She reached into a crook that was isolated under the table, pulling out a bottle of water, condensation droplets forming along its neck and dribbling down its sides. She ran her hand along the plastic coating, wiping away the water droplets and flicking her wrist at her side, the globules scattering to the floor. "I expected her to clam up when I finally asked her about it. But she admitted it and said she was four months along. I may not teach math but I can do simple addition." She twisted the cap on her bottle, the snapping motion being the only sound in the room, and proceeded to drown half the bottle of liquid.
The men looked at one another, their eye contact communicating an unspoken affirmation, facial expressions agreeing with their previous assessment, stiff postures prepared for a few more blows of the truth.
"And?" John asked, urging her to continue and confirm their suspicions.
"Everything - my training, my experiences, my observations- they all told me that Audrey had been assaulted. It fit to a tee." She bit her lip again, her chin jutting out to the side. A simple act performed under stress. A habit for moments that evoked thoughts and memories to storm. A weight on delicate matters.
John opted to ignore her reference to experiences, deciding it would not help in their investigation. Fin's accusatory voice interrupted his thoughts and her narrative. "If you thought she had been assaulted, why didn't you do something about it?"
She cast a glare at him, obvious distaste radiating from her. "I don't like what you are implying, Detective," she said, stressing the last word. "I did everything I could. I tried to get her parents to see the situation for what it was. Not some freak accident like Mrs. Bennett saw it but as a violation. I encouraged her, begged her, to let Audrey go see someone about what was going on. But she didn't listen. She may have been a great mother but when it came to this instance, denial was her religion. I went back to Audrey. I told her I understood. I told her she could talk to me. And you know what she said?" she asked, a newfound energy surging through her blood fueled by Fin's approach. Not waiting for an answer she continued. "She said I was wrong. Said that it was one night with the wrong boy. And then she begged me to leave it alone. She begged me to drop it. Finally I decided she needed my support and friendship more than my insistence. I tried the best that I could so don't you dare go saying I didn't do anything."
Her voice forbid any argument and left Fin stunned. Deciding that it was best to avert disaster John spoke up. "Forgive my partner. He tends to stick his foot in his mouth. Really lacks in people skills, you know?" he said with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood.
She sighed, pushing away from the table and walking towards the isolated corridor in the back of the room. "My next class starts in ten minutes. So if you aren't afraid of the dark and still have questions, follow me," she said, disappearing into the darkened maze.
Fin and John stepped into the darkened chamber, the only light radiating from a red lamp hanging overhead. A large basin sat in the middle of the room, trays filled with liquid situated in rows. Melinda exited a side closet wearing a long plastic apron and oversized plastic gloves, carrying a heavy white bucket, its colorless contents emptying into the containers.
She let the water run into the basin, adjusting the temperature as it filled the tub. Leaning against the stand, she turned her face to look at John, averting Fin's eyes. "When Audrey's parents died in August, she cut off all ties. The last time I saw her was at their service. I called, stopped by, emailed her, and left messages. The only assurance I had that she was alive was on the rare occasions when she answered one of my calls. On two separate visits that I made to her apartment, she talked to me through the door. Saying that I couldn't help her. That nobody could. She insisted that I stay away. The last time I spoke with her was over a month ago." Her voice was drained. Weary. An indication of an exhaustion caused by too many failed attempts. Too many shortcomings as a friend. Too many unsuccessful efforts to tear down walls.
John detected the sudden loss of momentum, the feeling when frustration and disappointment overpower reason. "Ms. Clarke, I only have a couple more questions for you," he said, his hand propped on the side of the large basin.
"Go ahead," she said, nodding at John and returning to the task of arranging the trays.
"Where did Audrey keep her work? Her prints and materials?"
She looked at John, tossing her head to one side, flipping the strands of hair that had come loose back over her shoulder. "All the girls have lockers. Audrey's is located in one of the halls, I'm not exactly sure as to which one. Her second one is on the other side of this room. The girls keep their prints, chemicals, papers and other supplies there. I'd open it for you but Audrey is the only one who knows the combination. And without warrants, Dawson will have you out of here before you can say 'arrogant bitch'."
"I see," John said, adding a few more scribbles to the pages he'd written on over the last half hour. He considered his next question, realizing that he was most likely chasing a dead-end hunch. He looked up again and continued, "You also said that your students were working on their term projects. Did you know what the subject of Audrey's was?" he asked, rolling the pen between his fingertips.
She nodded, having finally put the bucket away, and approached the maze that led back into the classroom, motioning for the detectives to follow. She leaned against the glass window and crossed her arms, nodding her head. "A portrait on crime in Manhattan."
Fin turned to Munch, pulling his arm and leaning towards his shoulder. "Novak's gotta get us a warrant for Audrey's stuff. I have a feeling something's on those pictures."
John let a shallow 'yeah' escape his lips, taking a few steps forward. "Thank you for your help Ms. Clarke. You have really helped us out," he said, extending his hand towards hers. She extended her hand, shaking it loosely in his grasp.
"You're welcome. Um, Detective," she said, her unspoken question seeming to linger in the air.
"Yeah?"
"Where is Audrey right now?" she asked, a tinge of optimism icing the question.
John had tied his coat around his lanky form; his expression slightly softer than it had been in the morning, while Fin stood outside of the classroom. He relaxed his posture and turned towards the door, pausing at the frame and looking back at her. "Mt. Sinai's," he answered, his hand trailing behind as he waved her goodbye.
Melinda Clarke looked around the room, still bathed in a shallow light. She approached the shades, drawing the string towards her slowly, the light finally filling the area and chasing away the darkness of conversations and truths. Her lip turned up slightly, and she closed her eyes as the sun let its warmth wash over her. A hushed phrase escaped her lips and disappeared into the empty space where the only noise continued to come from the clock that tantalized her with the passage of time. "Thank you."