The Jodi Picoult Collection Read online

  “That’s not my problem,” she snapped.

  Houlihan sighed. “I couldn’t care less who’s the dealer here, Gillian. That’s not in the least important to my case. What I need to know is if you drank any of the tea that night.”

  Before Gilly could answer, the telephone rang. The county attorney picked it up, spoke for a moment, and then turned, apologetic. “I have to see someone before they go off to trial,” he explained. “Will you excuse me?”

  Two seconds later, Gillian was alone in the office.

  Had she taken the drugs that night? Well, of course. But hearing that wasn’t going to make Houlihan happy. Someone who took a hallucinogen wasn’t a reliable eyewitness.

  Then again, it had been nearly six weeks. No drug stayed in your system that long, especially one ingested in such a small volume. Houlihan could draw blood this instant and never know if Gillian was lying.

  The ER had drawn blood.

  The memory hit her; the doctor drawing vial after vial. Chewing on her bottom lip, Gillian stared at the folder on Houlihan’s desk.

  It took her less than a second to decide to open it. The front page gave the lab results from the rape kit. She skimmed the odd numbers and phrases until she came to the typing for VICTIM, KNOWN SAMPLE. And all the drugs for which she had tested negative.

  Atropine wasn’t on the list . . . but it hadn’t been flagged in her system, either.

  She slid the folder back on the edge of the leather blotter just as Houlihan came in. “I didn’t drink anything,” Gilly said.

  “You’re absolutely certain?”

  “Yes. Meg borrowed my thermos, but she brought iced tea. I hate iced tea.”

  The lawyer studied her, then nodded, satisfied. He opened a drawer of his butt-ugly metal desk and began to unravel a silver ribbon. “You have any idea what this is?”

  “No,” she said, letting it slide through her fingers. “Where did you find it?”

  “With the thermos and cups.”

  “Well,” Gillian shrugged. “Then it must be Meg’s, too.”

  Addie came into the diner after the dinner rush to find Darla playing chess with her father in the kitchen. “You’re back,” Roy said.

  An apron—her father was wearing an apron. Before she could get past this startling fact, Darla was in her face. “I had to work double shifts, on account of Delilah getting sick, and don’t think I’m not expecting time and a half.” Turning to Roy, she said, “Check,” and then sashayed into the front room.

  “Look at you,” Addie said, swallowing past the sadness in her throat.

  “Yeah.” Her father laughed, twirling like a beauty queen. “Go figure.”

  “First time I up and leave, you go . . . you go . . .” That was as far as she got, and then the tears came. Exhausted, tired from putting on a brave face for Jack, she moved into her father’s embrace, which had always been the softest spot in the world.

  “Ah, Addie,” he said. “I’m sorry about him.”

  Addie drew back. “He’s innocent, Daddy.”

  “Then why are you crying?”

  “Because,” Addie said, “I’m the only one who thinks so.”

  Roy walked to the stove, then poured her a bowl of potato leek soup. This he set down in front of his daughter with a spoon. “Eat,” he ordered.

  “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”

  He lifted the spoon to her mouth, made the soup trickle down the constriction of her throat. “Isn’t that fine?”

  Addie nodded and lifted the spoon herself. Meanwhile, Roy moved around his kitchen, heaping potatoes and steamed carrots, breads and stuffings and gravies, all onto a tremendous platter. He piled it high with starches and placed it in front of Addie.

  This time, she didn’t even hesitate. She tucked into the meal with a hunger she had not even known she’d had, until her belly swelled. “Better?” he asked.

  Addie realized she no longer hurt inside. She imagined all these soft foods, rices and puddings and couscous, forming an extra barrier within. Her father had filled her, because he knew better than anyone that the best way to prevent a heartache was to cushion the coming blow.

  “Relax,” Gillian said, looking at each of her friends. “They don’t know anything.”

  They were sitting in a small garden behind the Duncan household, one hidden from public view by a thicket of roses. “My dad is gonna kill me,” Chelsea said. “If he finds out there were drugs there—”

  “Why were there drugs there?” Whitney demanded. “I’m a little curious, Gill, since you were the one responsible for bringing the refreshments.” The others looked at Gillian, too. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t have tried it . . . but I would have liked to have had the choice.”

  “Whit, don’t be such a priss. It was a pinch of stuff, so little that it wouldn’t even affect you. God, you’d have gotten more of a buzz from a wine cooler.” Gillian stared intently at the others. “Think hard. Do any of you remember getting high that night?”

  “I was dancing around without a shirt on,” Whitney hissed.

  “Before you drank a damn thing,” Gilly pointed out.

  Meg’s eyes were dark, striped with betrayal. “My dad says it screws up the case.”

  “Matt Houlihan doesn’t think so,” Gillian said.

  “Only because you told him that the drugs were mine. If a jury hears that you were stoned, they’re not going to believe anything you say.”

  “I wasn’t stoned, Meg. No more than you were.”

  “Then how come I have to be the fall guy?”

  Gillian narrowed her eyes. “Because if you don’t, it’s going to hurt all of us.”

  “Says who?”

  The other girls shrank back at Meg’s response. You didn’t cross Gilly. Everyone knew that.

  “Look, Meg, this isn’t about you or me; it’s about sticking together so that our stories match. The minute that starts to fall apart, so does everything else.” Gillian swallowed, her throat working.

  “You aren’t the only one who can’t forget that night. But the difference between us is that you don’t want to.” Meg’s hands closed into fists. “You are so fucking full of it, Gillian. If I tell my father I never saw the thermos before, you think he’ll assume we’re witches? No, he’ll believe exactly what I tell him . . . that you brought it so we could get high.”

  Gillian went white. “You wouldn’t, Meg.”

  “Why not?” Meg said, pushing her way out of the rose arbor. “You did it to me.”

  “That,” Matt sighed, “is heaven. Do it again.”

  In her stocking feet, Sydney Houlihan gingerly stepped on the small of her husband’s back. He grunted, his face ground into the carpet. Beside them, in her baby seat, Molly clapped. “I don’t think this is the smartest thing for her to see,” Sydney said.

  “What? Mommy walking all over Daddy? She’s a little young for metaphors.” Matt grunted as Sydney hit a particularly sore spot. “You know why I married you?”

  “Because I was the only woman who agreed to this kinky stuff?”

  “Because you weigh exactly the right amount.”

  Sydney carefully stepped onto the carpet and sat down cross-legged. “So what was it this time?”

  “What was what?”

  “Your back always gets pretzeled when you’re stressed out about a case.”

  Matt rolled over. “Married you for your ESP, too.” He drew his knees up, stretching muscles along his spine. “Gillian’s friends were taking drugs the night of the rape.”

  “And Gillian?”

  “Said she wasn’t.”

  Sydney shrugged. “So?”

  “Well, no matter what, it’s exculpatory. I have to turn it over to the defense.”

  “It doesn’t change the fact that she was raped, does it?”

  “No,” Matt said slowly.

  Sydney raised her brows. “You think she’s lying to you.”

  “Ah, hell.” Matt got to his feet and started pacing. “I d