Fine.
Being a fairly slack user of Facebook and Twitter herself, that aspect of it hasn’t actually been hard at all.
But Jesus H. Christ… the fucking TV?
This morning it just seemed too ridiculous. She’d finished a long paper and prepared a detailed set of notes for her next one, and…
Enough was enough.
She was only doing it, in any case, to keep her boyfriend’s asshole of a brother happy. So she turned on the goddamn TV, and started watching the first thing she came across, which happened to be live coverage of the Connie Carillo murder trial.
But now maybe she’s had her fill of that. For the moment, at least. Now maybe-and for the first time since last Saturday-she’s going to find a cable news channel and plug into what’s going on outside in the wider world, the one beyond this shithole of an apartment on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.
Frank Bishop arrives in the small town of Atherton just before noon. The college is situated about a mile north of the town, so he decides to stop first and find a cheap restaurant or diner where he can sit for a while over coffee and gather his thoughts.
Atherton itself is pretty short on charm, mainly consisting of car dealerships, strip malls, fast food joints, and sports bars. He parks on a side street off Main and wanders around in search of what he soon realizes is probably an elusive dream-the classic small-town diner with its chrome fittings, soda fountain, and tabletop jukeboxes.
The nearest thing he finds is either a Wendy’s or a Chicken Pit. Two years ago when he came here with Lizzie they had lunch at the Great Lakes Grill and Bistro, an indulgence he can no longer afford.
He chooses the Chicken Pit.
The coffee is undrinkable, the blueberry muffin he got to go with it inedible, but at least he can sit in his little booth, staring out the window, undisturbed.
And now that he’s here, of course, he feels like an idiot. Because how uncool is this going to be for Lizzie… her old man turning up unannounced, and even-if he’s not careful, if he can’t keep a lid on recent developments-presenting as borderline unhinged?
At the same time, though, when he looks down at his cell phone on the table between his keys and coffee cup, Frank is reminded of why he decided to come up here in the first place.
It’s perfectly simple.
Lizzie doesn’t go this long without returning a call. It might be a chore, and he might be a pain in the ass-but she doesn’t go five days, not when her old man is so clearly anxious to talk to her. And that’s what he should have pressed home to Deb yesterday when they spoke.
That this has never happened before.
Not like this.
Formulating the thought makes Frank’s insides turn.
He shuffles out of the booth and gathers up his keys and phone.
Out on Main Street, it occurs to him that he could have just called the college administration people and had them check up on her, but he’s also pretty sure that Lizzie would have regarded that as a serious breach of trust.
Considerably worse than what he is about to do.
Because just showing up won’t necessarily compromise or embarrass her. Anyway, he doesn’t care, he’s here now, and at this stage he actually needs to see her. It’s an imperative. It’s become that way.
He drives north out of Atherton and within a couple of minutes is approaching the sprawling campus. To the left there are residence halls, three of them, known locally as the Projects, and to the right there is the more severe, clean-lines administration block. Get past these and you enter a sort of sylvan grove, mostly single-story buildings arranged on scenic, grassy quads and tree-lined courtyards that house the various academic departments, dining halls, libraries, and student health and community centers.
He parks in a visitor’s space in front of the Administration Building and gets out of the car. But standing there, he realizes something. He feels weirdly self-conscious. It’s as though he’s guilty of something, or is about to be.
He looks around.
Where should he go first?
The easiest thing would be to wander the campus for a while and just randomly bump into Lizzie. Then he could be out of here in five minutes.
But that’s a pretty unlikely scenario.
He looks over toward the residence halls, focusing on the middle one.
Is she in her rooms?
Maybe, but he can’t just go in there, not without a security pass.
He needs to take this slowly. No one else is in a panic here. So he shouldn’t be. Besides, it’s lunchtime. Everywhere he looks, people are… having lunch.
On benches, on lawns.
He decides to wander around for a while anyway. He passes the Science Building and the main dining hall. He crosses the central quad, walks along by the Van Loon Auditorium, and then makes his way over toward the tennis and basketball courts. At this point he stops at a bench himself and sits down.
But what is he doing?
Almost immediately he stands up again and walks back the way he came-quickly, straight toward the Administration Building.
He goes into the main office. There are two women working behind a high reception counter.
He feels he’s blurting it out, but the information seems to get across, and within a minute the woman he’s dealing with is on the phone. There’s a brief exchange, and then some waiting. Frank starts drumming his fingers on the counter, but stops himself almost immediately.
“There’s no response from her room. I’ll-”
The woman cuts herself short and hits another number. There’s a second brief exchange, which Frank finds it difficult to hear, because a separate conversation is now taking place next to them.
When the woman has finished, she looks back at Frank. “There’ll be someone over to see you in a moment.”
“Who?” Franks says, a little too quickly.
“It’s the house RA. She’ll be able to help you.” The woman pauses. “If you’d care to take a seat?”
Frank takes a few steps backward and sits down.
She’s not in her rooms.
That doesn’t have to mean anything. She could be anywhere. In the library. At a lecture. Having lunch, like everyone else.
After a short while, Frank looks up and sees a young woman approaching. She’s tall, thin, and pale, with long red hair. She’s dressed… half like a hippie and half like a corporate executive. This weird, mix-it-up dress code seems to be de rigueur on campus.
“Mr. Bishop?” she says, extending a hand.
“Yes.”
They shake.
“I’m Sally Peake, the resident assistant in Lizzie’s house.” She holds up her cell phone. “I’ve just spoken with Lizzie’s roommate, Rachel, and… she says Lizzie is away for the week.”
Frank looks at her. “Away? I don’t understand. Away where?”
“Er, I don’t know, Mr. Bishop. Just away. That’s all she said.”
“But-”
“Would you like to speak with Rachel yourself? I could take you over there right now.”
Frank pauses. “Yeah. Okay.” He nods. “Thanks.”
A few minutes later they enter the third-floor hallway of Lizzie’s residence. When they’re about halfway along, a door opens and Rachel Clissmann appears, a good-looking, sun-blushed, sporty type in a floral-print dress and thick black-rimmed glasses. Frank met her once before, in the city, at some celebration. She looked different then, and he barely recognizes her now.
“Mr. Bishop.”
“Rachel.”
She shows them in. Frank feels slightly out of place here, standing in this small room, with these two young women. But he glances around nevertheless, taking everything in-the bookshelves, the Shaker table and chairs, the candles and crystals and cushions, the implausible neatness, the scented atmosphere of wellness and moderation. He’s prepared to bet that not all of the rooms on the third or any other floor here are like this.