That last line hit me hard. I didn’t cry; I just stared at that sentence, wondering why bad things happen to good people, as if I were the first person in the world to ever ask the question. I killed the engine and swung the car door open.
Composed of a trio of buildings, graduate student housing was billed on its official website as “a friendly neighborhood consisting of eighty-eight scholars hailing from different countries across the globe.” I couldn’t care less. I just needed to talk to two of those eighty-eight. Not coincidentally, they shared an apartment on the fourth floor of Building 3.
After knocking on the door, I stood back from the peephole so whoever was inside could get a good look. A redhead with soft bangs wearing a Banana Slug hoodie answered the door. I must’ve looked respectable.
“Can I help you?”
“I called yesterday. I’m Elizabeth’s sister.”
Elizabeth’s room was clean and well-lit, but otherwise unremarkable: a bed, a nightstand, a desk, a swivel chair, and a bulletin board without a single note. All standard issue from the university. No posters. No photographs. Aside from a trio of succulents on the windowsill, it was as if Elizabeth hadn’t made herself at home. At the foot of her bed stood a bookcase filled with literary classics, trashy best sellers, and phone book — sized anthologies, many of them stacked artfully, others shoved haphazardly into every available nook. If there had ever been an earthquake in the middle of the night, the looming bookcase could have easily crushed Elizabeth in her sleep. She didn’t have to worry about that anymore.
On the top shelf stood a little plastic doll — a woman in a frilly bonnet wearing an old-fashioned blue dress. She held a book in one hand and a quill in the other. I’d never seen it out of the package. I couldn’t help myself; I had to pick it up.
“That’s Jane Austen,” said Alice, the redhead. “Don’t feel bad. I didn’t know who it was either. I thought it was an Amish woman!”
I smiled and put the figure down carefully.
“I should probably give you some privacy,” Alice said.
“Actually, do you mind chatting with me for a bit?”
“Not at all.” Alice sat across from me on Elizabeth’s bed.
“I’d like to learn more about my sister’s life here in Santa Cruz before she...” I let the sentence trail off and put my head in my hands. The tears came easily.
“Lizzy was a great person!” Alice exclaimed, as if enthusiasm alone could mute my feelings. “She was super nice. Polite. Always kept the common areas clean. I never had any problems with her.”
Nice? Polite? Clean? Obviously, Alice barely knew Elizabeth.
“And Lizzy was such a go-getter!” she added. “Always attending some conference or taking a research trip. She even taught her own class!”
“What about her social life? Did she have any friends? I mean, besides you.”
Alice looked embarrassed; clearly, she didn’t count herself as a friend.
“Was she seeing anyone? The police didn’t say.”
“Yeah, she was... His name was Chet, I think.”
“Chet?” I laughed. “What do you know about him?”
“Not much. He’s handsome. Oh, and he’s in the creative writing program.”
“Does he live in student housing too?”
“No, Lizzy said he lives near the Boardwalk. In that old apartment complex with the bell tower. God, he must be devastated.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah, he had it bad. He sent her bouquets of flowers, one after the other, right up until the, until the—” Alice tried to catch herself.
“Until the end?”
“Yeah, sorry.” She averted her eyes.
“Don’t worry about it. When’s the last time you saw Chet?”
“Maybe a month back. I came home late. To be honest, it kinda freaked me out seeing a guy come out of our bathroom in the middle of the night.” Alice pointed to the hallway. “The funny thing is, he looked twice as scared as me and super embarrassed.”
“I see.” An uncomfortable silence hung in the air.
“It must’ve been an accident, right?” Alice said. “I know grad school is stressful, but I didn’t think she’d commit suicide.”
“She’s not the type. Believe me, I’d know.”
“Of course, you’re sisters.”
We exchanged polite smiles.
“Y’know,” Alice said, grinning like she’d just thought of the perfect joke, “I sort of forgot that Elizabeth was adopted.”
“Adopted? What makes you say that?”
“Uh, well, I—” Her smile faded.
“You don’t detect a family resemblance?”
“Um...”
Before I could let Alice off the hook, I heard the front door open.
“That must be Natalie,” Alice said. “You should talk to her. She and Lizzy were in the same department.”
We stared at the open door until Natalie came into view. A black Bettie Page bob framed a pair of deep blue eyes and a delicate face. In one hand, she clutched a large soft drink and in the other, a bag of takeout that was sweating with grease.
“Natalie,” Alice called out, “come here and meet Lizzy’s sister.”
I stood up, but Natalie’s hands were full, so instead of offering my hand to shake, I gave her a little wave and sat back down.
The sound of crickets chirping punctuated the awkward moment, as Alice scrambled to silence her phone. “Sorry, that’s my cue to leave. I have a meeting with my advisor.”
We exchanged pleasantries, and I remained seated as Alice left the apartment.
“So, why are you here again?” Natalie asked between sips of soda.
“To learn more about Elizabeth.” I made a gesture inviting her to take a seat. She refused, towering over me.
“Liz was a slut,” she announced, the smell of french fries on her breath.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, Liz. Was. A. Slut.”
I jumped to my feet. “How could you even say that to me?”
“Easy. Liz didn’t have a sister. So you better tell me who the hell you are before I call the cops.”
I felt numb. Instead of offering a quick denial, I smiled to suggest that Natalie’s accusation hadn’t rankled me one bit. “Okay, you caught me. I’m not Elizabeth’s sister. No relation at all. I’m Stephanie Williams of the Santa Cruz Sentinel, and I’m doing a story on Elizabeth’s death.”
“So you pretended to be her sister?”
“Sorry. I didn’t think anyone would talk to me if I told the truth.”
“Sounds a little unethical to me.” Natalie sat on the bed, suddenly interested.
“There’s a story here. I’m sure of it. Elizabeth was intelligent, beautiful, and in the prime of her life — and then, suddenly, she ends up at the bottom of a ravine? Why kill herself?”
“Have the police confirmed it was a suicide?” Natalie asked.
“Not yet. But depression is a big problem among graduate students. I thought I could shed some light on Elizabeth’s story.”
“Of course.”
“So, is it true?”
“Is what true?” Natalie asked.
“You called her a slut.”
“Well, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but Liz didn’t exactly play hard to get, if you know what I mean.”
“Alice didn’t mention anything like that.”
“Her room is on the other end of the apartment. She couldn’t hear a peep.”
“But you could.”
“Hard to miss. I’m right next door.”
“And what exactly did you hear?”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, if you must know, she and her... boyfriend made so much freakin’ noise.” Something about the way Natalie said “boyfriend” made it sound illegitimate. “I teach a discussion section at nine in the morning. Hard to get any sleep with her going at it all night.”