“Tell them I’ll be right there,” Glenda said. Once the door was shut again, she turned back to Phoebe. “To be continued.”
Glenda slid off the desk, circled back around it, and retrieved a manila folder resting on the far corner. She handed it to Phoebe.
“Here’s a copy of everything from Alexis Grey’s file,” she said. “I shouldn’t be sharing this with you, so don’t let anyone see it.”
“Got it.”
“And Fee? Thanks again for last night. For understanding why we need to keep this under wraps.”
“Are you worried about Ball, though? You told me the other day that you don’t totally trust him.”
“I still need to keep my eye on him, but last night I actually felt that we were on the same page.”
As Phoebe walked across campus moments later, she realized that she still hadn’t said a word to Glenda about Duncan. She’d have to do it the next time.
As soon as her eleven o’clock class was over, Phoebe rushed home to meet the locksmith. He turned out to be about twenty, tall, with lanky black hair and a sleeve of tattoos on his right arm. While he drilled the back door, Phoebe made a sweep through the house, checking that no one had snuck in this morning, but everything seemed in order.
After the locksmith left, Phoebe fixed a late lunch and lit a sandalwood-scented candle. Getting the back-door lock fixed had brought all the bad stuff about last night rushing back, making Phoebe feel jittery again, and she wanted something to help her relax. Just a couple of days ago she had begun to finally feel at home in Herb’s tiny house, but now the walls seemed to be pressing on her.
With sandwich in hand, she settled in her office and opened the manila envelope Glenda had turned over to her. There were about ten pages all together—Alexis’s application to Lyle, her transcript, and notes Tom Stockton had made about her night in the ER. She spread the contents out across her desk. What Phoebe needed was a “cover” that would allow her to elicit info from Alexis’s family about her whereabouts at this time, and hopefully the contents would inspire one.
As she began to peruse the pages, Phoebe felt the funny tingle that so often came when she submerged herself in research. She was good at interviewing people, she knew—good at probing and listening and teasing out the truth from the ramblings and lies—but just as much, perhaps even more, she loved the research. She called it “Sherlocking.” She would comb through old letters and papers, or endless pages of information on the Web, for the tiny nugget that would open a secret door for her.
Alexis had earned only average college board scores, but she’d paid her dues in high school, not only finishing with all A’s and B’s but also working her tail off in a string of extracurricular activities—basketball, tennis, student council, community service. Obviously Alexis’s family had money, because rather than work, the girl had spent three different summers with a group called Hartney, which offered teen cultural trips abroad. She’d been to Australia, France, and Spain. An idea formed in Phoebe’s mind.
Alexis’s mother was listed on the information form as a homemaker. With any luck, she would be home now. Phoebe tried the number.
“Mrs. Grey?” Phoebe asked after a woman answered with a clipped hello.
“Yes?” the woman said.
“Good morning, I’m Phoebe Smart from Hartney Student Travel. We’re doing a major survey of parents whose kids have taken part in our programs—in the hope of enhancing what we do. Do you have a moment to answer some questions?”
“You’ve caught me just as I’m getting ready to go out. Is the survey long?”
“No, no, just a few questions. And your feedback will help enormously.”
“All right, then,” the woman said. “If it’s only a few.”
“Am I right to assume Alexis was happy with our programs? She did three of them.”
“Yes, she was quite pleased with them. Needless to say they’re exorbitantly expensive, but we felt they were worth it.”
“And what did she like best about them?”
“She loved the kids,” the mother said. “And the itineraries were good. She always felt she was learning something.”
“Did one program stand out for her more than the others? She was in Australia the longest, of course.”
“She loved Australia, yes. But they were all good in their own way.”
“And what is she up to now? Is she in college?”
There was a moment’s pause before the mother answered.
“She’ll be going to the University of Maryland in January.”
“Oh, that’s a great school,” Phoebe said. “But she’s not studying anyplace right now?”
“No—she’s working at the moment. At the Gap in the Crossgates Mall here. You know, just taking some time off.”
“Of course. A lot of the kids we’ve tracked down have taken a break here and—”
“I hate to cut you off, but my ride for tennis is here. I really need to go.”
“Not a problem.” Phoebe thought of quickly asking for Alexis’s cell number but was afraid it would set off an alarm. She knew where Alexis worked, and that was a good start.
After hanging up, Phoebe checked Facebook for Alexis but, interestingly, there was no page for her. She then Googled the mall and looked up directions. The trip was going to take roughly three hours. She decided she would leave right after an early breakfast the next day.
Phoebe was making the trip in the hope that time would have helped quell the girl’s fears and that she’d finally be open to talking, but Phoebe knew there was just as good a chance Alexis would still be reluctant to divulge anything. If only I knew more about the Sixes, Phoebe thought, it would give me an advantage in trying to pry information from Alexis.
She let her mind wander for a moment and then reached again for her phone. Several years ago, for a book she’d written on former child stars, she’d interviewed a psychologist named Candace Aikens whose specialty was adolescent girls and women in their twenties. Phoebe had been more than impressed by the woman’s insight, and she wondered if Aikens might have some wisdom to share on this subject. She looked up the number in her log, punched it on her phone, then left a message on voice mail.
Just thirty minutes later, as Phoebe was scrolling through e-mail she’d been ignoring for days, Dr. Aikens called back.
“I’m teaching at a small college for a semester, and I was hoping to pick your brain about something that’s happening here,” Phoebe explained.
“Sure, I’ll do my best. Tough group to understand, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, bit of a challenge for me. They just seem so different from people I knew in my twenties. Here’s the issue I’m dealing with: there appears to be a secret society of girls here. We haven’t got a lot to go on yet, but we do know that they like to play nasty pranks and that one of their former members ended up in the ER with a panic attack, saying they were after her.”
“Ahh, I’m seeing a lot of mean girl behavior like that these days.”
“But even at the college level?”
“Absolutely. They band together almost like a pack of wolves. I call it girl power gone wild.”
“Define wild, will you?” Phoebe said. “What kind of things do they do?”
“Bully. Intimidate. They can be very aggressive sexually—predatory, almost. For instance, keeping track of guys they’ve slept with and sharing the info. It’s behavior you used to only see with guys.”
“I know that young girls can be mean. But it just seems so surprising in girls this age.”
“Not anymore, because our culture has come to allow it. Look at what you see on these reality television shows. It’s okay to be a roaring bitch or flip over a table on someone. In fact, it’s prized.”