Choose Me Read online

  Yet here she is, parked once again in Packard’s Corner.

  A woman emerges from the building, and Frankie jerks to attention. She watches as the woman crosses the street and walks past Frankie’s vehicle, obviously unaware she is being watched, but Frankie is certainly aware of her. The woman is fair haired, bundled up against the cold in black leggings and a white down jacket that is formfitting enough to reveal a narrow waist and slim hips. Frankie used to have a figure like that, back in the days before the twins arrived. Before middle age and too many hours sitting at her desk and too many meals wolfed down in a rush expanded her hips, ballooned out her thighs.

  In the rearview mirror, Frankie watches the woman walk away toward the T station. She thinks about getting out of her car and following her. Thinks about introducing herself and suggesting they have a civilized little chat, woman to woman, perhaps at the coffee shop down the street, but she cannot bring herself to step out of the car. In Frankie’s long career as a cop, she’s kicked open doors, tracked down killers, and twice stared down the barrel of a gun, yet she cannot bring herself to confront Ms. Lorraine Conover, age forty-six, a sales clerk at Macy’s with no criminal record.

  The woman walks around the corner and disappears from sight.

  Frankie slumps back in her seat, not yet ready to start the engine, not ready to face what other horrors this day will bring.

  One dead girl is bad enough.

  BEFORE

  THREE MONTHS EARLIER

  CHAPTER 2

  TARYN

  No one knew she was there. No one ever would.

  At nine thirty in the morning, all the tenants on the second floor should be out of the building. The Abernathys in apartment 2A, who used to be annoyingly friendly with Taryn, by now would have left for their jobs, his in the City of Boston’s Auditing Department, hers in the Office of Neighborhood Development. The two engineering grad students who lived in 2B should be somewhere on campus, huddled over their laptops. The blondes in 2C should have shaken off their usual weekend hangovers and stumbled off to classes at Commonwealth.

  No one should be home in 2D either. By now, Liam was headed to his econ class on the far side of campus, a fifteen-minute walk away. After econ he had German III, then he’d eat lunch, probably his usual sub sandwich with extra jalapeños in the student union, and then it would be poli-sci. Taryn knew every detail of his schedule, just as she knew every inch of this apartment.

  She turned the key, quietly pushed open the door, and stepped inside 2D. It was larger and so much nicer than her own crappy apartment, which smelled like mildew and old pipes. Here, when she took a deep breath, what she smelled was him. The velvety steam that still lingered after his morning shower. The citrus notes of his Sauvage aftershave. The yeasty scent of the whole wheat toast he always ate for breakfast. All the smells she missed so much.

  Everywhere she looked brought back a happy memory. There was the sofa where they used to spend Saturday nights watching cheesy horror flicks, her head nestled against his shoulder, his arm draped around her. There was the bookshelf where their photo had once been prominently displayed. In that photo, taken the summer they’d both graduated from high school, they were standing on Bald Rock Mountain with their arms around each other, his windblown blond hair lit up like a golden halo in the sunlight. Liam and Taryn, forever. Where was that photo now? Where had he hidden it?

  She went into the kitchen and remembered their Sunday-morning pancakes and mimosas mixed with cheap cava because real champagne was too expensive. On the kitchen counter was the stack of yesterday’s mail, the envelopes already slit open. She read the note sent by his mother, along with the clipping from their hometown newspaper. Dr. Howard Reilly, Liam’s father, had received the town’s new Citizen of the Year award. Whoop-de-do. She flipped through the rest of his mail—a rent bill, an envelope of pizza coupons, and a credit card application. At the bottom of the stack was a thick brochure for Stanford Law School. Why was he looking at Stanford? She knew he was applying to law schools, but not once had he ever mentioned going to California. They’d already agreed that after graduation, they would both stay in Boston. That was their pact. It was what they’d always planned.

  It was just a brochure. It didn’t mean anything.

  She opened the refrigerator and surveyed old friends on the shelves: sriracha and Hellmann’s mayonnaise and Yoo-hoo. But among these familiar condiments lurked an alien invader: Chobani yogurt, low fat. This should not be here. In all the years she’d known Liam, she’d never seen him eat yogurt. He despised it. The sight of this anomaly was so unnerving it made her wonder if she’d accidentally walked into the wrong apartment and opened the wrong refrigerator. If she’d wandered into a parallel universe where an imposter Liam resided, a Liam who ate yogurt and was planning to move to California.

  Unsettled, she went into the bedroom, where, on weekend nights, their cast-off clothes used to lie tangled like lovers on the floor, his shirt flung across her blouse. Here, too, something was not right. His bed was made, the sheets neatly tucked in and squared off in hospital corners, the proper way one made a bed. When had he learned to make hospital corners? When had he ever made his own bed? She always used to do it for him.

  She opened his closet and surveyed the shirts lined up on hangers, some of them still draped in plastic from the laundry service. She plucked up a sleeve and pressed her face to the crisp cotton, remembering all the times she used to rest her head against his shoulder. But these freshly laundered shirts smelled only of soap and starch. Anonymous smells.

  She closed the closet door and went into the bathroom.

  In the toothbrush holder, where hers also used to perch, his toothbrush now stood alone and forlorn, missing its mate. She lifted the lid to the laundry hamper, dug through the dirty clothes, and pulled out a T-shirt. She buried her face in it, and the scent intoxicated her. He had so many other T-shirts; he would never miss this one. She stuffed it into her backpack to keep as her secret Liam fix, something to tide her over while they played out this farce of “taking a break from each other.” Surely their separation wouldn’t last much longer. They’d been together so long that they’d grown into a single organism, their flesh melded, their lives forever bound. He just needed time to realize how much he missed her.

  She stepped out into the hallway and quietly pulled the door shut. Except for stealing his T-shirt, she’d left everything in his apartment exactly as she’d found it. He wouldn’t know she’d been here; he never did.

  Outside an icy wind swept between the buildings, and she pulled up the hood of her jacket, wound her scarf more tightly. She’d lingered here for far too long; if she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for class. But she couldn’t help pausing on the sidewalk to take one last look at his apartment.

  That was when she noticed the face gazing down at her from the window. It was one of the blondes in 2C. Why wasn’t she already on campus, where she was supposed to be? While Taryn had been rummaging through Liam’s apartment, this woman was still at home. They stared at each other, and Taryn wondered if the other woman had heard her moving about in the rooms next door. Would she tell Liam about the visit?

  Taryn’s heart was thudding as she walked away. Maybe the blonde hadn’t heard her. Even if she had, she’d have no reason to mention it to Liam. Taryn used to spend every weekend here with him and had been in the building dozens of times before.

  No, there was no reason to panic. No reason to think he’d ever know.

  She picked up her pace. If she hurried, she could still make it to class on time.

  CHAPTER 3

  JACK

  Her name was Taryn Moore, and she slunk into Professor Jack Dorian’s life on the first day of the semester, entering the seminar room dressed in a silver bomber jacket and shiny black tights that lacquered the bottom half of her body. They were already ten minutes into the class, and she murmured an apology as she squeezed her way past the other students crammed into the small room and took th
e last open seat at the conference table. Jack could not help registering how alluring she was as she slid into her chair, her figure as lithe as a dancer’s, her windblown dark hair with reddish highlights. She settled beside a chubby guy in a Red Sox cap, set her notebook on the table, and fixed Jack with a look so direct that for a fleeting moment he nearly forgot what he’d been saying.

  There were fifteen in the class, all that could comfortably fit into the English Department’s cramped seminar room. The group was small enough for Jack to soon commit their names to memory.

  “And you are?” he asked, glancing down at the list of students enrolled in his Star-Crossed Lovers seminar. It was an admittedly gimmicky name for the course he’d created, exploring the theme of doomed love in literature from antiquity to the present day. What better way to entice jaded college seniors to read The Aeneid, The Romance of Tristan and Iseult, Medea, or Romeo and Juliet than to wrap it all up in a sexy package of love, lust, and ultimate tragedy? What unlucky circumstances led to the lovers’ deaths? What religious, political, and societal forces doomed their romances?

  “Taryn Moore,” she said.

  “Welcome, Taryn,” he said, adding a check mark to the name. He found where he’d left off in his notes and continued the lecture, but he was still distracted by the woman at the end of the table. Maybe that was why he avoided looking at her. Even then, on that very first day, some instinct must have warned him to be careful.

  Four weeks into the semester, his instincts proved right.

  They were discussing the twelfth-century letters of Abelard and Heloise. Abelard was older, a famous philosopher and theologian at Notre Dame. Heloise was his intellectually gifted student. Despite a host of social and religious taboos forbidding their romance, Abelard and Heloise became lovers. Pregnant with Abelard’s child, Heloise retreated in scandal to a convent. Her uncle exacted a brutal punishment on her lover: he hired henchmen to castrate the unlucky Abelard, who was later exiled to a monastery. Although forever separated, the lovers kept their romance alive through the letters they wrote to each other, documenting the heartbreak of two star-crossed lovers who were doomed to never again touch.

  “Their letters reveal fascinating details about monastic life in the Middle Ages,” Jack said to the class. “But it’s their tragic love story that makes these letters so poignant and timeless. Tragedy defined them, and their suffering in the name of love rendered them heroic. But do you see their sacrifices as equal? Which of the lovers stands out as more heroic?”

  Beth, her expression serious as always, raised her hand. “I thought what made Heloise especially impressive, given the norms for women back then, was her continuing defiance.” She looked down at her text. “She writes from the convent that as others are ‘wedded to God, I am wedded to a man’ and ‘I am the slave to Abelard alone.’ This was a strong-minded woman who defied the taboos of the time. I’d say she’s the real hero.”

  He nodded. “And she never gave up on her love for him.”

  “She says she’d even follow Abelard into the flames of hell. That’s true devotion.”

  Jason piped up: “I can’t even get my girlfriend to follow me to a Bruins game.”

  The class burst out laughing. Jack was happy to see everyone engaged in lively discussion, unlike those dispiriting days when he had to do all the talking and his students merely stared at him with bored and glassy eyes, like carp in a pond.

  Jason continued. “I also liked how Heloise writes about having sexual fantasies while she’s in Mass. Man, I can identify with that! Divine litany in Greek churches runs a whole two hours. That’s long enough for me to get it on with a dozen girls. In my head, anyway.”

  More laughter. That was when Taryn caught Jack’s eye. She’d been scribbling copious notes, and now she raised her hand.

  “Yes, Taryn?” he said.

  “I have an issue with this story. And the others you’ve assigned as well,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “There seems to be a theme going on here with the stories you’ve introduced so far. And it’s that the men invariably betray the women they claim to love. Heloise gives up everything for love. Yet most scholars celebrate Abelard as the true hero.”

  He heard passion behind her words, and he nodded for her to continue.

  “Abelard even depicts himself as some sort of romantic hero because of his suffering, but I don’t see him that way at all. Yes, it’s terrible that he was castrated. But while Heloise keeps their flame alive, Abelard eventually renounces all his sexual feelings for her. He voluntarily chooses piety over love, while she never surrenders her passion for him.”

  “Excellent point,” he told her, and he meant it. Clearly Taryn had thought about what she’d read, and she dug deeper than the other students, many of whom did only the bare minimum to complete their assignments. Her insights and intellectual enthusiasm made teaching a pleasure. In fact, students like her were why he taught. He wished he had more like her. “You’re right, she does hold on to her passion, while he chooses to walk in the footsteps of saints and renounce the pleasures of the flesh.”

  “That makes him sound so noble,” she continued, “but think of what Heloise gave up. Her freedom, her youth. Her own child. Imagine the despair she felt when she writes, ‘I was just your whore.’ It’s as if she realizes he’s discarded her and left her to rot in a convent.”

  “Oh, come on!” Jessica snorted. “She gets stuck in the convent because of social and religious pressures. He didn’t make her go there.”

  Caitlin, her roommate seated next to her, nodded mechanically in agreement. Jack didn’t understand why, but the pair always seemed hostile to Taryn, exchanging glances and rolling their eyes whenever she made some insightful remark. Jealousy, perhaps.

  “Not true,” Taryn responded. She turned to the relevant page in her book. “Heloise writes, ‘It was your command only which sent me into these cloisters.’ She did it for him. She did everything for him. It’s obvious to anyone who actually read the material.”

  Jessica reddened. “I read the letters!”

  “I never said you didn’t.”

  “You implied it.”

  “Look, the letters are densely written. Maybe you just missed their point.”

  Jessica turned toward Caitlin and whispered, “What a bitch.”

  “Jessica?” Jack said. “Did I hear you right?”

  She looked him straight in the eye and said with an innocent smile: “I didn’t say anything.” But clearly the others had heard her as well, because they all looked uncomfortable.

  “There’s no place in this classroom for personal attacks. Is that clear?” he said.

  Jessica responded by silently staring straight ahead.

  “Jessica?”

  “Whatever.”

  It was time to move past this little tiff. He turned to Taryn. “You said Abelard betrayed Heloise. Care to expand on that?”

  “She’s given up everything for him. She needs his comfort, his reassurance that he loves her. And what does he do? He tells her to embrace the cross. I think he reveals himself as a heartless jerk, claiming to have suffered more than she did.”

  Jason said: “Well, he did have his balls cut off.”

  The laughter was a welcome respite from the tension, but he noticed Jessica didn’t join in. She and Caitlin had their heads tilted together, whispering.

  He needed to hear new voices, so he looked at Cody Atwood, who as usual was sitting beside Taryn. He was a shy kid who perennially seemed to hide under his baseball cap, sometimes pulled so low that no one could see his eyes. “What do you think, Cody?” Jack asked.

  “I, um . . . I think Taryn’s right.”

  “He always does,” Jessica said. She turned to Caitlin and whispered, “Loser.”

  Jack chose to let it pass, because no one else seemed to have heard the insult.

  “I just agree with Taryn that Abelard’s kind of a jerk,” said Cody. “He’s her teacher, and he’s twi
ce as old as she is. That makes him even more of a jerk, taking advantage of his student.”

  “And that’s the same dynamic we see echoed in later literary works. Think of Philip Roth’s The Human Stain and Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. And I’m sure many of you have read Gone Girl. These stories all explore how an older teacher might fall in love with a student.”

  “Just like in Hot for My Prof, ” Jason said.

  “What?”

  “Oh, it’s just this cheesy YA romance.”

  Jack smiled. “Funny how I missed that one.”

  “So is that the real theme of this class, Professor?” Jessica said. “Teachers getting it on with hot students?”

  He stared at her for a moment, sensing they’d wandered into dangerous territory. “I’m just pointing out that this is a theme that recurs in literature. These stories illustrate how and why a situation that’s forbidden by society can happen. They show us that anyone, even the morally righteous, can be drawn into a disastrous sexual affair.”

  Jessica smiled, eyes glittering. “Anyone, Professor?”

  “We’re talking about fiction, Jessica.”

  “Really, what’s the big deal if a teacher falls in love with a willing student?” said Jason. “It’s not like there’s a law against it in the Ten Commandments. Thou shalt not get it on with hot coeds.”

  “But there is a commandment against adultery,” Beth pointed out.

  “Abelard wasn’t married,” said Taryn. “Anyway, why are we hung up on this point? We’re getting off the subject.”

  “I agree,” Jack said and glanced at the clock. He was relieved to see the hour was nearly over. “Okay, I’ve got a little announcement, and I think you’ll like this. In two weeks, the Museum of Fine Arts opens a special exhibit of illustrations inspired by Heloise and Abelard. They’ve agreed to give our class a personal tour. Instead of meeting here, we’ll have a field trip at the MFA. Be sure to mark your calendars, and I’ll also send out an email to remind you. But next week, we meet here as usual. And be ready to discuss The Aeneid !”