Greg Iles - Turning Angel

Mia sighs, then passes through the door to the street.

I’m standing outside my daughter’s bathroom door, feeling strangely adrift between two extremes. Splashing behind this door is Annie, at nine years old still truly innocent, while driving away from my house is Mia Burke, an eighteen-year-old who knows far more about the adult world than I would ever have guessed yesterday. How long will it be before that world begins chipping away at Annie’s innocence? And how will she react when it does? How will I react?

An image of Kate Townsend suddenly fills my mind. Mia said there was no way Kate was going to “be with” a boy her own age. Did Drew Elliott seduce and corrupt that girl? Or was it the other way around? No jury would ever see it that way, of course, but right now I’m only interested in the truth. And my best shot at discovering it may be opening the shoe box hidden atop the armoire in my guest room.

After walking softly down the hall, I climb onto a chair, pull down the shoe box, and carry it to the bed. The scent of perfume wafts upward when I pull off the lid, exposing a jumble of letters, cards, ticket stubs, USB flash drives, videotapes, and various other knickknacks. There’s cloth in the bottom, which turns out to be a pair of men’s bikini underwear.

Beneath the briefs lies a photograph printed on computer paper. It shows Drew and Kate standing in front of a mirror-a hotel bathroom mirror is my guess. They’re naked and laughing, and Drew has his right arm around Kate’s waist. Kate is holding her right arm high in the air, and in the upper corner of the mirror I can just see the blue star of the flash from the camera she’s holding. Drew’s stomach muscles stand out in rigid relief, and Kate’s breasts are firm and erect. Her torso is marked with small red ovals, probably caused by the recent pressure of Drew’s fingers. It’s disquieting to see Kate this way after seeing her mostly from a distance: on the tennis court in conservative whites or wearing a cheerleader uniform on the gym floor.

“Daddy?” calls Annie. “Are you up here?”

“Yes!” I call toward the hall. “Are you ready to get out?”

“Almost!”

“Just call me when you’re ready!”

As I stare at Kate’s body, something else catches my eye. At the bottom of her shoe box lies a multicolored schematic of the London Underground. Picking it up, I realize that the map is actually the jacket of a thin hardcover book. A journal. And written on the first page in a flowing female hand are two paragraphs:

This is the journal of Katharine Mays Townsend. My father gave me this book of blank pages when he left for England this time-for my seventeenth birthday. He told me that this time of my life is precious, that I will never be so filled with possibility, and that I should record everything I think and do. Right now I’m more of a mind to record everything HE does and, more importantly, does NOT do, so that he might finally recognize himself for what he is and is not. But I doubt even that would do it. Denial is a powerful thing.

I’ve always been told that I’m a special girl, though not by the person I most needed to hear it from. But I do believe I’m unlike most of the peers I know at this point in my life. For that reason I shall record my thoughts and deeds, and if someone digs up this book a thousand years from now, they will find an accurate record of what was in the head of a materially spoiled but emotionally starved American girl of the 21st century.

Hello, whoever you are!

I flip quickly through the pages, conscious that Annie could walk in at any moment. Some are covered with tight blocks of script, others with hastily scrawled paragraphs. Doodles and caricatures adorn many pages, illuminating the journal as the work of a talented artist. I can hardly suppress my excitement. The last year of Kate Townsend’s life is right here, page after page of it, and I’d like nothing more than to read the journal from cover to cover right now. But that will have to wait until Annie is in bed.

Still, I can’t resist a quick look.

Suspending the diary by its front cover, I let it fall open to its natural breaking point. It opens to a two-page spread lined with four columns. The columns on the left-hand page are headed “Hook-ups” and “Real Hook-ups.” The columns on the right-hand page are headed “Rejected” and “Rejected by.” These two pages, I realize, are where Kate Townsend believed she saw herself most clearly, not through the lens of the effusive praise she must have heard every day, but measured by her physical acceptance or rejection by the people around her. Like most of us, sadly, this beautiful and brilliant girl defined herself more by who desired her rather than by any internal sense of self. But that weakness may be Drew’s good fortune. I eagerly scan the columns, searching for information that might somehow help to free him.

HOOK-UPS

David Adams, K

Peter Smith, K (Emerald Mound)

Johnny Wingate, K

Jack B., K

Henry F., K (St. James Park)

Jed Andersen, K, B

Patrick Schaefer, K, B, F

Chris Vogel, K, B, F

Geoffrey, K

David Quinn, K, B

Chris Anthony, K, B, F, O (the Pavilion)

Carson, K, B, O

Win Langston (the sand bar), F

Jody (first bj)

Michael (went down on me)

Gavin Green (Junior trip)

Walter Wenders (69) (I actually came)

Spencer D.

Turner (Queen’s Ball)

Andy Winograd

Steve

Kane J.

REAL HOOK-UPS

Andy, V

Steve, V, 69, O/A

Sarah Evans, OV, V/V (weird)

Drew (EVERYTHING)

Shit, shit, shit, shit!

REJECTED

Timmy Livingston

Walter Taunton

Billy

Neil (hot, but too young)

Jack D.

Ricky

Dr. Davenport (yuck)

Chris Farrell

Cyrus (shit, close one!)

Tyler Bradley

Mr. Dawson, PERV!

Mark Wilson (gross)

Bass Player, Blue Steel (2 Goth!)

Jeanne Hulbert! (2 butch)

Andy

Coach Anders! (I think)

Martin

Sarah Evans (stalker!)

Gavin

REJECTED BY

Point guard, Jackson Academy

Jay Gresham

Mr. Marbury

Laurel Goodrich

Dr. Lewis

Morgan Davis (25)

Lead singer, Wings of Desire

Several names jump out at me as I scan the list, most of them high school boys who attend St. Stephen’s. With some entries I recognize surnames only; they probably belong to boys from the other local high schools. But some of the names truly shock me, as they seem to belong to adults. Under the “Rejected” column is Coach Anders, the athletic director of St. Stephen’s. Wade Anders is thirty years old and divorced, with two kids of his own at St. Stephen’s. Kate’s parenthetical notation seems to indicate some uncertainty about whether Anders made a pass at her or not, and I can only hope it was her imagination. Mr. Dawson-the “perv”-is also a teacher at St. Stephen’s. He’s taught religion for one year, and now it’s likely to be his last. I have no idea who “Dr. Davenport” is. Ditto for “Mr. Marbury.” But they apparently had close contact with Kate, perhaps during her time in England. And Sarah Evans, a recent graduate of St. Stephen’s, is listed under both the “Real Hook-ups” and “Rejected” columns. There’s also a female listed under the “Rejected by” heading. Apparently Kate liked to experiment.