I flip through handwritten pages first, skimming some of the interviews they did at local inns. No Americans fitting the description we’d given were identified. The detective on the case had planned to expand the radius of their inquiries. But, just as the cop told me on the phone, when the detective followed up with our father, Dad wouldn’t let us participate in additional interviews. And the local prosecutor said let it go.
For fuck’s sake.
With a few days to contemplate my dad’s role in shutting down the investigation, my anger has evolved. It’s not sloppy now, like snow trodden into dirty slush. It’s more like the invisible black ice that forms in the bitter cold of night. The old man did what he thought was best, and so did the other men involved. They were wrong, but a lot of things are clear in hindsight.
As I flip, Jude’s drawing of the man’s ring falls out. I’ve seen several pictures like it in his journal, but this one has the most detail. He’s captured the guy’s right hand and the ring on its fourth finger. It was burned into Jude’s mind while the man was behind him, looming over him, holding down Jude’s arms whenever he tried to pull away.
The signet ring tilts to the right, showing part of the top and left side. The uppermost portion has a scriptedR.On the left side, there’s a school crest with a vine above an open book.Est. 1898
By the time I began researching the school crests of hundreds of American universities, Jude was gone so I couldn’t ask him whether he was sure about the date.
When I found the Granthorpe crest on its class rings, it was a perfect match down to the date it had been founded. Feeling pretty certain I’d found the correct university, I tried to learn the man’s identity through digital sleuthing. Unfortunately, photo rosters weren’t available to outsiders and the system was too difficult to hack. Ironic that I’d had a much easier time getting into police databases.
Thwarted online, I followed the lead to the United States.
Pretending to be interested in enrolling, I took a tour of the campus and slipped off during lunch to visit the library’s collection of yearbooks. I went through class rosters from the years I believed the man may have been enrolled. A hasty and fruitless search.
As soon as I became a GU student, I went back to the library. This time I spent days pouring over the yearbooks, which stretched back for decades. Unfortunately, some of the collection had walked off over the years.
Whether the guy was in an edition that someone had stolen or whether he just looked too different as a young man, I couldn’t identify him. After a frustrating few weeks of trying to get the missing editions and failing, I had to concede that I’d taken the yearbook investigation as far as I could.
As I stare at the picture my brother drew, another way to investigate occurs to me. When schools designate a company to produce their class rings, students place their orders. And while digital mockups for a twenty-year-old edition of the yearbook aren’t maintained, spreadsheets of purchase orders might be.
A place like Granthorpe is all about tradition. They would use a reputable company and stick with them if they did quality work. How many ring companies could there have been over the years? Two? Three?
If I could get the records for all the rings ordered by male students in the twenty-year window I’m interested in, maybe I could narrow down the list by identifying the men who ordered signet rings with the letterRon top. There can’t have been that many. From looking at the past few years of class ring designs, I know signet rings are the least popular choice. Usually, there’s a gemstone with the university’s name surrounding it or the school crest sitting atop the ring, and the sides have other logos or symbols.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text message. I pick it up.
Sawyer: U awake?
I respond that I am, and she sends another text in quick succession.
Sawyer: Am I coming over there? Ash can drop me.
The girl is more anxious to face me than she should be. I’m pissed she and Ash crashed the rave after I said they shouldn’t. With Ash, there’s no recourse. But Sawyer’s mine, and we’ve already established I’m allowed to punish her.
My cock twitches at the thought, and I clench my jaw. I’m becoming way too invested in this temporary arrangement. Then, I think about the way she looked in that satin slip and accept I need to keep going until I’ve had my fill. It’s the only way I’ll be able to get my head clear again.
I glance at my bedroom door. War’s heavy footfalls can be heard beyond it. I climb from my bed and open the door.
“War?”
He appears in the hall in shorts and covered in sweat. Apparently, he’s been working out. “What?”
“You talk to Killian or the bosses?”
“Both.”
“And?”
“Mission accomplished.”
I pop the knuckles of my right hand. “Any blowback from the bosses about the rough bounce of a GU student?”
War shakes his head.
“Did you tell C that Ash and her roommate were in the thick of the trouble?”
