Toby wrote the article when he had just completed his master’s. It was based in part on his thesis. She hasn’t thought about it for years, but in the context of Lexi’s suicide she’s just remembered it.
She skims through the text, her heart in her mouth, and one sentence stands out to her in particular: a description of Vincent van Gogh’s suicide. She feels the way she did when she first read it, years ago. She was shocked by Toby’s language then, and she feels the same now.
His language glorifies the artist’s death by suicide. It is sumptuous, almost poetic—Toby can write in a way that she’s long admired—but so very wrong. It’s as if he sees suicide as romantic, even seductive.
It’s a horrific thought. She feels disgusted. Wounded. Repulsed. Never more aware of the difference between them as she’s spent her career trying to save lives.
She wants more vodka and tries to drink the last dregs from the bottle.
Could Toby’s interest in younger women be not sexual, or not just sexual? Is it worse?
Does he prey on vulnerable young women with mental health issues and encourage them to take their own lives?
What was he doing at a student accommodation building early this morning? Who was he visiting?
She needs to vomit. On her knees in the bathroom, she empties her stomach of its liquid contents. When she’s stopped heaving, she wipes her mouth and see that the bile in the toilet bowl has streaks of blood in it. Not good.
She staggers as she stands up and returns to Toby’s office.
Everything about it enrages her. He has hidden in here, from her, for months. It has tormented her. And now she’s possessed by the idea that he might be a monster.
She wrenches opens his study window and begins to throw his books out. She hurls them one at a time, at first, but it isn’t satisfying, so she gathers an armful and feels a flush of triumph when they hit the ground.
She keeps going until the shelves are empty and the books are scattered across their tiny front garden and the pavement. She stares at them for a while, her chest heaving long after she’s recovered from the physical exertion, but her sense of satisfaction doesn’t linger and, if anything, she feels hollower than she did before.
But not too hollow to text Toby. He needs to know what she knows.
She sends him one message, then another, and more, until her texts are a nonstop stream of consciousness that convey everything she thinks of him and everything she suspects about him and all the ways in which she wants him to be punished for it.
When Emily tells the police that Toby assaulted her, Jayne and I can’t disguise our shock. Jayne pulls me aside, out of Emily’s hearing.
“What the hell is happening?” Jayne asks, and I’m stumped. This, I didn’t see coming.
“She must be lying,” I say. “I don’t believe it.”
“But you know,” Jayne says, “Ruth told me something very disturbing about Toby, too.”
She repeats what she heard, about the student who Ruthsuspects Toby of grooming and I’m stunned. Genuinely. It’s despicable behavior. How could he? What kind of man is he? I mean, I lost respect for him long ago because he never seemed to grow up, but this is on another level.
“Did you know that Toby was tutoring Imogen?” she asks.
“No.” I feel immediately jealous.
“Well, I think Ruth was worried that he might have been inappropriate with her.”
I feel sick to my stomach. It’s a struggle to remain calm. I can feel myself breaking out in a sweat. My heart begins to pound.
“Imogen?” I ask. “Ruth thinks Toby might have made a move on Imogen?”
“She’s not sure. She didn’t say she had proof of anything untoward, it was more a suspicion, and I can’t believe it’s true. I mean, Toby’s like an uncle to Imogen, you all are. I think Ruth was scared, and she only thought of this because she was looking for any motive that Edie might have had to hurt Toby. Because of the letter. She said she didn’t believe it, but I think she did. And, of course, she was drunk. I felt really sorry for her.”
I’ve heard enough. I don’t care about Ruth’s problems. I feel a rage building.
The thought that Toby has sullied Imogen, or even considered it, the thought that he might have caused her pain, or fear, or be intending to prey on her is overwhelming.
What have I missed? Was I too obsessed with making my own plans to see what was happening right in front of me? Stupid, stupid, stupid. I can feel explosive anger brewing, deep beneath my sternum. It feels like a living thing. I hold it back as best I can.
“Do you know what, my love?” I ask.
