“We can’t trust anyone,” she points out. “Only each other. But we have to work with people. We didn’t know Jackson, and we worked with him; same with Quentin. We know Raven’s story now. We have to give her a chance.”
I’m not sure if I agree, but I’m also not sure I disagree. Raven did seem genuine in her desire to help, but at this point, I don’t know where she is emotionally. Even if she could figure out how to help us, we may not be able to count on her judgment.
“What did you tell her?” I ask, resigning myself to the fact that it’s too late anyway.
“Everything,” Annalise says. She holds my eyes, both argumentative and imploring. “If you don’t trust Raven,” she says. “Trust me.”
And despite my worry, I nod. Knowing that I’d follow Annalise straight to my grave.
To: Stuart, Anton
RE: meeting
From: Davenworth, Raven
Today at 9:33 A.M.
Got your message. Change of plans. See you in twenty minutes.
Confidentiality notice: This email message is for the sole use of the intended recipient(s) and may contain confidential information. Any unauthorized review or use is prohibited.
14
After leaving the salon, Annalise and I make a few other stops. We drop the Raven conversation, but I make Annalise promise to call the other girls to fill them in as soon as we get Marcella’s new number. I’m not sure how they’ll react, but at this point, I’m not sure what more we can do—she’d already given Raven the address to the cabin.
We wander over to the shoe store, and Annalise picks out new sneakers “just in case we need to run through the woods from a masked madman.”
As we’re checking out there, I notice the screen on the cashier’s computer is opened to the main page of a search engine. The news story dominating the page is about the investors. My breathing quickens. The top story reads:The Death of the American Male.
I nudge Annalise’s arm and point it out to her. She stares at it a moment and then mutters, “Give me a break. As far as they know, it wastwo. Pretty sure the rest of men are still walking around.”
A pair of older ladies get in line behind us, having a hushed conversation.
“Did you hear about that poor Wallach?” the white-haired lady says. “My husband said it was probably one of those ladies of the night who did it. What a shame. He had such a beautiful wife and all those kids—I hope they catch whoever did it.”
“I heard they cut his throat,” her companion whispers. “People like that, they won’t be happy until every white man is dead. I feel sorry for my son,” she adds. “I told him he’s an endangered species.”
“The whole world’s falling apart,” the white-haired lady says.
Annalise straightens her posture and swings around to face the women. One of the women is startled and nearly trips over her Crocs trying to back up.
“A pair of rich white men are dead, and you think the entire world is falling apart?” Annalise asks. “Do you hear yourselves? You are plagued with famine, global warming, child abuse—but the end-all of civilization is two dead rich guys? Get a grip.”
“Snap,” the cashier says, clearly amused at Annalise’s outburst, at the look of horror on the women’s faces.
I grab our bag off the counter and then take Annalise’s hand to lead her toward the exit. When we’re a safe distance away, one of the women loudly whispers, “Socialist.”
Annalise is about to reply, but I get the door open and usher her outside. She’s fuming, but I take us to the other end of the plaza, where we’re supposed to be waiting for Jackson and Quentin. Annalise paces, but I go and sit on one of the oversized ceramic planters.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say.
“Why not?” she demands. “We should be confronting her kind of behavior.”
“Because what if they post our pictures on the news?” I say. “You think those ladies will forget your face? They’ll know exactly where we were. They’ll track us. You can’t make a scene like that again.”
I watch as Annalise’s anger fades into despair. The idea that we can’t just fix things is frustrating and demoralizing. Humans hate being told what to do. In the meantime, they love to tell other people and things what to do. Annalise comes to join me on the planter, and we watch the parking lot for Jackson’s car.
When she’s sitting, she looks sideways at me. “Why are they like this?” she asks.
