Janie hung up and hurried to the foyer, where she pulled open the door and found not one but five people dressed in black. They were waving microphones, yelling questions, or addressing the cameras mounted on both of them and on the house behind them as they outlined the story—the story of the day. They’d do anything to get the best angle.
Janie almost slammed the door in their faces. But a woman with mousy hair burst up, pressed her hand on the door, and wedged it open as she asked, “Mrs. Whitmore, do you mind answering a series of questions about your husband?”
Janie’s stomach felt tremulous and strange. She considered what it would be like to vomit up the popcorn she’d just eaten in front of one of those video cameras. So frozen with fear was she that she didn’t manage to close the door before the journalists hollered more questions.
“What can you tell us about the fire at the White Oak Lodge?” one of them cried.
“What can you tell us about the night of the Fourth of July 1998?”
“Mrs. Whitmore, is it true that the airline has let your husband go? In light of what has recently come out about your husband’s past, was it necessary? Do you think they’ll take legal action?”
“Mrs. Whitmore, where is your husband right now? Can you fetch him and bring him downstairs for us? We’d really like to get the true story straight from him. He’s the witness, isn’t he? He was really there?”
“Mrs. Whitmore, what can you tell us about Jack and Benjamin Whitmore? When was the last time you saw them? Is there any chance they’re still alive?”
And on and on. The questions swirled around her, suffocating her.
Suddenly, a tremendous rage burned through Janie’s heart and shot up through her throat. “Get away from my house!” she cried. “Get away, or I’ll call the police!” She knew they’d captured that on camera, but she couldn’t care. She bucked back, managed to heave the door closed, and locked it. The journalists continued to pound on the door and ring the doorbell, but Janie refused to acknowledge them. Instead, she ran to her cell, calledthe cops, and had them over to the house in ten minutes flat. With their help, she was able to clear out the driveway, the street in front of the house, and the front stoop. But she imagined it would only be a matter of time before they returned, barking questions, trying to order her around.
She had to do what she’d said she would: get out of here, hide.
She couldn’t be here when Alexander got back from wherever he was. He’d tried to call every night for the past week, but as things had become more frantic here, as the journalists had come and gone, as the phone calls had come from all over, she’d refused to answer Alexander. He’d stopped texting, maybe because he’d felt too pathetic. He was an airline pilot, and his opinion of himself could only drop so far before he stopped doing whatever made him feel ashamed. That was Janie’s feeling about it, anyway.
But Alexander was fast becoming a mystery to her. It was odd that the man she’d known for decades, the man she’d had children with, contained within him so many mysteries and secrets. Had she done something wrong in not figuring him out better over the years? Or were all wives and husbands mysteries to one another, puzzles that remained impossible to solve?
Janie shot up the stairs and pounded on Xander’s bedroom door. The video game was cut off a second later, and she could hear Xander, Gwen, and Conor talking to one another, perhaps weighing up who would answer the door and who would remain in the game. Janie didn’t have time for this. She sighed and rapped her knuckles again, crying out, “Come on, guys. Please. Give me a break.” As the mother of teenagers, she never felt on even ground.
Soon enough, Conor appeared. He was the youngest, just fourteen, but the spitting image of Alexander. His eyes were the same penetrating ones of Francesca Whitmore, a woman Janiehadn’t seen in years. The way Conor looked at her made her freeze, if only for a moment. He had a quiet power.
“What’s up?” he asked, his voice alternating between high and low pitches, even in the span of two words. Puberty had him in its grip.
“I need to talk to all of you.” Janie tried to appear confident. But she knew that children could always see through you. They always sensed who you were, beyond the false-adult facade you’d built.
“Now,” Janie added, as though that did anything.
But apparently, it was what Xander needed to turn off the television and walk over to the door. The eldest was seventeen and slender, with hair that needed cutting and a California tan he maintained through multiple surfing stints each week. It was often funny to Janie that they’d had children in California, considering where they’d come from.
Gwen appeared soon after, fifteen and smiling nervously at their mother. Gwen looked exactly like Janie had at that age, so much so that sometimes, it gave Janie pause. Was she looking in the mirror? Had any time passed?
Xander beckoned for Janie to enter his “lair,” and she did, sitting at the edge of his unmade bed and looking up at her three teenage children. Her heart swelled with love for them. The television glowed with purple and blue light.
“I don’t know if you’re aware of what’s been happening, of what’s been said about your father.” Janie dove straight into the topic at hand.
Gwen, Conor, and Xander exchanged glances that told her they’d been trying to avoid mention of this. It was clear they knew all about it —or at least everything that was being said.
“We don’t think Dad did anything wrong,” Gwen said, her tone steely.
Janie’s mouth went dry. All she wanted was to believe her daughter's story about Alexander. All she wanted was to believe Alexander himself, her strong, proud, handsome pilot husband. But they couldn’t stay in this house any longer, not until they knew for sure what was going on and who Alexander Whitmore truly was.
It was awful to have to carry his last name around. It felt like it weighed them down.
“Let’s not talk about that right now.” Janie stood off the bed so she towered over Gwen and Conor and met Xander’s gaze. “What I want from you is your cooperation. You all need to pack a suitcase. Enough clothes, toiletries, and so on for at least two weeks away. Remember, we can wash your clothes wherever we go.”
Xander and Conor gaped at her. Gwen’s face scrunched, and she let out a sob. But Janie was resolute. They couldn’t be home; they couldn’t continue to let journalists accost their door, demanding answers they couldn’t possibly give; they couldn’t let this sinister story keep going. As it stood, they didn’t have any control.
For the next five minutes, her children tried to reason with her. They talked about all the amenities in their home, all the things they’d be leaving behind if they really went along with Janie’s plan. They spoke of the video game they were in the midst of as though it were more essential than water, or food, or sunlight. But Janie had made up her mind. It was time to go.
Of Xander’s summer job, she said, “You can’t go back. Not now. Call your manager and say there’s a family emergency.”
