I am already thinking of Charlie, which makes it feel like I’ve conjured him up, because when we go to pay, the main story has shifted to Nicholas again.
And it’s Charlie who is staring back at me on the television screen. Charlie and his twins, hustling into their car, Charlie trying to shield them from the cameras and the microphones.
I can feel Bailey’s anxiety kicking back up—her eyes glued to the screen despite knowing she should look away. I can’t look away either, not when I see their faces, so scared and upset. The cameras making it all worse.
This shouldn’t be surprising to me—the sheer amount of coverage. The media (especially cable media) will take any opportunity to talk about the history of organized crime, particularly a crime family as storied as the organization.
You don’t have to be a media expert to see why—to see how it increases their ratings to lean into true crime, people unable to look away from anything that plays into our collective fear and fascination with organized crime and drugs and sex. Our collective fear of bad men doing bad things.
“Is that all?”
I pull my eyes from the television and look over at the young cashier, who is tabulating our variety of potato chips and nuts and drinks, a six-pack of cold brew coffees. He rings in the total.
I nod and hand him two fifty-dollar bills.
“I need to use your restroom,” I say. “And that extra fifty is for you if I can use your phone for thirty seconds.”
He hands over his phone and I text another number that I know by heart. Charlie’s number.
Charlie, who I’m sure is worried about Bailey. Who, in the wake of losing his father, needs to know she is okay.
But, even from a random phone, it feels a little close to be reaching out to him. At the moment, it all feels so close. Which is why, just in case someone is watching his phone, I’m careful. I don’t sayanything about Nicholas. I don’t ask how he is holding up—even though I know he is shattered too.
I keep the text simple. And I lie.
B and I are fine. heading to a friend’s place in Jackson Hole. Will call you from there…
Then I send another text—this time to Jules. The text I most need to send.
You interested in a vacation?
This is all I’m supposed to say, so she knows we’re headed to Santa Cruz. So she knows we’re headed to the boat.
As soon as the texts are marked delivered, I erase them from the young cashier’s phone history. Then I make sure the numbers don’t appear in his text history and hand his cell back to him.
He looks at me, confused. “You didn’t even call anyone,” he says.
“Is that your way of offering me a refund?” I ask.
In response, he pockets the fifty.
Then he points to the bathroom. “Don’t use the first stall,” he says. “It’s always a mistake.”
I drive.
I try Patty at exactly the ninety-minute mark, and she doesn’t pick up.
We are passing through Cambria, a small seaside village, beautiful forests on one side of the road, the ocean on the other.
Reception is somewhat spotty. So I click off and try her again.
When she doesn’t answer the second time, I try not to panic.
I keep my eyes on the road. I keep my eyes on the road and I keep my focus on Bailey, who sits in the passenger seat next to me, eatingher snacks from the convenience store. She is on her second cold brew coffee, a large bag of jalapeño potato chips. She is downing the potato chips three at a time, trying to calm her nerves.
“What are you thinking about over there?” I ask her.
“We just passed a sign for San Francisco. Two hundred and fifty miles.” She pauses. “That’s not where we are headed, is it?”
