“No.”
I hope he doesn’t ask me to be the guy’s personal chef. I use my oven to store sweaters.
“Actually, we’d be putting you in there as a baby nanny.”
I start to laugh. “You gotta be kidding. I don’t know anything about babies.”
“You’ll learn,” he says.
He takes a book out of his briefcase and slides it over to me:What to Expect the First Year. Thisis my official FBI briefing? I mean, I know the government has a thirty-four-trillion-dollar budget deficit. But still.
“People have been taking care of babies since the cavemen,” he says.
“Cavewomen,” I say. I slide the book back to him.
“Men, women, what’s the difference? Everybody likes babies. You do too, don’t you?”
“Sure I do. Love ’em. In other people’s arms or homes or uteruses. Just not mine.”
“Elinor, you’re being unreasonable.”
“Metcalf, this is nuts. There’s gotta be someone else more suited for this. Some bright-eyed young summer intern who wants to jump-start her career.”
“True,” he says. And is it my imagination, or is hestarting to smile? “But at your age, you’ll be able to dig around without being noticed.”
Of course. I’m the Invisible Woman. For a moment I almost forgot.
He pulls a thick envelope from his briefcase. “Here,” he says, handing it to me. “A license plate for your car…”
“I don’t have a car.”
“… plus two new credit cards and the burner phone you’ll use from now on. It has end-to-end encryption.”
“Meaning?”
“Only you and me can read our texts. Hide your old cell someplace. In a shoe, under your vibrator, I don’t care where. Just get rid of it.”
“Listen, Metcalf—”
“You graduated from Penn State in 1985.”
“No, I—”
“It’s already part of your Instagram account.”
“I don’t have an Instagram account.”
“You do now,” he says. “An account on Facebook too. Your new name is Caroline Babulewicz. Feel free to google it.”
“That’s a terrible name. I don’t even know how to spell it.”
“Check your new driver’s license. That’s in here too. Oh, and I already notified the school where you work that you’ve had a family emergency and won’t be coming back for a while. Tomorrow, we’ll fit you for your new uniform. You’ll go for an interview the next day and start the day after that,” he says.
“I’m out of here,” I say.
I start to stand but Metcalf grabs my wrist. He holds it tight. Too tight.
The coffee shop is filling up now. A lot more people. Lots more noise. He leans in a little closer so that when he speaks, I’ll hear every word.
