We’re quiet for the next few minutes as Logan zigzags along the charmless streets of Rensselaer. We reach the highway, and as soon as he’s merged into traffic, he clears his throat and briefly glances over at me.
“There’s something else I need to talk to you about,” he says. “Maya is hosting a thank-you dinner for us at the president’s house tomorrow night. Nothing fancy, she assured me, and only about a dozen people, including a few English professors and the head of donor relations. Of course, if you aren’t up for it, I’m sure she’d understand.”
“You’re just mentioning this now, Logan?” I say, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of my voice. I’ve packed only one fancy dress, for the reception on Thursday. Beyond that, I don’t need him looking out for me, wondering if I can handle something.
“I didn’t know myself until late yesterday. She had a prior event on her schedule, but once she heard you were coming, she decided to cancel it so she could do this instead.”
The idea of being there has zero appeal—it’s going to be tough enough to be at the reception. But not attending would be rude,especially after Maya’s gone to the trouble. And if the cops reopen the investigation, we might need her support.
“I’d like to go.”
“I’ll let her office know ... By the way, I haven’t breathed a word yet to Maya about what’s going on with the police. If and when there’s something more definitive, I’ll bring her up to speed.”
“Do you think it’s started to leak out?”
“Not yet, apparently, but Halligan said a reporter has been snooping around.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing, right?” I say. “If it’s out in the open, the police will probably be less tempted to sit on things.”
“Exactly.”
After flipping down the visor, I dig a tube of stick foundation from my purse along with blush and lipstick. It’s not about glamming myself up for the cops but just looking pulled together. What I always told myself in the past was that the more presentable you look in discussions with the authorities, the more seriously they take you. I guess the jury is out on whether that did any good.
I’m just swiping on lipstick when I catch myself. During our marriage I fixed my face in front of Logan countless times—using visor mirrors in a pinch and even restaurant cutlery on occasion—but it’s the kind of familiar behavior that’s ceased to be appropriate. I’m not Logan’s wife, and I’m not even his friend. I can’t make him understand that if I ignore boundaries myself.
With the makeup back in my purse, I stare out the window. Based on my mental calculation, state police headquarters is a twenty-five-minute drive from here, and though I’ve never come at it from this direction, the terrain is vaguely familiar. We’re off the highway now and on a regular road, passing clapboard houses, their yards still muddy from the winter; shabby bars; gas stations; and local businesses with garish signs in red, blue, and black. Within seconds I realize my eyes are too heavy to keep open a second more, and I feel my head loll toward the window.
When I stir awake, I see we’re pulling into a large parking lot in front of a one-story brick building I don’t recognize.
“Wait,” I say, “where are we?”
“Oh right, you wouldn’t know. They built a new headquarters a few years ago, about a mile from the other one.”
Good,I think. I won’t have to sit in one of the same airless interview rooms I was trapped in before, forced to relive my past in the exact setting. Now, if only Cartersville and Carter College could be transformed into places unrecognizable to me.
We emerge from the car and cross the lot side by side, though I’m dragging a little and sense that Logan is itching to move faster. The only person in the lobby when we enter is a middle-aged female receptionist. As we approach the glass window she’s sitting behind, she raises her head from some paperwork, trains her gaze at Logan, and offers a polite smile.
“Logan Chase and Bree Winter for Detective Halligan,” he says. “We’re a little early for our appointment, but hopefully he can see us as soon as possible.”
He’s all Logan Chase in Charge right now, more the Logan I remember than the subdued version who showed up at my door in the dark last week.
“Please have a seat,” the woman says, “and I’ll let him know you’re here.”
We do as she says, settling into two straight-backed chairs in the silent windowless room. About five minutes later, the double doors in front of us swing open, and a man in a brown suit heads in our direction, his lace-up shoes squeaking a little on the artificial-tile floor. It’s Halligan, obviously, but I’m surprised by how unfamiliar he looks to me. I guess since Caputo was the lead detective originally, my attention was focused mostly on him back then, the only man who mattered in my mind.
“Logan, Bree, thanks for coming in,” Halligan says as we rise and step forward. He shakes my hand, then Logan’s.
Had he called us by our first names before? Perhaps toward the end of our experience with him.
“Thanks for being flexible about the meeting time,” Logan says. “Bree’s barely off the plane from South America, but like me, she’s very happy you can see us now.”
“Let’s get started, then.”
Halligan uses a fob to click open the doors he came through and leads us down a long corridor to a small, nondescript interview room. He motions for us to sit on the side of the table nearest the door, across from a spot where there’s already a stuffed manila folder. After asking whether we’d like water, which we both decline, he takes his seat.
Inside my purse are a small pad and pen, two things I tend to carry out of habit as an editor, and I briefly wonder if I should fish them out and take notes. But no, I can’t do that, can’t have the words that will surface today jostling around in my purse. I’ll just have to listen carefully.
There’s something Iwilldo today, however, as well as during the days ahead, and that’s assert myself. Eight years ago, I was so distraught and needy that I tended to go with the horrible flow, rarely challenging what we were told. One of the therapists I later saw told me that though “fight, flight, and freeze” are the stress responses we hear the most about, there’s a fourth one calledfawn. It’s when you end up over-agreeing with those around you and/or trying to cope by being way too helpful or solicitous.
