“Are you supposed to be wearing that on duty?” I ask.
“I’m too tired to remember regulations,” she says, taking the stud out and slipping it into a pocket. “Does Freya really sleep in a safe room?”
“Did Gilcrest tell you that?”
“I won’t reveal my sources.”
“It’s not a safe room,” I say, “but it’s close. She covers the windows with steel shutters and keeps a gun. And don’t forget about Ginger, the dog, who’s as sweet as can be ... until she isn’t.”
“Cut Freya some slack,” Seton says. “She’s famous. Or she was. Plus, she had a stalker when she lived in New York. That’s why she leftScene of the Crimeand disappeared off the face of the earth. And it’s why she’s so paranoid. My department gets about ten thousand calls a week from her security provider, all of which turn out to be false alarms.”
Now the steel doors, the perimeter checks, and the gun make sense. “If Freya has a stalker, it’s probably Reid,” I say, remembering his teenage bedroom covered with images of Freya, and forgetting even a sleep-deprived Seton Haviland is all cop.
She swings her feet around and leans forward. “Why Reid?” she says.
“It was a joke. Forget I said anything.”
“Details, or I’ll talk to Reid myself.”
I groan and tell her about sneaking into Reid’s bedroom and finding Freya’s signed headshot on the bedside table. I omit the other photos taped to the walls. “It was teenage stuff,” I say. “Plus, Paul knew her and talked about working with her.”
“I suppose having your photo in the bedroom of random teenage boys comes with the territory when you’re on TV,” Seton says. “ButFreya came to New Hampshire to escape that. And to see where things went with Gilcrest. Seems as if they may be going nowhere.”
“Last night, she sounded ready to go back to New York,” I say as a boat passes by, and we rock in the wake. I trail my hand through the water, grateful to be here with Seton, to have someone I trust, someone who won’t judge me for succumbing to the charms of a TV star. “It’s better when you and I aren’t angry at each other.”
“Who says I’m not angry?” Seton asks. “But I’m not angry at you. What did Gilcrest ask about anyway?”
“Mostly the podcast. He wants to be part of it. He mentioned getting a book deal, though I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“Don’t do that fucking podcast,” Seton says.
I shift and feel the weight of my father’s pint glass in my coat pocket. “The podcast isn’t about you,” I say, though as I say the words, I hear how lame they are.
“Will you mention my name?” Seton asks. “Or my mom’s? Or my dad’s? Will you talk about what happened to my family as though it’s your story to tell?” When I don’t answer, she adds, “Your stupid podcastisabout me.”
“What do you remember about your father anyway?”
Seton clenches her fists and lets out a groan. “Nothing, Charlie,” she says. “I’m two months younger than you. He’s been dead and buried my whole life. And if you’re secretly recording me right now, I’ll kill you, then turn myself in for murder.”
“I’m not recording,” I say. “But didn’t you ever wish your father had been living another life somewhere else? And that he’d never been murdered?”
“Only all the time.”
“If there’s no story to tell,” I say, “I’ll drop the podcast. I promise. And I’ll avoid using your name as much as possible. But tell me what you used to imagine about your father. Where did you think he’d gone?”
Seton stands, fists on her hips. “I want my certificate of apology back.”
The boat bobs in the water. I should be recording this conversation, but I want the answers for myself, not to share. If Seton and I are honest, we might learn what we actually mean to each other. “Please,” I say.
“My name’s Seton Haviland. My father was killed when I was ten months old. His murderer’s son was one of my favorite people till he told me he was working on this podcast. Now I hate his guts.”
Julian would encourage me to forge a personal connection and make Seton feel heard, but what I really want is to push through the imaginary wall between us to see what might be on the other side. And maybe that’ll mean having Seton hate my guts for a while, but it could mean something better, and we won’t know until we try. “You told me you used to imagine your father was alive. Where did you imagine he went?”
“Anywhere but here.”
I touch her hand, but she yanks it away. “Take me to the pier,” she says.
“We’re friends, you and me,” I say. “But there’s this thing sitting right there between us, watching what we say, what we do. This thing we don’t mention. Wouldn’t it be better to talk about it, to see where the conversation leads?”
