But being crouched in the damp and cold for the past several minutes has given me time to think about how to approach Bertram.
I’ve organized my thoughts into neat little categories, like building the frame of a puzzle before sorting out the middle. All of the pieces must be here; I just haven’t found them yet. And here’s a chance to add some more.
I dial the jolly professor’s number, and he answers, all tweed-business-casual, having no idea that he is the key to my salvation from across the pond. I introduce myself, cheerfully apologizing for the poor cell reception as what I’m pretty sure is a rat skitters across the shadows behind me.
“I wanted to ask you about a student named Erin Casimir. Bertram’s sister,” I say. “The piece also dives into his relationship with his family. It’s part of a profile series we’re doing on the human side of tech influencers.”
“His sister?” The professor is thoughtful. “I’m sure I’ve seen her on campus, but I can’t recall if she was ever in one of my classes.”
Police sirens wail in the distance, making my blood run cold.
It can’t be for me, I reassure myself. Nobody is going to go through all this trouble just to recover a vehicle that Waylen reported stolen. Besides, I left it in the parking lot and tossed the keys on the driver’s seat before I bolted. Problem solved.
“Bertram mentioned in our interview that his sister wasa software developer too. Maybe he mentioned her influence in some of his programs.”
“I’m sorry, he didn’t.” I can barely hear the professor’s voice now. The sirens are piercingly loud as they get closer. He’s saying something else, something that I can’t hear.
I plug my other ear and duck into the shadows. It reeks of garbage. That smell must be to blame for the sick feeling that’s taking me over, I rationalize.
I ignore the call that keeps trying—over and over—to interrupt my conversation with Bertram’s professor. I ask him what Bertram was like as a student, and he tells me all the typical platitudes. He was always enthusiastic, polite, helpful—the things you could say about Ted Bundy before you knew.
Something is pressing at me, some dark sense that I’ve tied myself to Bertram in some inextricable way.Those sirens aren’t for you, I tell myself. But why are they getting louder?
“Did anything ever seem unusual about Bertram?” I blurt. “Did he ever…do anything that concerned you?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, “what did you say the name of your publication was again?”
“You’ve been incredibly helpful, thank you,” I say, and hang up.
Elodie is calling me, and not for the first time, if the little red bubble by my phone icon is to be believed.
“I can’t talk,” I say in a hushed tone when I answer.
“You had better talk!” She sounds livid. “I’ve just gotten a call from your husband. He’s beside himself. You stole his car? You’ve just involved me in taking your daughteraway from him? You may not want to talk, but you’d better start, sister.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You didn’t tell him where Collette is, did you?”
“I pretended my cell reception was bad and hung up,” she says, still sounding like a swarm of kicked hornets. “But he sounded like he was about to come over and break my door down if I didn’t answer him. Todd is at home with the twins, Margaux. I can’t have your husband going down there, exposing what I’ve been doing.”
“He won’t,” I assure her. Waylen is a lot of things, but he isn’t rash. He’s a quiet planner. This past week has reminded me of that much.
“I’m going to get the girls,” she says. “I don’t want this kind of trouble, and you refuse to tell me what’s going on. Mr. X hasn’t answered my texts for days—what kind of Podunk operation is this, exactly? I thought we were professionals.”
“Don’t get Collette!” I cry. “Tell me where she is, and I’ll get her.”
“You’re in no position to be making demands of me,” she says. I’ve seen Elodie blow her top about a minivan double-parked in the school lot. I’ve been present for her lectures to the vice principal about expanding the budget for the upcoming Christmas pageant becauseno wayis her little girl going to show up in hand-me-down velvet for theNutcrackerchorus.
But this is a different kind of mad. Like when your mother pulls you out of the street so you don’t get hit by a car, or your spouse catches you in bed with your boss. This is the life-changing anger that ruins trust and damages everything you’ve built.
I’d love to heal it now, but I can’t, because the sirens are back and they’re loud enough to drown out Elodie, who is demanding that I come clean on all my lies. She’s telling me that I’ve lost my mind, that I’m scaring her, and has any word to come from my mouth ever been the truth?
I’m so sorry, Elodie. You’ve learned the hard way that I’m not friend material. If I had the time now, I’d say that I wish it could have been the way she wanted. How nice to have a true partner in crime. It isn’t that I wanted to be a lone wolf. It’s just the only thing I do well.
“Damn it, now the police are at my house. I see them on the doorbell cam,” she says.
“What?” I rasp.
“What have you done, Margaux?”
