“No one knows I’m here.” Not a question.
“No one that isn’t loyal to me.”
The color drains from her face. I watch her process it, watch the horror settle into her bones, and then?—
“You can’t—” She swallows hard. “You can’t justtakesomeone. People will look for me. The foundation?—”
“Iam the foundation. But just to cover the trail I sent a letter this morning. Expressing their deep gratitude for your preliminary assessment and announcing that you’ve beenoffered an extended research fellowship in a remote location. No communication for several months while you focus on your work.”
Her face goes white.
“No—”
“Your phone is forwarding calls to a service that responds appropriately. You’re very busy, apparently. Too busy to talk, but not too busy to send the occasional text to your mother assuring her you’re eating properly.”
“Youbastard?—”
“Your bank account will show regular activity in Palermo for the next several weeks before going dormant, a pattern consistent with someone who’s taken an off-grid research opportunity.”
She stops moving. Stops breathing, it looks like.
“You’ve erased me.” The words are hollow. Devastated.
“I’ve simplified your life.”
For a long moment, she just stares at me. Processing. I watch the stages of understanding cross her face. First the intellectual comprehension, then the emotional impact, then?—
“My family.”
There it is.
“What did you tell my mother?”
“The foundation contacted her about your extended leave. She was very pleased. Apparently she’s been worried about you working too hard.”
“Danny won’t buy that. He’ll?—”
“Daniel Murphy, 37 West Fourth Street, Apartment 3B, South Boston. Works at O’Malley’s Auto on Tuesdays and Thursdays, runs numbers for Mickey Flynn the rest of the week. Still on parole for the assault conviction. Very protective of his little sister.”
Her hands ball into fists at her sides.
I continue. “Sean Murphy. Construction foreman for Kelleher Brothers. Married, two kids, lives in Dorchester. Coaches his daughter’s softball team on Saturday mornings.”
“Stop.”
“Your mother goes to Saint Augustine’s every Sunday. Confession at four. Mass at five-thirty. Then she walks to Morano’s Grocery on Tuesdays and Fridays. Always parks in the same spot. Third row, near the cart return.”
Violet’s chest heaves. The color gone from her face entirely.
“You can call them.” I keep my voice even. Reasonable. “Weekly, if you like. Video chat, even. Prove you’re safe and happy. I’m not unreasonable.”
“Not—” She laughs. The sound is jagged. “Unreasonable?”
“You can tell them about your research. Your extended fellowship. How much you’re enjoying the solitude.” I pause. Let the words land. “But one word, one hint, one cry for help?—”
Her breath catches.
I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t need to.
