“Adam is a pretty smart guy,” she says. “I think he could probably see what was coming there at the end, when it came to you. When it came to Mom.”
“He tried to tell me.”
“Well, maybe you could give him a call. Let him know you finally heard him.” She pauses, nudges me. “Make sure you tell him I helped.”
I nod, but it’s feeble. The idea of calling him—I can’t fathom it. I can’t fathom ever knowing what to say to make up for the way I must have made him feel.
“Then again,” she says, “calling might be kind of a weak move, under the circumstances.”
I nod again, stare down at the tear-spotted towel in my lap. At the stack of bedding we’ve set out, at Tegan’s new shower caddy and her little desk lamp. I cling to the picture of her new dorm room, and then I start making myself another one.
I set out all the little shells that have been living on a shelf in my mind. I look and look at them, and I don’t coat them in anything at all.
I think of Adam, and I remember everything.
“Tegan,” I finally say, newly resolved. Newly back in my body and mind. Newly reappeared. “Do you think there’s any chance you’d be up for another road trip?
Chapter 32
Hawkins:When we first started working on this together, you said something to me about storytelling. You said that Baltimore’s best trick was telling women a story they wanted to hear. What story do you think he told you?
Durant:I don’t enjoy being on this side of you being good at this, I’ll admit to that.
Hawkins:Sorry.
Durant:Don’t be. ::pauses:: The story he told me, I guess, was that I could get the story. That I could get to the truth.
Hawkins:Do you think you have now? Gotten the truth?
Durant:::chuckles:: Oh, probably not. Not about Lynton, at least. I don’t know if there is a truth about someone like him.
Hawkins:About something else, then?
Durant:I think I’ve probably figured out some truths about myself. A good story . . . a good story can do that for you.
Chapter 33
Adam
When I shut off the recording, Salem breathes out a sigh of relief.
“All right?” I ask.
“Ask me in two days. I need to let it settle.”
I nod and busy myself with tidying some of the equipment clutter on my coffee table, leaving Salem to her thoughts for now. I’m sure she’s tired from the interview, but the truth is, I am, too. It isn’t just that I’ve spent the last week preparing for this, keeping long days and late nights listening to tapes and poring over transcripts of conversations that never made it into Salem’s original podcast.
It’s that being dunked back into the Baltimore story—being steeped in it—means I’m constantly being reminded of what this story took from me.
I sit back on my couch, blow out a breath of my own. All through the interview, I tried not to look around much—tried to keep my focus on Salem or on my notes. I didn’t want to think about the fact that we were doing this here, in my home, or wonder whether Lynton Baltimore might linger like some poisonous cloud.
But now that it’s over, I’m back to wondering about it. Worrying about it.
This time, I brought it to my own door.
“Salem.”
“Mm?” She’s looking at her phone. Typical.
