“Oh!” said Alexa. “Oh.NowI understand why we’re eating here instead of somewhere in town—this is an undercover operation.”
Cam ignored that. “How much do you know about it?” he asked.
“Enough,” said Alexa.
“This is serious stuff, Alexa. Serious, serious stuff. Like, we could be talking Tony Soprano sort of stuff.” He took her hand and an electric charge shot through her. But there was something unromantic about the way he was holding it more like he was protecting her, or maybe even looking for protection himself. “Whatever this girl and her mother saw, whatever they knew, and the people they knew it about . . . it had to have been a really big deal. For them to be put into this program, moved here like this. There must be people out there looking for them, or the governmentwouldn’t have bothered to hide them.”The bad men,thought Alexa. “If you tell anybody else, Alexa, it could be a really big problem. Or if you’ve already told anybody else.”
“I haven’t told anyone,” said Alexa. “I am positive nobody else knows.”
“I just don’t like the way it feels,” said Cam. “I don’t want to put a little girl and her mother in danger by knowing something I’m not supposed to know. I wish I could un-know it.” He looked positively downtrodden, so downtrodden that he barely brightened when the scallop pie arrived.
“I’m sorry,” said Alexa. “I’m sorry, but you can’t un-know something that you know. I can’t un-know it either.”
“Yes, but you—” Cam let his voice trail off, but Alexa knew what he was going to say before he said it. “You could have kept it to yourself. You didn’t have to tell me.”
He was absolutely right. She didn’t have to tell Cam, but she had anyway. She did it for no other reason than that she wanted his attention, and somebody else’s secret was the most valuable thing she could find to trade for that. She should apologize. She should acknowledge accountability. But Alexa had never been good at admitting when she was wrong. So instead, she said the only thing she could think of to say, which was, “That scallop pie is gigantic. Do you think you’re still going to want the brickle?”
“Listen,” said Cam. “I’m going to do my very best to forget that I know this thing. I can’t un-know it, you’re right, but I can do my best to wipe it out of my mind. I have no other choice, and I don’t think you have another choice either, Alexa. I mean that with the utmost seriousness.” He frowned at his pie.
All at once a collective sense of anticipation rose around the bar. Alexa glanced at the television. The Sox were up, bases loaded. Mookie Betts stepped up to the plate and a chant ofMoo-kie, Moo-kiebroke out.
“Alexa? You’re with me? There could be people out there, you know. Looking for people who know things. There could be really dangerous people out there.”
Before Alexa could answer Cam, Mookie did his thing, hammering the hell out of the ball, and it went high and deep, over the Green Monster. That ball was a goner. The bartenders started high-fiving the patrons, and the patrons high-fived each other. One of the twentysomethings Alexa had beaten to the seat was off his stool and heading over. He hugged her. She hugged him back: there were no hard feelings, because of Mookie. The guy high-fived Cam.
But underneath the thrum of happiness, Alexa could feel her heart skipping along like a frightened animal.
It turned out that the brickle pie involved ice cream covered by Heath bar and marshmallow, all of which sat on top of a cookie crust and were covered by some sort of “brickle sauce.” It was sort of horrifying and sort of delicious, but after one bite Alexa couldn’t eat any more. Cam’s words felt like they were taking up all the room in her body.
There could be people out there. Looking for people who know things.
“I want this to be the only time we talk about this,” said Cam when they parted at her Jeep. He looked extra cute when he was serious but his eyes weren’t on her at all; he was staring straight ahead, at the traffic on Route 110.
“But—” said Alexa.
“No,” said Cam. “No but. That’s it, this was the only time. I’m sorry, but it has to be that way.”
“Okay,” Alexa said. She believed that Cam meant this, but she also believed that he had not yet been introduced to the full powers of Alexa Thornhill; if she needed to talk about it, if she had something to say, surely he would change his policy and listen.
“Good night, Alexa,” he said formally, even dipping his head a little bit.
She thought about saying nothing at all (because who did he think he was? making her feelbadabout wanting help? making her feel terrible for sharing information?) but her good manners prevailed and she said, “Thank you for the lovely dinner,” and she climbed into her Jeep and closed the door, hard.
Alexa Thornhill, will you please rate for us the evening you had with Cameron Hartwell? Did dinner at the Sylvan Street Grill meet or exceed your expectations? On a scale of one to ten, how likely are you to seek this kind of experience again?
Fuck off,she thought.
42.
Rebecca
Rebecca stood in the doorway to the living room, looking at Katie and Morgan, who were fast asleep on the couch, the televisionplaying in the background. Neither had had the foresight or perhaps the desire to lie all the way down so they were slumped toward each other, heads lolling forward, looking more like victims of a double homicide than like co-viewers of a Netflix movie. In fact just now they looked almost like sisters, even though in daylight they bore very little resemblance to each other: Morgan small and straight-haired, elfin, except lacking perhaps in the grace that descriptor implied, and Katie sturdier, curlier, with more heft. When Alexa had come home she’d gone straight upstairs. The old Alexa might have come in and sat down and watched a little bit of whatever Morgan was watching.
Rebecca switched off the TV, and now she could hear a soft knocking at the front door. She looked at her watch—it was nine thirty; this would be Sherri, coming to pick up Katie on her way home from work.
“They’re both asleep,” she said, opening the door. “Come in.” She opened the door wider, and Sherri stepped into the foyer. Ponytail, khakis, blue polo shirt with thederma-youinsignia over the pocket.
“Sorry,” Sherri whispered. “I actually thought I might get outa little early tonight, but they kept me all the way through.” She reached up and tightened her ponytail by pulling the two halves of it in opposite directions. It was a funny gesture—more that of a high school track athlete than of a suburban mother.
