Keep You Close

by Cleveland, Karen

  “It wasn’t my place.”

  “Damn right it wasn’t.” She’s still holding out her parka. I make no move to take it. I’m not going to give her permission to stay. I’m not going to make her feel welcome.

  She sighs, pulls the parka to her chest, hugs it. “I didn’t want to betray his trust. He needs someone he can turn to.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Things between you and Zachary…The boy is drifting away, Stephanie.”

  “That boy is my son, and this is my life.”

  “Of course. But you don’t know him the way you should. You’re not around—”

  “This again? Now? Are you kidding me?”

  “Time is precious, Stephanie. And time is slipping away. You—”

  “Just stop, Mom.”

  “Zachary needs to be your first priority, honey. A child—”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “A child should always be a mother’s first priority.”

  Fury is spreading through me like wildfire. “How dare you say that? Zachary is my life—”

  “Your work is your life. Zachary comes second. He always has.”

  “You need to leave. Now.”

  “Honey, I just want to help you fix things. Before it’s too late. Before you don’t have any relationship at all with your child.”

  “Because you have such a great one with yours?”

  “I have always put you first.”

  “Then I guess there’s more to being a good mother than just that.”

  Pain flares in her eyes, but I have no intention of stopping. I want to hurt her right now, the same way she hurt me.

  “You think you and I have a great relationship? You think you’re one to be dispensing advice?”

  “We used to be close. Before—”

  “Yeah? Did we?” I taunt, even though I know it’s true. Even though I know the rest of her thought: Before you got pregnant. Before you decided your career was more important than my grandson.

  “I know you, Stephanie. When it comes to you and Zachary—”

  “You don’t know me,” I slash back.

  “Of course I do, honey. Even when you’ve been reluctant to tell me something, I’ve known. Like your relationship with that senator. You didn’t tell me. I knew.”

  The patronizing look on her face makes me unable to hold back the ugly words tumbling toward my lips. “It wasn’t a relationship, Mom. It was rape.”

  She recoils, like I’ve struck her. Her face pales.

  “And if you really knew me, you’d know that. You’d understand why my career is so important to me.” I brush past her to the door. Open it, wait for her to leave my home.

  “Oh, honey…Why did you never tell me that?” Tears cloud her eyes.

  A lump is rising in my throat. In my mind I’m nineteen again, irrationally terrified that she’d think less of me if she knew the truth, that it would hurt her, destroy our relationship. Certain, in my stubborn teenage way, that I knew best. That I could salvage our relationship with secrets and lies.

  She’d wrap me in a hug right now, if I’d let her. But I won’t. What she did—exposing this truth to Zachary—wasn’t right. The things she said to me were too hurtful. I go in for one last dig, one I know will wound: “I guess we weren’t as close as you think, Mom, were we?”

  * * *

  —

  It’s freezing again tonight. Dark, too; the moon is a cold sliver in the sky. Everything’s quiet at this hour; the streets are almost deserted. I start off at a jog, heading west. At the end of the street, I take a left and pick up my pace.

  The conversation with Mom replays itself in my head. It was rape. The words that have been at the forefront of my mind for eighteen years now, held back by an invisible dam, one that cracked the moment I saw Zachary with Halliday.

  The hurtful things we said to each other: Zachary comes second. He always has.

  I guess there’s more to being a good mother…

  I run harder, try to stop this endless loop in my brain. Focus on my breath, the white puffs in front of me. My knee, aching in the cold.

  Through the heart of Dupont Circle. O’Neill’s is up ahead. Inside, there’s a warm orange glow. I can see the bar as I pass, rows of bottles stacked high, a bartender with a shaker in his hand. I look for Marta, even though I know she’s not there. I heard she’d stopped going. In a way, though, that makes things easier. Even if I hadn’t tried to do the right thing, those days would be done.

  We met at this bar, Marta and me, ages ago. We were both attending a conference at the hotel across the street, one sponsored by the Department of Defense, open to agencies around the federal government. Intended for women working in male-dominated environments. And somehow, inexplicably, each of the presenters was a man.

  I snuck out as one particularly dry Army captain droned on about workplace attire. Made my way to O’Neill’s. Slid onto a stool, scanned the menu of bar snacks, ordered a ginger ale. Would have liked something harder, but I was on the clock, and I was armed.

  There was a woman two stools away, a short glass of something clear in front of her. She wore a conference nametag. Marta M. No agency listed beneath her name. The only people I’d encountered that day without an agency listed were either FBI or CIA—the ones trying to hide where they worked.

  She glanced over, caught me watching her. Her gaze traveled down to my own nametag. Her lips quirked. “You escaped, too?”

  “If I hear one more man talk about what it’s like to be a woman…” I smiled at her.

  “Yes!” She grinned. Then she stood, reached for her drink, and slid onto the stool beside me. “I’m Marta.”

  “Steph.”

  She nodded toward my nametag. “Agency or Bureau?”

  “Bureau. You?”

  “Agency.” The bartender placed a tall glass of soda in front of me. I thanked him, turned back to Marta. “What brought you here?”

  “I’m between field assignments. It was either sit at headquarters and twiddle my thumbs or fill the time with crap like this.”

  “You may have made the wrong call.”

  She threw back her head and laughed. “What about you?”

  “The bosses recommended it.” I could have stopped there, but her honesty encouraged me to continue. “And I have an eight-year-old. Barely ever get home in time to see his Little League games….These things always end early, you know?”

  “Thank God! Not sure how much more of this anyone could handle.” She took a sip from her glass, pursed her lips like it was sour.

  “How’s it been for you, working in a ‘male-dominated’ world?” I used air quotes as I said it.

  “Agency’s not so bad. Worse in the field than at headquarters. Some of those station chiefs…” She shrugged.

  The television caught my eye. Halliday, on the Senate floor. My throat tightened in that all-too-familiar way. I focused on my drink, the beads of condensation on the glass.

  “Steph?” Marta was giving me a quizzical look. She had obviously just said something, but I hadn’t heard it.

  “Sorry, what was that?”

  “What about you? Any experience working for a terrible boss?”

  I looked back at the television screen. Halliday was still there. I nodded toward the screen. “I worked for that guy right there. Nine years ago.”

  Marta followed my gaze. She was quiet.

  Why did I just say that? I looked back down at my drink. My cheeks felt hot. I hadn’t come this close to telling the truth about Halliday since that night with my mom, when Zachary was an infant. And here I was saying it to a perfect stranger.

  I glanced back at Marta. She was still watching Halliday on the screen. What was she thinking? Finally, she turned to me. Offered me a smile, and
I had the strangest sense that she could somehow see the truth, and that she didn’t think it was crazy. “I always did think that guy was a bastard.”

  A peal of laughter draws my attention back to the present. I see three girls on the sidewalk, practically teenagers by the looks of them, with arms linked, heading toward me, toward the door to O’Neill’s. Smiling, not a care in the world. I was one of those girls, once. It seems more than a lifetime ago.

  I pick up my speed. My route is familiar. Fourteen miles, a loop that runs seven into Maryland, seven back. I’ve been running it for almost two years now, ever since I learned that woman’s identity, found out where she lived.

  The one from the crime scene. I see her now, in my mind. Walking away from me, heading for the door. That hand on her back, washed in flashing red and blue…

  The National Cathedral’s up ahead, its towering Gothic spires glowing against the dark sky.

  There are no cars around; my feet hitting the pavement is the only sound. I pass a woman under an overpass, bundled thick in reeking layers, a worn duffel bag at her side, a makeshift tent behind her. She doesn’t even look up as I run by.

  I head up Wisconsin Ave, north into Maryland. There’s a sign on my right: WELCOME TO FRIENDSHIP HEIGHTS. Marta’s part of town. I could use her now more than ever. But I ruined the friendship we’d built. All because of that woman, because I didn’t let it go.

  Faster now. I focus on the pavement in front of me. The road up ahead. And I try to keep my mind clear. But questions keep forcing their way in.

  Who’s doing this? Who’s trying to manipulate the facts to make my son look treasonous? Halliday’s the most obvious answer, the most logical answer. But what if it’s someone else?

  I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt Zachary. I can’t picture him making someone angry enough that they’d do this.

  But that means it’s someone who wants to hurt me. And that thought is sickening. Not just because it would mean it’s my fault, that I’m the one who dragged my son into this, but because of the people who might be doing it. Halliday. Torrino. Someone like Hanson, any number of others I’ve investigated, whose careers I’ve destroyed.

  The image flashes in my mind again. The hand on her back, the blinking lights. And then another: my filing cabinet at work, that file tucked in the back, unlabeled.

  My lungs are burning, filling with air so cold it feels like fire. I’m in the neighborhood now, the one I’ve visited many times the past couple of years. I wind my way down the familiar streets. I see her house up ahead. Small, boxlike, the front porch addition that looks vaguely out of place.

  I slow my pace as I approach. The house is dark, vacant, as always. The bushes out front are brown, in need of pruning. Grass has frozen in the cracks of the sidewalk.

  I come to a stop in front of it. Bend down, hands on my knees, wheezing. Then I look up, at the house, into the uncurtained windows, pitch black inside. I picture her, the only time I saw her. Shell-shocked, scared.

  I try to imagine her inside the house. Happy. Safe. But all I see is blackness, nothingness.

  A porch light flares on next door, and I take that as my cue to move on. I start walking.

  Wherever she is, I hope she’s safe. I hope she’s happy.

  I give the house one last look, then break into a jog. I wish I could get her out of my mind, but I can’t.

  What happened to her?

  * * *

  —

  Zachary’s alarm goes off at six on the dot. Four minutes later, the shower turns on.

  I carry my third mug of coffee into the living room, aim the remote at the television and find the morning news, the anchors who look far too cheery for the early hour. They’re laughing about something. I stare at the screen and listen to the water upstairs.

  Traffic report. Weather. Then on to politics. More Foreign Relations Committee hearings; Russia, as usual. “How can we call Moscow an ally when the Russians are making every effort to interfere in our elections?” comes a question from offscreen. Jackson’s testifying again; I don’t listen for his answer. I look away, down at the chess pieces, focus on them.

  Minutes later I hear Zachary thunder down the stairs. His hair’s still damp, and his T-shirt has little water spots, like he pulled it on before his skin was fully dry. He notices me when he already has one hand on the refrigerator door, and he immediately goes still.

  “Hey,” he says.

  I stand up, face him. “I need to talk to you. Who’s been in our house recently?”

  “Huh?”

  “Which of your friends?”

  “No one. Not since I broke up with Kelly.”

  That was months ago. “I won’t be angry, Zachary. You won’t get in trouble. I just need you to tell me.”

  “Mom, I swear.” The confusion in his eyes deepens. He doesn’t look the slightest bit like he’s lying.

  And the truth is, I believe it. He’s never been one for having friends over. When he was younger, he’d always prefer to go to other kids’ houses. And since he turned thirteen, got his own phone, he stopped doing even that. All the kids did. They just sit on their phones all the time, or they go out somewhere. There’s no hanging out at a friend’s house. It’s not like it was when I was his age.

  “Any other girls?”

  “No.”

  “What about Lila?” The moment the name slips from my mouth, I wish I could yank it back.

  “Lila?”

  “Has she been here?”

  “How do you know about Lila?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Have you been going through my stuff?” His eyes are stormy. I feel like I’m looking at a stranger. No, not a stranger. Halliday.

  I could say yes. I could tell him he’s living in my house, and I have every right to do that. But the anger on his face reproves me, and I settle for a half-truth. “You put pictures online, Zachary. What about Halliday? Has he been here?”

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  “Never!”

  “Or anyone else?”

  “Just Grandma!”

  “I’m not talking about Grandma. Someone claiming to be a repairman, anyone like that?”

  “No.” The fury fades, and relief washes over me. Was I just afraid of my own son? He holds my gaze for a long moment, then opens the fridge, pulls out the juice carton, moves over to the counter to pour himself a glass. I wait until he’s finished. I suddenly realize how tall he’s become, how much he resembles his father. I feel sick.

  “Zachary, is there anyone who might want to hurt you?”

  “Mom, jeez, what is it? What’s going on?”

  “Or get back at you for anything?”

  “I told you—no. Why are you asking these questions? Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

  Someone came into our house, sent that email. Planted that Glock. Halliday, maybe. Or someone else? So much isn’t clear. Who, what, where, when—

  I know when, don’t I?

  When the email was sent, at least. When the gun was planted, too?

  I think back to the report, try to recall the date. Wednesday, a little more than two weeks ago. Then another thought hits me, snaps together with the previous one in a perfect fit. I set the mug down and reach for my phone, navigate to my texts. I find the chain with Zachary and scroll until I find the exchange I’m looking for. There it is. I check the date stamp. Wednesday. It’s a match.

  Zachary, 5:16 P.M.: Did u forget to set alarm?

  Me, 5:16 P.M.: No, why?

  Zachary, 5:19 P.M.: Just got home, it was off.

  I remember that day, those texts. Looking at them at work, distracted by the allegations about Hanson, only half trying to remember if I was the last to leave or Zachary was, trying to think of what was happening that morning that coul
d have made me forget to set it. Feeling the slightest twinge of unease, one I pushed from my mind, because there was no reason to think anyone would be trying to get into our house, trying to get close to us. Not now, anyway. Maybe once, but not now. Life was good; we were safe. It was paranoia to think otherwise.

  “What is it, Mom?” comes Zachary’s voice.

  What if it wasn’t paranoia after all? Someone broke into our home, sent that message. Didn’t trip our alarm, turned it off. Someone with the skill—or the power—to do that.

  “Mom? What’s going on? You’re scaring me!”

  I see faces in my mind, almost like a lineup. Men from my past, all of whom had—or have—something to lose. Scott thinks they’ve moved on. But what if one of them didn’t move on?

  Who? I hear the psychiatrist’s jeer in my head again. And why?

  “Mom, what’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

  How am I supposed to answer that? “It’s just a work thing.”

  “Maybe I could help. If you just tell me—”

  “It’s work-related, Zachary. I don’t want you involved.”

  “ ’Cause that’s never happened, right, Mom?” he says bitterly.

  * * *

  —

  A week after the takedown in Chicago, my boss called me down to his office. I assumed it was going to be another commendation. More praise for the operation. There’d already been plenty, reaching from as high up as the director himself, and it wasn’t letting up. But when I walked into his office, I could tell from the look on his face that this was something else. Something very different.

  “Have a seat, Steph,” he said, and I sat down in one of the chairs opposite his desk. Waited for what I somehow already knew was going to be bad news.

  He clasped his hands and set them carefully on the desk in front of him. Took a noisy breath, sighed, then spoke. “You’ve been greenlighted.”

  Greenlighted. They put a hit out on me. The mob did. Torrino did. He wanted me dead.

  I said nothing, because I didn’t know what to say.