Keep You Close

by Karen Cleveland

  I dust the magazine, then the bullets, all eleven of them. The places where we always find the hidden prints, the ones that few people think to erase. But hardened criminals know. Professionals know.

  I hold the magazine up to the light, just to be sure.

  Nothing. No prints.

  A chill runs through me. Whoever put this gun in my home knows exactly how to cover his tracks.

  Chapter 9

  It’s late by the time I get home. I stand in the entryway and listen for sounds, as usual. All I hear is the soft whir of the washing machine in the basement. I head straight into the living room, glance at the chessboard out of habit; no movement. Then my eyes land on the end table. Zachary’s tablet is there, in its indestructible black case. I pause for a moment, listen again for any sound from upstairs, but it’s still quiet.

  I reach for the tablet, bring the screen to life. Then I enter his passcode: 1-4-7-8-9-6, my finger tapping a counterclockwise circle around the screen. I’ve watched him do the same out of the corner of my eye, more habit than anything, the drive to investigate. I’ve never used his passcode. Never needed to.

  But the fact of the matter is, Scott—the FBI—has some sort of proof that Zachary’s involved with this extremist group. Scott wouldn’t have come to my home otherwise. If he comes back, it’ll be with a warrant. He’ll comb through everything in our house. I need to do the same.

  If there’s anything to find, I need to find it first.

  I keep an ear on the stairs and scan the apps. Social media, news sites, games. I open his email app and navigate to sent messages. Open the recent ones and read them, feeling guilty as I do. But this is necessary, and the messages are innocuous, anyway. Few and far between. If he’s communicating with people online, it’s through social media.

  I open Facebook. I scan incoming and outgoing messages, public posts, friends’ activity. Some terrible language, some inappropriate comments, the cringeworthy kind. Turns out my quiet, reserved boy is someone else entirely when he’s in front of a screen.

  Instagram next. Some shots of him at school, with friends I don’t recognize. At a Capitals game with his arm around a very pretty dark-haired girl—is that a date? She’s in the next picture, too, planting a kiss on his cheek. Me and my girl Lila, the caption reads. Lila. Is this a girlfriend? I’ve never heard a word about her.

  Another picture, at a bar with three teenage boys I don’t recognize. Zachary’s grinning, holding an amber bottle that’s been mostly cropped out of the picture.

  He’s seventeen, for God’s sake. That sick feeling settles into my stomach. I haven’t been paying enough attention, have I?

  I open the Internet browser, the search history. Busty girls, he’d typed. I can feel color rising to my cheeks as I scan his other search terms, the raunchy sites he’s visited. But he’s a teenage boy. This is normal, right? I return the tablet to the end table, aligning the edges so it’s just the way I found it.

  The tags for the case file run through my brain. Email. Internet. Radicalization. Recruitment.

  There’s nothing suspicious on the tablet. Part of me feels relieved. But part of me feels increasingly anxious. Because Scott must have something. What about Zachary’s cellphone? His laptop? His backpack? All of that’s upstairs. In his room, with him.

  I need to look.

  What do you think you’ll find? challenges the psychiatrist’s voice in my head. I can picture her sitting in her chair, watching me with a smug little smile. And I don’t know how to answer her.

  Scott’s words echo in my head. Please be careful.

  How well do you really know him?

  * * *

  —

  In that Senate office, all those years ago, I waited ten minutes, exactly. Spent it replaying that conversation with Halliday. Trying to think of questions I could ask him, the kind that would make me seem inquisitive, insightful. Trying to figure out how best to highlight the work I’d been doing, the responsibilities I’d been given, so that he’d write me a truly glowing letter of recommendation. Then I shut down my computer, knocked on his open door.

  “Come on in,” he called.

  I stepped inside. The senator was behind his desk. Offered up that grin again. “Why don’t you shut the door,” he said.

  I hesitated, but shut the door anyway. He probably didn’t realize the outer office was empty, just wanted to make sure our conversation was private. It was probably habit.

  I sat in the chair across from his desk. “Did you finish up the paperwork?”

  “I did, indeed.” He leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head. “So. Law school.”

  “Law school.” There was a glass on his desk, half full of something dark. Bourbon? Brandy?

  “And you’d like some advice.”

  “I would. Schools you’d suggest I look into…”

  “Well, that really depends on what type of law you’d like to practice. Have you decided?”

  “I haven’t.” Criminal, family, corporate—I wanted to learn the merits of each. I still had all these doors open to me. It was the idea of the law that I loved. Rules that everyone had to follow. Consequences for breaking them. The law was black-and-white. It was fair.

  “You’ve got plenty of time, Steph,” he said with a smile and a shrug. Then, “So what do you like to do in your free time?”

  “Um…read, I guess?” It was a question I hated, always had. I didn’t have any real hobbies to speak of. Didn’t feel like I had that much free time, to be honest. There was always schoolwork to do.

  “You’re what, eighteen? Nineteen?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Surely you like to go out? Party?” He drained his glass. Swiveled toward the cabinet behind him, pulled out a bottle and another glass. “Want some?”

  Want some? I’d just told him I was nineteen. “No thanks.”

  He shrugged, refilled his own glass.

  “So about the application process…” I tried to shift the conversation back on track. His recommendation would open so many doors for me.

  “This feels so impersonal,” he said. “Like teacher and student. It doesn’t need to be like that.”

  Alarm bells were starting to ring in my brain. But he was a senator, for God’s sake. My boss.

  He stood up. “Let’s go sit over there.” He nodded toward the couch behind us. I hesitated, but he was already around his desk, already beside me.

  I stood, confused. And the way he was looking at me—it made the alarm bells ring even louder.

  “You know, I think I should be going,” I said. My heart was hammering.

  “Oh, come on, Steph.” There was that smile again.

  “I’m going to head out.”

  “After all of this?” The smile was frozen in place.

  All of what?

  “What about your letter?”

  I couldn’t care less about the letter. Not in that moment. I just wanted to get out of that office. “I have to go.” I turned and started walking toward the door.

  And then a hand on my arm stopped me. A hand, closing tight, pulling me back, away from the door, closer to him.

  And I knew my instinct to leave had been correct.

  “Why don’t you stay?” The smile was back. The voice was friendly, teasing.

  “I’m leaving.” I shook my arm, tried to shake off the hand. It didn’t loosen in the slightest. Tightened, in fact. The smile vanished. Panic flared in my chest.

  “Not so fast.” His other hand came up, gripped my arm. Two hands now, both closed around my upper arms, squeezing hard. I could smell the sourness of the booze. He pulled me close to him, and then his lips were on mine.

  “Stop,” I yelped, trying to pull away. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.

  His grip on my arms tigh
tened. His fingers were biting into my skin.

  “Stop,” I said again. But I knew he wouldn’t stop. And then my legs were against the couch, and I was losing my balance, falling.

  “No!” I tried, but it only made him more aggressive. A hand came over my mouth and nose, smothered them. I couldn’t breathe.

  The other one came up under my skirt. I tried to fight back, tried to get away, but he was stronger. He was pinning me down with his body, with his weight. I had nowhere to go. No way to fight back.

  I was trapped, and I was powerless.

  * * *

  —

  Just past midnight, I finally climb the stairs. I stop at Zachary’s door and listen. No sound. I open it slowly. Moonlight streams through the slats in his blinds, throws stripes of light over the room. I see him in his bed, asleep, twisted under the navy-blue comforter, the one I used to tuck him under when he was still young enough to demand a good-night kiss.

  He’s breathing deeply. He always was a sound sleeper. I step inside. Same pale blue walls he’s had since we moved in, same old Orioles pendant on the wall. There are a handful of signed baseballs in plastic cases on the oak dresser, a couple of old trophies on top of the bookcase, from his ball-playing days, before high school. I scan the books on the shelves. Nonfiction, mostly. Baseball, science, coding. I don’t see anything radical in here. Should I have paid more attention to what he reads?

  Why would I need to? He’s a good kid. My good kid.

  I shouldn’t be doing this, I say to the psychiatrist, from the couch in my mind.

  Shouldn’t be doing it? she tosses back. Or scared of what you might find?

  His backpack’s lying against the wall. I unzip it quietly, pull out the laptop. I open it up, and the screen casts an eerie blue light in the darkness. I look through his documents. Everything seems benign.

  I open the Internet browser next, quickly scanning his searches, the sites he’s visited. College websites, admissions calendars. Blogs about coding, website design. ESPN, baseball stats. A Google search for prom proposal ideas, then a name—Lila Winter. Lila—like the Instagram pictures. He’s planning to ask her to the prom, isn’t he? And another search: DC private investigators. Why is my son looking up private—

  Zachary moans and flops over on his side. I freeze, heart pounding. I close the laptop again, holding my body so rigid it aches. If he really was doing anything illegal, he’d hide it, wouldn’t he? Encryption, something like that. Zachary knows all about that stuff. If he was communicating with an extremist group, with anyone he shouldn’t be, he’d hide it, wouldn’t he?

  Probably. But I don’t know how to access that sort of thing, aside from bringing a device down to the Bureau’s lab for exploitation, and it’s not like I can do that. Zachary’s the computer whiz in the house. He’s the one I’ve always gone to with questions, who’s always troubleshot our devices at home. He’s always had a knack for that kind of thing.

  I rifle through the rest of the backpack. Notebooks. A textbook. A phone charger. I dig deeper, hear the crinkle of a bag. Potato chips. My hand moves on, closes around something at the bottom of the backpack. A videogame. Punishment Hunt—that one that’s been in the news lately. Graphic killings, apparently—shootings, explosions, poisonings. I’ve always absolutely forbidden those violent games, ever since Zachary was old enough to take an interest. Unease creeps through me. But it’s just a game. And it’s popular. It’s mainstream.

  His phone’s plugged in, charging. As quietly as I can, I unplug it and walk a few steps away. I enter his passcode, 1-2-3-6-9-8, a clockwise circle this time, the one I’ve seen him type, and start skimming through texts. A long string with Lila, mostly small talk. An expletive-laden group chat with four boys whose names he’s never mentioned. Most of the ire seems directed at their teachers, from what I can gather. Complaints about homework assignments. A lot of boasting. Gossip about a girl in calculus class, the kind that makes me glad I’m well beyond high school.

  I keep scrolling through different threads, keep reading, and then I stop.

  John Doe, reads the contact name. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck start to tingle.

  Local number. Cryptic texts, for the most part. Things like 4:30 Wednesday? and I’ll be there. No small talk whatsoever. Whatever conversations these two are having, they’re doing it in person.

  I scroll to the beginning of the chat. Two months ago, give or take. Here’s my number, reads the first text. From Zachary to John Doe. And a reply: Nice to meet you today!

  I keep scrolling. It looks like they’ve met once every week or two since.

  The hairs on my neck are fully at attention now. Zachary’s hiding something, and I’d bet money it has something to do with John Doe.

  I’m at the end of the exchange. Sent today, by John Doe. 3:30 tomorrow? it reads.

  Zachary replied, I’ll be there.

  “So will I,” I murmur.

  Chapter 10

  I hear Zachary’s alarm at six, a faint persistent beep. Sleep eluded me last night, and I’ve been waiting for the sound for hours. Eleven minutes later I hear him on the stairs. He notices me when he already has one hand on the refrigerator door, and he goes still.

  “Hey,” he says carelessly.

  “Morning,” I reply.

  I watch him pull out a container of orange juice, pour himself a tall glass. He gulps juice, the refrigerator door still open, his eyes finding mine over the glass. They look angry. When it’s empty, he puts it down on the counter.

  “Zachary,” I begin.

  He ignores me. Shuts the fridge door, heads into the pantry. I watch him take a handful of protein bars from the shelf, shove them into the back pocket of his jeans.

  “Zachary,” I say again.

  He comes out of the pantry. “What?”

  “Tell me about the Freedom Solidarity Movement.”

  “The what?” And I’m stunned by the resentment in his eyes.

  But there wasn’t the slightest glimmer of recognition. I’m sure there wasn’t; I’d be able to detect it. He’s never heard that name before. I try another question. “Zachary, are you involved in an anarchist group?”

  His eyes widen, the slightest bit, and his eyebrows arch. “What?”

  I say nothing, though a million questions race through my mind. I need to see the whole reaction here. His recovery, what he says next, everything.

  He gives his head a small shake, like he’s trying to rid himself of something unpleasant, like he’s completely confused. “Jesus, Mom! Are you serious?”

  I nod. His chin droops, his mouth opening into a little circle. “First you think I want a gun, and now this? You’ve gotta be shitting me.” His jaw sets into a stubborn line.

  I fight the urge to correct his language. “If you made a mistake, let me help you fix it.”

  He just glares at me, incredulous.

  “Or if you’ve gotten mixed up with the wrong people—”

  “I haven’t. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  And before I can reply, he makes a decision. He storms out of the room.

  I hear him in the hall, grabbing his backpack. I hear the door open, then slam.

  I think about following him, but instead, I stare down at my mug. The remnants of the coffee are undrinkable, long since cold. There’s a faint swirl of white on the top, the cream separating.

  Confusion washes over me. Because I know when someone’s lying. It’s my job to know that. I’ve been trained to detect deceit.

  And I’m convinced that Zachary wasn’t lying.

  Chapter 11

  The phone is on the counter, arm’s length from the woman, when it buzzes. Incoming text.

  She’s spreading grape jam on bread, four brightly colored lunchboxes open in front of her. The kids are at the breakfast table, arguing, an
d her husband’s refereeing, talking over them in a calm, measured tone. It’s his phone, but he didn’t hear it.

  A week ago, she’d have ignored it. Allowed him his privacy. But today, she can’t help but lean over and steal a glance at the screen.

  From a contact labeled “O.”

  Game time. It’s all led to this.

  “Honey?”

  She jerks her head up, heart racing. Her husband’s watching her.

  She scoops up the phone and hands it to him. He slides it into his back pocket without looking at it. Her cheeks flush.

  “Anything interesting?” He says it with the hint of a smile.

  Caught, red-handed. “ ‘O’ says it’s game time.”

  “Wizards are playing tonight. Big game,” he says without the slightest hesitation.

  “Right.” She picks up another slice of bread, dips the knife into the jam. Starts spreading, and tries to think of a single time in the twelve years they’ve been married that he’s ever mentioned the Wizards.

  Chapter 12

  The bullpen’s dark when I get to the office; I’m the first to arrive, as usual. I make my way into my personal office, turn on the lights, sit down at the computer, switch it on.

  I check my email, respond to the urgent messages, flag others to return to later. Check my queue of reports, skim over the new ones, jot off a few notes to my agents. And all the while, my mind’s racing, trying to make sense of the situation, struggling to understand it.

  I glance out into the darkened sea of cubicles. Then I turn back to the computer, double-click the icon for the virtual file system. I move the cursor into the search box, type in the file number. 3-7659. I hesitate, the cursor hovering over the search button.

  I can’t do this. Can I?

  I let go of the mouse and swivel toward the table behind me, turn on the coffeemaker, feeling numb. Then I turn back to my desk, stare at the computer screen. 3-7659.