by Alex Finlay
Matt didn’t respond. He was pissed she’d made him do this.
Another guard arrived to escort them out of the facility. He led them along a yellow line painted on the cement floor. Matt could feel the eyes of prisoners in the rafters above them. Waiting for a security door to buzz them through, Matt surveyed the dreary facility. At the far end, he saw the guard marshaling Danny to his cell.
His brother still walked with the swagger of a small-town football star. Maybe it was a show for the other prisoners. But even after all these years, he still had the same cocksure stride.
Matt’s mind went back to that night with Jessica Wheeler. His own skip in his step after he’d walked her home. Nearly four in the morning, and his smile so bright that it was probably visible on the black footpath. The path near the house where he saw the dark silhouette of his brother—in the letterman jacket and with that swagger—pushing a wheelbarrow toward the creek.
CHAPTER 5
Matt rode with his head resting on the back window of the Suburban. Rainwater pulsed along the glass.
Keller sat in the front passenger seat, cell phone pressed to her ear. For whatever reason, they didn’t take the chopper back to the city. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been driving. An hour? Two?
The SUV veered off I-87 and pulled into a Shell station. The agent driving, wearing sunglasses even though it was drizzling, got out and started filling the tank.
Keller twisted around. “I’m gonna get some coffee,” she said, opening her door. “Want anything?”
“A Mountain Dew would be great,” Matt said. “I need to wake up.”
Keller gave a disapproving frown and headed to the station’s small convenience store.
Matt’s thoughts returned to Danny. He imagined his brother in his cell, fighting the tears. What a terrible place, where any sign of emotion was taken as weakness, easy prey. He thought of his brother’s prison muscles and cold eyes.
Keller returned with a coffee and small plastic bag from the store. Instead of returning to the front seat, she got into the back next to Matt. From the bag she retrieved a bottle of water and an apple and handed them to him.
“They were out of Mountain Dew,” she said, clearly lying. “Anyway, at the academy they taught us that water will wake you up more than caffeine.”
“Is that so?” Matt said, eyeing the paper cup of coffee in Keller’s hand.
She gave him a knowing smile and took a sip. The driver started the engine, but Keller stayed in the back. Matt realized that she wanted to talk about something.
“Look,” she said as the SUV merged back onto the interstate, “I know this isn’t a great time, but we need your help with something.”
Matt straightened himself. Took a big drink of the water. “Sure.”
“The Mexican authorities are being difficult about”—Keller took in a breath—“about releasing your family to come home. They say they need an immediate family member to sign some papers before the bodies can be released.”
“Fine. I’ll sign whatever they send over.”
“That’s just it. They won’t just send the papers. They need someone there in person.”
“Wait, what?”
“We’re working our diplomatic channels, but the locals are being a pain. They haven’t been particularly forthcoming with information, and they’re saying we need a family member there in person.”
“Why would they do that?” Matt asked.
“It could be they’re worried about tourism. What happened isn’t the best PR in the world. Or it could be some bureaucrat on a power trip. Or”—she looked Matt in the eyes—“or they could be hiding something.”
Matt pondered this. “If you think it’s necessary,” he said, “then, sure, yeah. When do you need me to go?”
“We’ve booked you a flight out tomorrow morning.”
Matt let out a breath. Could this fucking week get any better? He gave a noncommittal nod, then continued gazing out the window. He wasn’t particularly travel ready. He had less than one hundred dollars in his bank account. And he’d stubbornly refused any money from his parents after the fight with his father.
They sat in silence for a long time as the SUV made its way to the Henry Hudson Parkway and into Manhattan.
The rain had subsided and there was a sudden part in the clouds, the sun beaming through the gloom. The gold tinge on the buildings brought Matt back to one of their family traditions. Every July, his father’s accounting firm held its annual meeting in New York and they’d all come along. The event overlapped with “Manhattanhenge,” one of two days a year when the setting sun aligned perfectly with the New York City street grid. When the fiery ball of the sun was framed in by skyscrapers as it dipped below the horizon. Matt thought back to the last Manhattanhenge before Year Zero—the family sitting at a café on Fourteenth Street, Dad and Mom holding hands, tipsy on wine and being in the city. Danny checking out the girls strutting by in movie-starlet sunglasses and short skirts. Maggie’s nose in a guidebook, spouting out facts about the rare solar event.
Matt flashed to the same café last year: everyone in their assigned seats, Dad next to Maggie, who was across from Mom. Next to Mom, Tommy, who’d taken Danny’s old seat. And Matt on the outside, trying to squeeze in at the small table. Everyone going through the motions, pretending the ritual still had meaning. The new but not improved Pines. And now he had an ache on his insides that both versions of his family were dead. After all of the bitterness, the anger, the longing for the original Pines, he’d give anything to have his bizarro post–Year Zero family back. Give anything to tell his father he was sorry for the things he’d said. Tell his mom what she meant to him. Tell Maggie what a light she was in his life. Tell Tommy that he was their savior. But that life, whatever his grievances, was over. The devastation, the fragility of what they’d had, was almost more than he could take.
“Where would you like us to drop you?” Keller asked. “The dorm?”
“Do you think they’re gone yet?”
“Who? The reporters?”
“Yeah.”
Keller frowned. “I doubt it. Do you have a friend we can—”
“You can take me to East Seventh, if you wouldn’t mind.”
The driver looked at Keller in the rearview, and she gave him a nod. The SUV jerked around other cars until traffic was at a standstill. The driver flipped on the strobe mounted to the dash, and the vehicles ahead splayed, creating a narrow path.
Matt watched out the window again as the end-of-the-day crowd headed on foot to happy hours, commuter trains, and cramped apartments.
Finally the SUV drew to the curb on Seventh.
“Here?” Keller said, glancing at the run-down barbershop and dry cleaner next door.
“My friend lives upstairs.” Matt looked up at the four-story building in need of a paint job.
Keller nodded. “I just got a text that we have your phone,” she said. “I can bring it to you before your flight tomorrow, if that works?”
“Okay.”
“We’ll also have an agent fly to Mexico with you.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Matt said.
“It will just help make sure you’re—”
“I’d prefer to go alone.”
Keller frowned. “All right. But at least let us have our consular officer pick you up at the airport. He’ll take you to Tulum.”
When Matt didn’t object, Keller retrieved a sheet of paper from her handbag, and handed it to him. “This has your flight information.”
Matt remained silent.
“Does your friend have a number so we can reach you?”
“I don’t know it. It’s in my phone.” The art of remembering a ten-digit number extinguished by Apple.
“Okay. Here are my numbers.” She handed him a business card.
Matt glanced at the card. SARAH KELLER, FINANCIAL CRIMES SECTION. He wondered for a moment how a financial crimes agent had gotten stuck babysitting him. He’d
assumed that the FBI was involved either because of Danny and the documentary or because of the death of Americans abroad. Whatever.
He opened the back door and stepped onto the sidewalk. The clouds had returned, the sun buried behind them again.
“And, Matt,” Keller said before he shut the door, “I’m really sorry for your loss.”
Matt looked at the federal agent, and he believed her.
CHAPTER 6
Matt stabbed the buzzer on the dilapidated apartment building again. Still no answer. He looked up and down the street. It was lined with dented cars and walk-ups with window-unit air conditioners jutting over the sidewalk. He glanced inside the darkened windows of the barbershop. Just the outline of four chairs facing mirrors. Matt rang the buzzer one more time, and when it went ignored, he walked down an alley to the back of the place. A rickety fire escape clung to the structure. It was rusty and looked like an accident waiting to happen. Matt jumped up, clasped the bottom rung, and tugged. The ladder skated down with a loud clank.
Matt clambered up to the fourth floor. On the narrow metal ledge at the top he peered into the window. And there was Ganesh. Passed out, enough weed paraphernalia on the coffee table to stock a head shop. The window was open a crack, and noise from the blaring television seeped outside. Matt tapped on the glass.
When Ganesh didn’t stir, Matt wedged his fingers under the window frame and lifted. The window was warped from rot and age, and it jammed halfway up. He crawled through the hole.
“Ganesh,” Matt said, but his friend didn’t move. He was out cold, mouth wide open, still wearing his plastic-framed glasses, a bag of potato chips on his lap.
“Ganesh,” he said again, louder, over the din of Fox News blasting from the television mounted on the wall.
Ganesh shot up, startled. He looked around, then seemed to relax when he registered that it was Matt.
“Dude, you scared the shit out of me,” Ganesh said. He spoke with a slight Indian accent, barely detectable, and sounded more British than Indian.
“Sorry, you weren’t answering the door, so I—” Matt pointed his chin at the window. They’d made the same climb once before when Ganesh had forgotten his keys. Matt was sober this time, at least.
“No worries.” Ganesh’s curly hair was a mess. He dusted potato chip crumbs from his shirt, then gave Matt a long sad look. “I heard … Did you get my texts? I don’t know what to say.”
Matt nodded. Nothing Ganesh would say—nothing anyone could say—would make one bit of difference.
Ganesh leaned forward and lifted a tall cylindrical bong from the coffee table. Lighter in one hand, bong in the other, he gestured to Matt, offering the first hit.
Matt held up a hand to decline. He was never one for weed. And he always found it strange how Ganesh, a law-and-order Republican, used the drug as a crutch. But he supposed that was the enigma of his roommate from freshman year. Ganesh was finishing his four-year degree in three, and had already been accepted to med school to specialize in neuroscience. Fitting—Ganesh’s own brain could provide years of study. He was a conservative who chose to attend liberal NYU. He was an immigrant who loved to chant “Build the wall.” He was sophisticated, yet highly susceptible to cable news conspiracy theories. He grew up in a ten-million-dollar penthouse in Mumbai, yet chose to live in a shithole apartment on the outskirts of the East Village.
Ganesh blew out a lungful of smoke and aimed the remote at the television. “That douche RA was on TV talking about you. So was your girl.”
“Ex-girl,” Matt corrected.
“I DVR’d it,” Ganesh said. He scrolled through the recordings displayed on the screen, and clicked on one for the local news. Up popped Phillip’s preppy face.
“We’re all heartbroken,” Phillip said.
“You and Matt Pine are close?” said the blond reporter holding the microphone.
“Oh yeah. I’m not just the dorm’s RA. We’re like family.”
Ganesh barked out a cough of smoke at that.
Next up was Jane, her long hair flowing like she’d just had a blowout, her eyes wet and glistening.
“Mr. and Mrs. Pine were so wonderful. They treated me like one of the family. And Matthew’s sister, Margaret, was such a special girl—she was the family rock, and was going to MIT in the fall. And Tommy”—Jane’s voice cracked—“he was just a sweet little boy.”
The emotion was real. Just yesterday, Jane had told Matt that she loved him but he couldn’t give her what she needed. Whatever that was. Jane dumping him shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Yet for such a supposedly observant guy, he sure hadn’t seen it coming. She was from old money, raised in a breathtaking apartment on the Upper West Side, destined to marry one of those guys from Stern who wore business suits and carried briefcases to class. Matt sometimes suspected that Jane dated him—a film student and scholarship kid—just to piss off her parents.
The screen jumped to an image of Danny from the documentary. Matt reached for the remote and turned off the set.
He and Ganesh sat quietly for a long while, Matt lost in his head, Ganesh stoned, chomping on more salt-and-vinegar potato chips, not cluttering up the conversation with platitudes. This was one of the things Matt liked most about Ganesh. He never littered conversations. When the documentary had come out during Matt’s freshman year, Ganesh kept him sane during the chaos. “Don’t stress, bro,” he’d said. “Let’s make lemonade out of it, and use the show to get some girls.” It hadn’t been the worst advice.
Now Ganesh said, “There’s a party in Brooklyn I was gonna hit up if you wanna come?”
“I think I’ll just hang out. You mind if I stay here tonight?”
“Of course, man, as long as you need. It’ll be like the old days,” Ganesh said, as if their freshman year had been a lifetime ago. In many ways, it was.
“I can skip the party,” Ganesh said. “If you want some company, I can—”
“No, you should go. It’s been a long day. I’m just gonna get some sleep.”
“Cool, cool, cool,” Ganesh said. He disappeared into the bedroom and came out wearing a hoodie and smelling of Axe body spray.
“Your ex keeps texting me looking for you. So is everybody else. You want me to—”
“Hold off telling them where I am. I wanna be alone for a bit. I’ll reach out to everyone in the morning.”
Ganesh nodded. “You sure you don’t wanna come? Take your mind off things?”
Matt shook his head. This wasn’t one where he could just make lemonade out of it. “You go, have fun.”
Ganesh stuffed his hoodie pocket with what was left of the bag of weed on the coffee table and headed out.
Finally alone, Matt balled up on Ganesh’s sofa, and he wept.
CHAPTER 7
SARAH KELLER
Agent Keller slid the key into the door of the small ranch-style house, moths circling the porch light above her. Readington, New Jersey, wasn’t a fancy neighborhood, which was just as well. That would’ve been cost prohibitive, given her FBI salary. But it was safe, filled with working-class families and young couples in starter homes.
In the entryway, she stopped at the sound coming from the kitchen. She dropped her keys softly in the bowl on the front table and crept down the hall, walking carefully, avoiding the creaky patch of wood floor.
Outside the kitchen, the noise was louder. A shaking sound like maracas.
And giggling.
Staying quiet, Keller peeked inside.
At the stove was Bob, making one of those old-fashioned popcorns, the kind you shake on the stovetop, creating a dome of foil. Two feet away the twins watched him in action. Michael wore dinosaur pj’s and Heather the cotton nightgown with Belle on it.
Bob grasped the thin metal handle, rattling the foil pan quickly, and the two wiggled their bodies at the same speed as the jostling. He stopped suddenly, and the twins froze in place—Michael’s hands in the air like a scarecrow, Heather trying to hold in her laugh. Bob then made
wide figure eights with the pan as the grease sizzled, and the kids made circular movements with their hips, spinning invisible Hula-Hoops.
Keller felt warmth run through her. Bob was bald, and not in the slick stylish way of the young agents at the Bureau. He had an old-school doughnut of thick black hair. His stomach hugged his frayed concert T-shirt. But he evoked the awe of a movie star in the eyes of their children. And to Keller.
Some girls wanted to marry their fathers. It was the reason why so many couples were unhappy, Keller surmised: women seeking idealized versions of the first man in their lives. But Keller had no illusions about her dad. Whereas her father was a hard-charging lawyer who spent too much time worrying about appearances, Bob was a stay-at-home dad who—well, look at him. Whereas her father thought showing emotion was for the weak, Bob wore his heart on his sleeve, crying during movies and at the kids’ school performances. Whereas her father had engaged in an affair with his secretary in the oldest of clichés, Bob was as loyal as a Labrador. Most of all, he was kind.
“Mommy!” the twins said in unison when they finally saw her spying in the doorway.
Keller knelt down and accepted the squeeze and she felt that sensation she loved.
Bob moved the popcorn pan to an unlit burner, and came over and gave her a kiss.
“We’re going to watch Frozen!” Heather said.
“Again,” Keller said, eyeing her husband. “But isn’t it past bedtime?”
“Pleasssse, Mom, please,” Michael said.
“Daddy said we could,” Heather chimed in.
“Give Mommy a minute to relax,” Bob said. “She’s had a long day.” He looked at Keller. “Can I make you something to eat?”
“I picked up a sandwich,” Keller said.
“How about some wine?” he said as he cut into the tinfoil dome and poured popcorn into a plastic bowl.
“That I could do.”
He looked at the twins. “You two go get the movie started,” he said. “We’ll be right there.”
Michael took the bowl of popcorn and padded off to the living room, his sister at his heels.