Need to Know

by Karen Cleveland

  I’ve already crossed lines I never should have. Telling him I discovered his identity. Erasing the file. But this? Telling him exactly what I found, exactly what I did? I’d be disclosing information about Athena, one of the Agency’s most sensitive programs. Information I’d sworn to protect. I swallow, my throat so tight I almost can’t.

  I need to think. I need to process whether this actually makes sense. I brush past him, wordless, into the family room, where Ella’s sitting, tangled in a blanket, watching TV. I paste a smile on my face. “How are you, sweetie?”

  She looks up and gives me a grin, one that morphs quickly into a faux-sick look. “Sick, Mommy.”

  Last week, I would have struggled not to laugh at her act. Now it chills me. Because it’s a lie, isn’t it? Something her father does so well.

  I keep the smile pasted on my face. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well,” I say. I watch her a moment longer, watch her attention turn back to the TV screen. I’m trying to marshal my thoughts into some semblance of order. Then I raise my head to meet Matt’s eyes, speak to her even as I look at him. “Daddy and I are going to sit out front and talk.”

  “Okay,” she murmurs, her attention on her show.

  I walk out the front door, leaving it open. Matt follows, closes the door behind us. The cold air hits me like a slap. I should have grabbed my coat. I sit on the top of our front stoop and wrap my arms around my chest, huddle into a ball.

  “Do you want a jacket?” Matt asks.

  “No.”

  He sits down beside me, so close we’re touching. I can feel his warmth, the pressure of his knee against mine. He’s looking straight ahead. “I know it’s a lot to ask. But I need to know more, if I’m going to fix this.”

  Manipulation. Is it, though? For whatever reason, our engagement day floats through my mind. That moment in the airport, the two of us. The crowd around us, dispersing, smiles on their faces. One on my own face, as well. Looking down at that ring, seeing it catch the light, so new, so clean, so perfect.

  And then the realization. I got engaged without meeting his parents. Something that was so important to me. I’d told him that, hadn’t I? I could feel the smile fading from my lips. Felt his arm around my shoulders, guiding me away, deeper into the airport, toward our gate. We were engaged, we were headed for Hawaii, just like he wanted.

  But at the same time, he’d planned a perfect proposal for me. In Hawaii. And planned to surprise me with it. I looked up at him, saw the openness on his face, the happiness and excitement, and I smiled at him. I was being ridiculous. So he made one mistake. I wasn’t even completely sure I’d mentioned it, that I wanted to meet his parents before we got engaged. Maybe I hadn’t.

  But the misgivings never quite went away. Through all the days on the beach, the hikes to waterfalls, the candlelit dinners, the thought was lodged in the back of my head. I’d gotten engaged in an airport, in front of a crowd of strangers, without ever having met his parents. That’s not what I’d wanted, at all. But you urged him to ask you, right then, right there, I told myself.

  And then it was our last morning there. We were out on the little balcony, sitting there with our mugs of coffee, watching the swaying palms, feeling the warm breeze.

  “I know you wanted to meet my parents first,” he said out of the blue.

  I looked over in surprise. So I had said it. He had known.

  “But I’m me, Viv. Regardless of who my parents are.” He looked at me with such intensity I was taken aback. “The past is the past.”

  He’s ashamed of his parents, I realized. He’s worried about what I’ll think of them. What I’ll think of him, after I meet them. I looked down at the ring on my finger. But still. What about what I wanted?

  “But what I did was wrong,” he said. I looked back up at him, saw the sincerity in his eyes. The regret. So much regret. “I’m sorry.”

  I wanted the misgivings to dissipate. I really did. He’d made a mistake. He admitted it, apologized. But I could never quite get over it. That he knew I wanted to meet his parents first, went ahead and proposed anyway. It felt like manipulation.

  But now, as I stare at the ring, the diamond that doesn’t sparkle nearly as much anymore, on a hand that’s so much older, it doesn’t. It feels honest.

  If those weren’t his real parents, wasn’t it more honest that I didn’t meet them before we got engaged? They might have helped shape my opinion of him, my feelings toward him. Wouldn’t that, in fact, have been the manipulation?

  I turn toward him and scoot away, just enough so that I can face him comfortably, so that I can read his expression. It looks honest, open. The same look he had when he asked me to marry him. The same one I saw on our wedding day, all those years ago. I picture us before the priest, the old stone church in Charlottesville, the look on his face when he said his vows. That kind of sincerity can’t be faked, can it? I swallow past the tightness in my throat.

  I don’t know. The truth is, I have no idea whether to believe him. But I need a hand. I need help. I’ve dug myself into a hole, and he’s offered to help me climb out. His question won’t stop running through my head. What happens to the kids when we’re both convicted of spying for Russia? I can’t let that happen. I have to believe him.

  “We have access to Yury’s computer,” I say, and the words are harder to get out than I expected. With every syllable, I feel like I’m committing a crime. I am committing a crime. I’m disclosing classified information, violating the Espionage Act. Barely anyone in the Agency even knows about Athena’s capabilities, it’s so restricted. People go to jail for sharing information like this. “I was digging around, found a folder with five pictures.” I glance over at him. “Yours was one of them.”

  He’s staring straight ahead. Nods, ever so slightly. “Just my picture? Anything else about me?”

  I shake my head. “Haven’t come across anything else.”

  “Encrypted?”

  “No.”

  He sits quietly for a moment, then turns to face me. “Tell me what you did.”

  “I erased it.”

  “How?”

  “You know, clicked Delete. Deleted it.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then deleted it from the recycle bin.”

  “And?” His voice has an edge.

  I swallow. “Nothing else yet. I know I need to do more, overwrite the hard drive or whatever. But there were people nearby, and I couldn’t.”

  I look away, out to the street. I hear an engine, a vehicle approaching. I watch the street, see it come into view, an orange van, that housecleaning service that so many of the neighbors use. It pulls to a stop in front of the Parkers’ house. I watch as three women in orange vests get out of the van and gather cleaning supplies from the rear. When they’re inside and the door closes behind them, quiet descends on the street once again.

  “They have a record of you deleting it,” Matt says. “There’s no way they don’t record user activity.”

  I watch my breath crystallize in the air, little clouds. I know that already, don’t I? Didn’t I click past screens warning me my actions are recorded? What was I thinking?

  I wasn’t. That’s the problem. I just wanted it all to go away.

  I look over at Matt. He’s staring straight ahead, his brows knitted together, a look of deep concentration on his face. The silence around us is heavy. “Okay,” he finally says. He places a hand on my knee, gives it a squeeze. He turns to face me, the creases in his forehead pronounced, his eyes clouded with worry. “I’ll get you out of this.”

  He stands, walks back inside. I stay seated, shivering, his words reverberating in my skull. I’ll get you out of this.

  You.

  Why didn’t he say us?

  —

  I’M STILL ON THE FRONT STOOP a few minutes later when Matt returns, car keys in hand. He pauses above me. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he says.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t wor
ry about it.”

  He could be leaving. Getting on a plane back to Russia, leaving me to deal with the fallout. But he wouldn’t do that, would he?

  But what is he doing? And why didn’t he do it to begin with?

  “I deserve to know.”

  He starts walking past me, toward his car, parked in the driveway. “The less you know, Viv, the better.”

  I get to my feet. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He stops, turns to face me, speaks quietly. “Polygraph. Trial. It’s just better if you don’t know details.”

  I stare at him, and he stares back. The look on his face is troubled. Angry, even. And that makes me furious. “Why are you angry with me right now?”

  He raises his hands, his car keys clanging together. “Because! If you’d just listened to me, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  We glare at each other, the silence almost suffocating, then he shakes his head, like I’m a disappointment. I watch him go without another word. The emotions inside me are roiling, jumbled, making no sense at all.

  —

  WE CELEBRATED OUR FIRST anniversary in the Bahamas, five days of lying in the sun with an endless supply of tropical drinks, the occasional dip in the ocean to cool off, where we’d soon be wrapped around each other, finding lips that tasted like rum and sea salt.

  Our last night there, we were at a beach bar, a little place in the sand with a thatched roof and string lights and fruity drinks. We sat on weathered barstools, close enough that our legs were touching, that his hand could rest on my thigh, just a little too high. I remember listening to the crash of the waves, breathing in the salt air, feeling warm all over.

  “So…,” I said, running a finger over the little umbrella in my drink, tossing over the question that had been on my mind all night, the one that had been slowly forming in my head for weeks, months. I tried to come up with the best way to lead up to it, and when I couldn’t, I just blurted it out. “When should we have a baby?”

  He practically sputtered into his drink. Looked up at me, eyes wide, full of love, openness, excitement. Then something shifted, and they became more guarded. He looked away.

  “Kids are a big step,” he said, and even through my rum-induced haze, I was confused. He loved kids. We’d always planned to have some. Two probably, maybe three.

  “We’ve been married a year,” I said.

  “We’re still young.”

  I looked down at my drink, something pink, and stirred around the half-melted ice cubes with my straw. That wasn’t the response I’d expected. Not at all. “What’s going on?”

  “I just think there’s no rush, you know. Maybe we wait a few years, focus on our careers.”

  “Our careers?” Since when did he want us to focus on our careers?

  “Yeah.” He was avoiding my eyes. “I mean, take yours.” He lowered his voice, leaned in closer, and this time he looked at me intently. “Africa. Is that really the part of the world you want to focus on?”

  I looked away. I’d been perfectly happy with the African CI account. There was enough to keep me busy, to keep my days interesting. I felt like I was making a difference, albeit in a small way. And that’s all I really wanted. Africa wasn’t as high-profile as some of the other accounts, but that was fine with me. “Sure.”

  “I mean, wouldn’t it be more interesting to work something like…Russia?”

  I took a long sip of my drink through the straw. Sure, it’d be more interesting. More stress, too. Longer hours, for sure. And there were so many people working the account, how much impact would one person really have? “I guess.”

  “And maybe better for your career? For promotions and all that?”

  When had he ever cared about promotions? And why did he think I did? If money was my goal, I wouldn’t have chosen a career in government. The warm feeling inside me was starting to chill around the edges.

  “I mean, it’s up to you, of course, sweetheart. It’s your job and all.” He shrugged. “I just think you’d be happier if you were doing something more…important. You know?”

  The words stung. It was the first time I’d ever felt like my job wasn’t good enough for Matt. That I wasn’t good enough.

  His expression softened, and he placed a hand over mine, gave me an earnest look. Apologetic, like he knew he’d hurt my feelings. “It’s just—well, that’s what the best analysts focus on, right? Russia?”

  Where was this coming from? I was so confused. Sure, it was a competitive account, the kind a lot of people wanted. But there was something to be said for working a low-profile account, too. Making sure nothing fell through the cracks, nothing was overlooked. Being able to see the impact I was making.

  “You’re the kind of person who always wants to be the best. That’s what I love about you.”

  That’s what he loved about me? The compliment felt like a slap.

  “And it’d probably be harder to make that kind of move after we have kids,” he went on. “So maybe you should get to a place you want to be, and then we should think about kids.” He stirred his drink with his straw as he said it, still avoiding my eyes.

  I drained the remnants of my drink, the sweetness gone, now nothing but bitterness. “Okay,” I said as a chill ran through me.

  —

  AS SOON AS THE TAILLIGHTS of Matt’s car disappear around the corner, I walk back into the house. I check on Ella, who’s still in front of the TV, then head to the storage area behind the stairs. I need to see what’s on that laptop.

  It’s a small space, crowded with stacks of blue plastic bins. I pull the chain to turn on the light and look down at the floor, the narrow section that’s bare. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. I get down on my hands and knees, feel around, finally come across a floorboard that’s raised slightly on one side. I run my hand over it, try to lift it, to no avail.

  I glance around the room and spot a screwdriver on top of one of the plastic bins. I use it to pry up the floorboard, then peer inside. Something’s catching the light. I reach in and pull out a small silver laptop.

  I sit cross-legged and open the laptop, turn it on. It starts quickly, and I see a black screen with a single white bar, a blinking cursor. There’s no text, but it’s password-protected—that much is clear.

  I try Matt’s usual passwords, the ones he uses for everything, various compilations of our kids’ names and birth dates. Then I try the password we use for our joint accounts. Nothing works. But why would it? A different set of words runs through my head. Alexander Lenkov. Mikhail and Natalia. Volgograd. I have no way of guessing what might have been on his mind when he came up with a password, if he’s even the one who came up with it. This is futile.

  Frustrated, I close the laptop and return the room to the way I found it. Then I head back to the family room to check on Ella. “You doing okay, sweetie?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she murmurs. Doesn’t take her eyes off the TV.

  I linger for a moment, then walk upstairs to the master bedroom, pause in the doorway. I go over to Matt’s nightstand first. Pull open the drawer, dig around. Crumpled receipts, spare change, some pictures Ella drew for him. Nothing remotely suspicious. I look under the bed, pull out a plastic container. It’s full of his summer clothes: swimsuits, shorts, T-shirts. I close it and slide it back underneath.

  I open the top drawer of his dresser. Move around the stack of boxers, the pile of socks, looking for anything that doesn’t belong. Then I do the same with the next drawer, and the one after that. Nothing.

  I head into the closet. Run a hand over the clothes hanging on his rack. Polos, button-downs, pants. I’m not even sure what I’m trying to find. Something that proves he’s not the person I think he is. Or the absence of it; would that be enough to prove that he is?

  There’s an old duffel bag on the shelf above. I reach for it and pull it down to the carpet. I unzip it, rifle through. A collection of ties—he hasn’t used those in years—and some old baseball caps. I check each zip
pered pocket. Empty.

  I put the bag back on the shelf and pull down a stack of shoe boxes, kneel down on the carpet with them. The first is full of old bills. The second, receipts. The third, his dress shoes, shiny and black. I sit back on my heels, the open box in my lap. What am I doing? How has my life come to this?

  I’m about to replace the lid of the box when something catches my eye. Something black, tucked into one of the shoes. I know what it is even before my fingers curl around it.

  It’s a gun.

  I pull it out by the grip and look at it. The black metal slide, the wide trigger. A Glock. I move the slide, see brass inside.

  It’s loaded.

  Matt has a loaded gun in our closet.

  I hear Ella downstairs, calling for me. Hands shaking, I place the pistol back in the shoe, close the lid, stack the boxes back on the shelf. Give them one last look, then turn off the light and head downstairs.

  —

  MATT COMES HOME THREE HOURS LATER. Bustles in, removes his jacket, gives me a smile, apologetic and embarrassed. Then he comes over and wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry,” he says into my hair. He’s still cold from the air outside. Cold hands, cold cheeks. A shiver runs through me. “I shouldn’t have said all that. It’s not fair for me to be upset with you. This is my fault.”

  I pull back and look at him. He looks like a stranger, feels like a stranger. All I can picture is that gun in our closet. “Did you do what you needed to do?”

  He drops his hands, turns away, but not before I see the expression on his face. Tense. “Yeah.”

  “So…Are we okay?”

  In my mind, I see the gun again. It’s been hours now, and I still don’t know what to make of it. Is it proof that he’s not who I think he is? That he’s dangerous? Or is it a way to protect us, his family, from the people who really are dangerous?

  He’s very still, his back to me. I see his shoulders rise and fall, like he’s taken a deep breath and exhaled. “I hope so.”