Chương 7
Laura looked at Emily.
“Enough to stop checking.”
Emily’s fear returned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I decided looking at him was more dangerous than not knowing.”
Bell asked, “Did you believe he could detect you viewing public information?”
Laura hesitated.
“No.”
“Then why dangerous?”
“Because fear makes you stupid.”
Bell waited.
Laura looked at her hands.
“You start checking once a month. Then once a week. Then you convince yourself that knowing where somebody is means you’re safe. It doesn’t. It makes them part of your life again.”
Daniel’s anger softened for a moment.
He disliked that.
He looked away.
Bell said, “That sounds like experience.”
Laura gave her a flat look.
“I said I’m not telling that story tonight.”
Bell nodded.
Emily whispered, “Did he know about me?”
Laura’s eyes moved to her.
“Yes.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
Emily continued.
“Did he think I died?”
“I don’t know.”
“But the report says you disappeared with me.”
“Yes.”
“So he knew I was missing.”
“Yes.”
“Did he look for us?”
Laura’s breathing changed again.
Bell interrupted.
“Emily, the old file will tell us what was reported. It won’t necessarily tell us what was true.”
Emily looked at her.
“Was there a search?”
“Yes.”
Laura stood and walked toward the covered window.
Emily watched her.
“How big?”
Bell hesitated.
“Large enough that there are still archived news stories.”
Laura whispered, “Don’t.”
Daniel turned.
“You made the news?”
Laura pressed her palm against the cold glass.
“For a while.”
“And you never told me.”
“No.”
“You married me, had me hold a baby, took my last name, and somewhere people were looking for you?”
“Yes.”
Daniel stood.
“I went to work.”
Laura turned.
“What?”
“I went to work every morning.”
His voice had become strangely calm.
“I was twenty-six. I had that awful apartment in Sparks with the broken heater. You complained that my towels smelled like mildew.”
“They did.”
“I was trying to get promoted. I was saving for a house. I thought the biggest problem in my life was whether I could afford a crib and your hospital deductible.”
Laura looked down.
“And all that time—”
He stopped.
The rest would have become a speech, and Daniel had never been good at speeches.
He shook his head.
“I look like an idiot.”
“You weren’t.”
“Apparently I was.”
“No. You trusted me.”
“That is not helping.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying you know.”
She nodded.
Daniel walked into the break room.
The door swung shut behind him.
Nobody followed.
For twelve minutes he sat alone beside a dented refrigerator humming under fluorescent light.
A magnet on the refrigerator said SAFETY STARTS WITH YOU.
Daniel stared at it until he hated it personally.
He thought about eighteen years in pieces.
Laura asleep on the couch with infant Emily on her chest.
Laura teaching herself to make pie because his mother had once mentioned liking peach.
Laura furious at him for buying a motorcycle when Emily was nine.
Laura sitting beside his hospital bed after his appendix ruptured, reading a trashy celebrity magazine aloud because he was too drugged to focus.
Laura at his father’s funeral, holding his hand so tightly his fingers hurt.
People who did not love you could perform love.
Daniel knew that.
He also knew performance usually slipped.
Eighteen years was a long performance.
He could not decide whether that made him feel better or worse.
The door opened.
O’Connell entered.
Daniel looked at him.
“I’m not going to hit anybody.”
“Good.”
“Was that why you came in?”
“No.”
O’Connell walked to the vending machine and fed it two dollar bills.
The machine rejected one.
He smoothed it against his thigh.
Daniel watched.
“You ever discover your wife is legally dead on a traffic stop?”
“First time.”
“That comforting?”
“Probably not.”
The bill finally worked.
O’Connell bought pretzels.
He opened them.
Daniel stared.
“You’re really eating pretzels.”
“I missed dinner.”
Daniel nodded.
“Fair.”
They stood in silence.
Then Daniel said, “Did you know before you stopped us?”
“No.”
“It really was the plate?”
“Rear plate was obscured. I couldn’t read half of it.”
“So if I’d cleaned my car this afternoon—”
“Don’t do that.”
Daniel looked at him.
“Do what?”
“Build a different life out of one small thing.”
Daniel’s mouth tightened.
“That sounded suspiciously wise.”
“My ex-wife says I give good advice approximately six months after anyone needs it.”
Daniel gave a small laugh.
Then his face folded.
He covered his eyes.
O’Connell pretended to be interested in his pretzels.
After a moment Daniel said, “I love that kid.”
“I can tell.”
“What if she decides I’m not her father?”
“That’s hers to work through.”
“I know.”
“You’ll hate it if she does.”
“I know.”
“But you’ll still be the man who raised her.”
Daniel lowered his hands.
“Everybody keeps saying that like it’s simple.”
“It isn’t.”
“Good.”
O’Connell looked at him.
“Good?”
“I’m tired of simple answers.”
At one fifteen, Bell took Laura’s fingerprints.
The confirmation returned twenty-eight minutes later.
Rebecca Anne Hale.
Same date of birth Laura had always used, but a different original surname. Different early address history. Different first marriage.
Bell read the result privately before showing O’Connell.
Laura watched their faces and said, “There.”
Daniel looked at her.
“There what?”
“You know.”
“No.”
He leaned forward.
“Now they know. I still don’t.”
Bell sat.
“Laura—”
“Rebecca,” Laura said.
Everyone went quiet.
She swallowed.
“My name was Rebecca.”
Emily stared at her.
Laura looked at her daughter.
“I haven’t heard anyone call me that in a very long time.”
“How long?”
Laura gave a tired smile.
“You were learning to stand.”
Emily’s eyes filled again.
“What did you call me?”
Laura looked at Bell.
Bell understood the question.
She waited.
Laura shook her head.
“Not yet.”
Emily stood.
“Stop saying not yet.”
Laura flinched.
“I need one thing from you.”
“You need?”
“Yes.”
Emily laughed angrily.
May you like
“Of course.”
“I need you to understand that when I don’t answer, it is not because I’m trying to keep power over you.”
