“Are you sure?” his mother prodded. “We might be able to help.”
“No, I don’t think you could.”
“But—”
“Mom, please. Just leave it alone.”
“You can do this, honey. We have so much faith in you.”
“I hope so,” he mumbled.
“You will!” she declared. “And then we’ll celebrate all your hard work, and—”
“Becky,” Mr. Rowe interrupted. “Just let him be.”
“I’m sorry. I just see so much greatness in your future, and I know God does, too.”
“Thanks,” Trent said, feeling as if his hypocrisy was as obvious as his mother’s pride. They all sat on the couch.
“What did Father Paul say this morning?” he asked to distract them. “In his sermon?”
“He talked about forgiveness,” Mr. Rowe said, “because the whole congregation has been bad-mouthing one of the clerics who was found stealing from the donation box. But Father Paul said we have to forgive, and that God will take care of sinners for us.”
Trent’s heart gave a lurch. “Yeah, what about that? Aren’t we supposed to just turn the other cheek when people sin?”
Mrs. Rowe eyed him. “Are you talking about her?”
“No, I mean criminals in general. Or whoever is doing something immoral.”
“Well, you should forgive them in your heart,” Mrs. Rowe replied. “Just like Jesus would.”
“But the law still has to have its way,” Mr. Rowe added. “Otherwise, we’d have anarchy.”
“Fine,” Trent said. “So let’s say, hypothetically, we’re talking about a case like mine; what if it turned out the suspect was stealing EUEs? Could you guys forgive in your hearts?”
He looked back and forth at them. His mother fumbled with her gold cross necklace, while his father studied his knees. Both seemed to be waiting for the other to answer. Finally she spoke.
“I think if there was anything I couldn’t forgive, it would be murdering babies.”
His father put an appreciative hand on her arm. “I didn’t want to say it, but same here. That’s about as low as you can go.”
“Put it this way,” Mrs. Rowe said. “If I ever could, it would take a long, long time. Are you worried that you can’t?”
Trent could only nod.
“Well, don’t,” she said, waving off the subject as if it were a nasty mosquito. “I think God has to understand if we have a hard time forgiving certain things.”
“Yeah,” he mumbled.
“You look so pale, sweetie. Come let me give you a hug.”
She put her arms around him, and he inhaled her trademark gardenia perfume. If ever there was a scent associated with safety, it was her fragrance. Countless times she had comforted him as a child, whether it was after he had fallen off his bike, been teased, or stayed home sick from school. And always, her sweet scent was a reminder that everything would be okay.
Trent had never doubted his parents’ love until this moment. With her arms tight around his back, he pondered whether it was unconditional—and realized that they had just unwittingly told him the answer. His throat tightened; he breathed in gardenia, yearning for that simple antidote to his troubles, but the scent only heightened his sadness.
The truth was bound to come out; he could not always live a lie.
And then? It was all too clear: their hard line against criminals, their faith in God and their loyalty to the Church.
So he let his mother hold him, wondering if it was for the last time.
* * *
Arianna looked at each of the four faces in her living room—they were wrinkled and smooth, male and female, old and young, and yet each wore the same expression of total shock.
Sam opened his mouth first.
Arianna put a finger to her lips. “Don’t yell.”
He closed his mouth and shook his head furiously. Next to him on the black leather sofa, Megan held her knees to her chest, the fear stark on her face. Dr. Ericson and Emily sat in two straight-backed kitchen chairs that they had dragged into the living room for this emergency meeting, or rather, revelation. Emily was gaping. Dr. Ericson, usually the paragon of composure, was biting his knuckle. Arianna sat back in her wheelchair, letting all of them digest the news of Trent’s identity.
She herself had spent a full day alone after his disclosure, painfully rehashing her memories to find all his lies, tricks and setups. The extent of his subterfuge was striking, and yet she understood why she had been sucked in: She had been operating under a false assumption—that he was a writer. Once she believed that opening line—and why wouldn’t she?—her fall had been scripted. As foolish as she felt, she could hardly berate herself. Only the most cynical of people would ascribe ulterior motivations to such an appealing stranger.
Conflicting thoughts plagued her: Yes, he had repeatedly lied, but yes, he had helped her. How to deal with him at this point was a question she seemed unable to answer. When she had returned from his apartment yesterday, passing a suspiciously drab car parked along her building’s sidewalk, she put her phone on silent and did not touch it all day or night. Dopp’s presence in her apartment, invisible yet relentless, made her feel as though the hair on her neck was standing permanently on end. Could he hear when she flushed the toilet? When she sneezed? When she cried?
This morning, she knew she had to inform the group. Aware that any private use of her phone was impossible, she slipped out of her apartment to her neighbor’s, across the hall. She was an elderly woman, with a bad back and a blind eye, who always had kind words and a prodigious supply of baked treats. Arianna could picture her as none other than a beloved grandmother. So she knew that when she knocked on the door and asked to use the phone—hers had broken, she explained—the woman would accommodate her. Ten minutes later, everyone was notified to come over (without ringing the doorbell), and Arianna was holding a Tupperware bowl of chocolate-chip cookies. Back at her own place, she stashed her phone under her pillow, turned on the
