I sit and look at the open windows. Each looks like a screen from an iPhone. One has a map of Atlanta dotted with several blue circles. Below the map is a list of the locations marked by those circles, along with the number of visits since a given date. “How did you do this?” I ask.
“It’s what I do,” Caesar says. He states it as a fact rather than a boast.
“It’s what you do?” I say, looking up at him. “You hack, and you know things?” Caesar and Frankie both look blankly at me. “Game of Thrones reference,” I say. “Never mind.”
“I know what Game of Thrones is,” Caesar says. “I lifted all that straight from her phone. It’s all stored under your smartphone’s privacy settings.” He smiles, a thin curve of his lips. “What a delightful example of irony.”
“I’ll make sure to use that in my next English class,” I say.
Marisa’s phone has a few locations marked in the Atlanta area: the Archer School, no surprise; a Publix on Roswell Road; the Georgia World Congress Center, where we met at the conference; an address in Buckhead. And a single visit to the Fulton County Jail off Marietta Boulevard, dated Tuesday of last week. One of the same days she took off work.
“Why would she go to the jail?” I ask.
“Only one reason to go there if you aren’t being taken there,” Frankie says.
“Jay Gardner,” I say. “In her calendar, dated last Tuesday. That’s why she went to the jail. She went to visit him.”
“Why?” Frankie asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Which is why I’m gonna to talk to the guy.”
“You can’t just roll up to the jail and talk to an inmate,” Caesar says. “You have to make an appointment. And the inmate has to say yes.”
“I’ll do that,” I say. “What about Sam Bridges, last Wednesday? Is he in jail, too?”
Caesar leans over again and brings another window forward, this one called Significant Locations with a listed history beneath. Sandy Springs, Chamblee, Dunwoody, and Marietta, all Atlanta suburbs, are there. He scrolls down, then stops at Dahlonega GA. One location is listed under Dahlonega, dated last Wednesday. Caesar clicks on it to reveal Monastery of Our Lady of Mercy. According to the screen, Marisa visited there from 9:48 AM to 11:31 AM.
“Same place she Googled,” I say. “She actually went there.”
“Looks like this Bridges dude went there too,” Frankie says. “Least that’s where she was gonna meet him. Guess he got out of prison.”
I shrug. “One way to find out.”
“Whoa,” Frankie says, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. “This guy invaded your home, güero. You’re just gonna drive to a monastery and ask to speak to him?”
“Not before I find out how to make a jail visit.” I look at Caesar. “May I use your laptop to do that? And then I’ll get out of your hair.”
Caesar is clearly growing bored with me. “Go ahead,” he says, flicking his hand at the laptop as if waving off a fly. “But make it quick. I have work to do.”
It isn’t until I turn back to the laptop that I realize what Frankie said. Not about Bridges invading my house. It was the first time today that Frankie called me güero. It’s a small enough gesture, but it’s enough to lighten my spirits a little.
THE WEBSITE FOR the Fulton County Jail looks like it’s Nineties-era internet, and about as easy to navigate, but I finally manage to put in a request for a video visitation with Jay Gardner and set up an account on the secure channel website the jail uses. That way I can talk to him via video link from home. Now I just have to wait and see if Gardner will agree to talk or not.
While I’m doing that, Frankie and Caesar engage in a hushed but animated discussion on the other side of the loft. I can guess that they are arguing over me, but beyond that I don’t know. I push back from the laptop and stand. “Done,” I call out, and they both turn toward me, falling silent. “Thank you for your help, both of you. I’ll get an Uber to a MARTA station.”
Frankie glances at Caesar, then back to me. “You going to the monastery now?”
“Tomorrow,” I say. “I need to check on Susannah first.”
“I’ll go with you,” Frankie says. “To the monastery.”
That simple offer eases an iron band around my heart, a band I didn’t even know was there. Caesar sighs and looks at the ceiling.
“That’s okay,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”
“It’s not a debate,” Frankie says. “I can have Pablo cover for me at the bar.”
Quietly, Caesar says, “Mr. Lester won’t like it.”
“Mr. Lester won’t know what I’m doing,” Frankie says.
“Uh-huh,” Caesar says sardonically.
“Guys,” I say, “really, it’s okay.”
“The man says he’s okay,” Caesar says to Frankie.
“I don’t care,” Frankie says.
Something in Caesar’s face twists, just for an instant, but I see what it is—pain, and fear. His voice is low but urgent. “You cannot fix everything,” he says.
“Not trying to fix anything,” Frankie says. “I’m helping a friend.”
Caesar’s eyes are hooded, arms across his chest. “How many times did your friend come visit you in prison?”
That one sinks home. It’s a punch in the gut, and no less effective because it’s valid. Frankie wavers at that, glances at me. In that moment, I realize that he cannot come with me. As hard as it is for me to adjust to the idea of Frankie and Caesar as a couple, I have no desire to be a source of friction between the two of them. And yet some part of me shrinks
