The general turns to look at Billy. “William, you’re excused now.”
Billy struggles to ask his father if he can stay for the grown-up conversation, assuming Bernstein would serve as a great buffer, which might provide more wiggle room for a yes answer. He sits a beat longer on the couch, hoping someone other than himself will change their mind.
“I said, you’re excused.”
Carol pours herself a large glass of red wine. Billy stands and exits with his head down and takes a few steps up the old wooden staircase. Then, as quietly as he can, balancing on less-used steps, he tiptoes back downstairs and stands with his back against the wall, ear turned to the door—he’s a soldier in his own home, a CIA agent, a private investigator; he wants to understand what exactly is happening to his father, the anxiety reaping each breath he takes.
Muffled sounds. Lowered voices. Scattered words. “Naval base… Iraq… investigation has not yet been made public. Picking off a schoolboy… sniper… SEAL witnesses… blackmail. Over a dozen charges… premeditated murder and attempted murder charges are included in the indictment.”
The sound of his mother’s crying, his grandfather’s belligerent rage, the general reassuring them, Bernstein: “… the president is on your side.”
Billy’s heart pounds heavier with every word; he’s consumed by shame and self-hatred for compromising the family reputation—the stakes have never felt so high. He feels violent inside, his hormones racing through his bloodstream, and suddenly all he can think about is calling Bunny.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
In the middle of the night, Doug creeps down the long hallway from his master suite and into Mackenzie’s bedroom while she is fast asleep. Holding his breath, he reaches for her cell phone on the nightstand, unplugs it from its charger, then tiptoes out of her room as fast as he can without getting caught. It’s the next morning when Teresa, the housekeeper, is in the kitchen packing Haley’s Maleficent lunchbox for the last day of school at St. Peter’s Academy before Christmas break that all hell breaks loose.
Mackenzie storms into the kitchen. “Where’s my cell phone? Did you take my cell phone? It’s gone.”
“Niña, check under the bed,” Teresa tells her.
“I did check under the bed.”
Betsy strolls into the kitchen wearing a pink floral kimono, her hair pinned up in hot rollers, her foundation without the eyes and lips done creating a kind of geisha look. “Good morning, sweet pea.” She pulls a coffee mug out of the cabinet. “Did you get your violin practice in this morning?”
“Did you take my phone? I can’t find my phone.”
Betsy pops an Illy coffee pod into the Keurig, slams it shut; above the sound of gurgling, she says, “Sweetie, why would I take your phone?”
“I don’t know, but it’s missing.” Mackenzie begins throwing around pillows in the sun-room next to the kitchen, searching.
Betsy looks at Teresa. “Look at this, she’s completely addicted, these kids have a serious problem.” She sips her coffee without a solution.
Mackenzie knocks over a fake hydrangea arrangement.
“That’s enough,” Betsy says, storming over and grabbing Mackenzie by the arm. “You need to be out this door in thirty minutes.”
“Stop!” Mackenzie swings her arm around, wrenching out of Betsy’s hand, and begins to hyperventilate: “I have notes… for my… test… ON MY PHONE!!!” She stomps over to the kitchen island, frantically opening and slamming cabinet doors.
“All right, that’s it, I’m calling your father.”
“Good! Ask him where it is!”
Betsy holds her phone above her head; the sound of ringing over speakerphone. Teresa zips Haley’s lunch bag, unfazed by the usual family chaos.
“Yes?” Doug says, picking up, a curious but playful tone.
Betsy locks eyes with Mackenzie, holding the phone midway between them. “Your daughter seems to have misplaced her cell phone and believes one of us took it.”
“Oh no! Sugar pie”—Doug feigns surprise—“listen, I’ll send one of my interns to do a sweep at the house today, we’ll find it, don’t you worry.” Mackenzie stares at the phone. “… And look, babycakes, Christmas is around the corner—if you’re good, Santa will bring you an upgrade, how about that?”
“I need this one, Dad, I have everything on my phone, I have my life on it.”
“Okay, don’t you worry, I’m stepping into the office now.” Doug is actually stuck in traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Fine.”
“Hey, Cate, will you send someone over to sweep the house for Mack’s phone?” Doug says to his empty passenger seat.
“Thank you!” Betsy says.
“Thanks, Dad,” Mackenzie says.
“Talk to you later.” Betsy hangs up. “See? Now go get dressed, don’t make your sister late for school. And don’t forget your violin case like last time.”
Mackenzie stands clad in her school uniform: green plaid skirt, black leggings, blue collared shirt, and gray V-neck sweater with Fidelitas et Integritas, the school crest, sewn on its pocket.
She scans her body in her bathroom mirror, reaches for her cell phone like a phantom limb, then remembers it’s not there, just a bunch of loose music sheets in her bag and her violin in its case on the marble floor next to her. Mackenzie grunts into the mirror, “Guuuuuaaaaaahhhhh!!!!” As if it’s Judgment Day, she flips her hair over to the left side of her head, carving out a part with her pointer fingers. Holding her breath, she lets her fingers crawl along the root of each piece of hair. She smudges her pointer finger against her scalp, scratching then collecting several hairs, releasing the ones she doesn’t want; they fall like paper in the wind. For a moment, Mackenzie tries to stop herself, resist the pull, but it only makes her anxiety worse, like a truck driving into her lungs. She yanks without thinking, without any pause—like the tiniest stem in a dying garden, she yanks it hard and fast from the root, a crunching sound as it’s torn from the skull. She exhales with pleasure, an easy look across her face once it’s out of her head.
