I realize I have been waiting for this moment for more than sixteen years. It’s a small hole in my soul, a tear that has never been mended. Where is he? What has he become? A part of me does not want him to be the one behind all this. It’s pathetic, but I want a happy ending to the Paul Adamson story. Maybe he’s living in Alaska with that wife I erased and their children. Maybe this whole thing has nothing to do with him.
I listen to the rest of the message. And then I replay it once more as key phrases jab at my brain like ice picks. “—cannot be responsible … a resident of the Mt. Auburn Cemetery … car crash on the Jamaicaway in Boston.”
The third time I play it, the words devolve into white noise as the serpentine, tree-lined roadway springs forth in my mind. I’ve driven that winding route through Boston a few times. I couldn’t help but notice the small piles of teddy bears and plastic flowers that dot it, shrines to those who perished on the notoriously dangerous road.
Had one of them been for Paul?
The last thing Detective Khoury says before hanging up is, “That should put your mind at ease.”
But the detective is wrong. I do not feel at ease. I feel unmoored, adrift. That rip can never be sewn up now. Paul’s been dead all these years. I’ll never learn why he did that to me. Was there something defective about me, some kind of high-pitched whistle that only predators can hear, that led him to me?
I was twelve years younger, his student. I was clearly troubled. A different teacher might have rebuffed me, called my mother, notified the school counselor. But he didn’t help me. Instead, he took me to a motel room where I traded my virginity and my innocence for a few hours of uninterrupted adult attention.
For the first time, I feel a disgust for him.
But now I know: Paul can’t possibly be behind what’s been happening.
But Paul had a wife.
Correction, a widow.
I stare at my phone for a moment, then at the brochure for Bridgeways, before I dial. I don’t want to do this, but I have no choice.
The phone on the other end clicks on the first ring.
“This is Allie Ross,” I say, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “I need your help.”
“I figured you’d call,” Dustin says. “It was just a matter of time.”
41
I brake suddenly to avoid hitting an enormous black Mercedes SUV that’s trying to cut in front of me. Construction workers have torn up the left lane on Wisconsin Avenue so that the two lanes must merge into one. All the drivers had been taking turns in a civil manner, alternating one car from each lane, until this guy came barreling along.
I’m supposed to meet Dustin at a Starbucks near his high school in twenty minutes, and I don’t want to be late. I’m almost there when my phone rings. It’s Krystle. We have not spoken since the other night when she called me a cunt and I hung up on her.
I hesitate, but then accept the call.
“Are you still mad at me?” Krystle asks as soon as I answer. “I hate the way we left things.”
“Yeah, me, too.” I note that feeling bad doesn’t equate to an apology for her. But then again, I never ask her to provide one. When we were kids, we would fight like drunken dockworkers, kicking and biting, scratching and screaming. I would retreat to our room, while she would camp out on the sofa in the living room in front of the TV. But at some point in the night, she would crawl into my single bed without saying a word. We would wake up in a tangle of limbs, whatever storm that had raged the night before having passed.
“I know you think the mortgage thing is my fault, and I promise I am going to fix it,” she says, her words bursting forth like a current. “I’m going to find out what happened to that money.”
I sigh as I turn right onto Montgomery Avenue and into a public parking garage.
“Honestly, Sharon’s house is the last thing on my mind right now,” I say. “The past few days have been hell.”
“Tell me everything.” This is typical Krystle, swinging from one polarity to the other. One day she’s a raging bitch, the next she’s the most empathic confidante. It’s enough to give me whiplash, but today, I need support wherever I can find it.
I tell Krystle everything, about the police investigating me, about the phone call I overheard last night. And Mark’s urging me to go to Bridgeways.
“This is a nightmare. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to meet Dustin.”
“That weird kid that lives across the street from you?”
“I feel like he might be able to help. It can’t hurt.”
She doesn’t respond.
“Krystle? You there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. I’m just not sure that’s a great idea.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” I get out of the car and lock it, keeping my phone to my ear. I look around, making a mental note of where I’ve parked.
“Meaning, no offense, but this all sounds really crazy. You’re a suspect in a murder investigation? Someone leaked photos and got you fired, and now a car is following you. So you’ve hired your freak neighbor to hack into your computer?”
“He’s not a freak. Well, not more than any other teenager is,” I say as I head down the stairs. “He’s the first person who might really be able to help me.”
I get a bitter laugh in response. “Did it ever occur to you that this kid might be who’s behind all this online harassment? And now you’re paying him money to quote-unquote fix it?”
With
