man.’
‘Be straight with me. Was it your mom you called?’
He nodded slowly. ‘You don’t believe me.’
‘I was under the impression you didn’t get to talk to your mom at all when you were in the hospital. So I know you didn’t call her every week.’
‘True. But I did call her last night. I told you she’d be expecting to hear from me because I didn’t want you to freak that I’d called her.’
‘Then I believe you. Try to rest.’
‘Miles.’
‘Yeah?’
‘About your friend that died. You can’t stand there and let someone shoot you. You just protected yourself.’
‘There’s a lot more to the story, Nathan.’
‘How do you know if you don’t remember?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Window dressing. Are you sorry you’re alive?’
‘No. I’m not.’
‘There’s your answer, then.’ Nathan closed his eyes.
Miles went to the open door of Celeste’s room, knocked on the frame. She came out of the bathroom, drying her face with a towel. He closed the door behind him.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Nothing to apologize for,’ she said.
He wanted to tell her he’d seen Allison, but the words dammed in his throat and he swallowed.
‘You wanted to change my hair before we go,’ she said. ‘Let’s get it done.’ She went to a bag; they had stopped in Fresno, bought clothing basics and knapsacks at a tweny-four-hour WalMart. She pulled out a pair of nail scissors. ‘You cut my hair, then we’ll dye it.’
‘I don’t know how to cut hair,’ he said.
‘I haven’t set foot in a stylist’s shop in forever.’ Celeste ran a hand through the thick mop of dark hair. ‘I’m not vain. Just cut it off.’
‘I’ll chop away.’
She grabbed his wrist. ‘Cut, not chop. Big diff.’
So he wet her hair, because when he got a haircut the stylist wet it, and he started trimming off the length with hesitant snips, almost afraid she would scream in horror if he cut too much at once, taking it slow, loving the heavy dampness of her hair between his fingers. She sat on a chair, in front of the mirror, and he kept a wastebasket under where he cut off the lengths, moving the basket with his foot to catch the falling tresses.
‘You’re gonna bite through your lip,’ she said.
He let his lip go from between his teeth. He cut off a series of locks of her hair, smoothed it back with his fingers, gently rubbing her scalp.
‘That feels nice,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
He stopped. A stirring awoke in his chest. His mouth went dry. ‘How short do you want it cut?’
She watched his face. ‘Most pictures of me, it’s at least shoulder length. It’s how people remember me. Give it a pixie cut.’
‘A what?’
‘Cut it boy short. No worries, Miles. I won’t get mad even if you shave me bald.’
So he cut it short, diving the scissors close to her scalp, leaving a couple of inches of growth, gentle around her ears.
‘You’re doing a good job,’ she said.
‘I’m getting hair everywhere.’
‘You don’t have to be perfect.’
‘Why do you cut yourself?’ He kept his eyes on the scissors, poised above her damp hair.
‘Better that than seeing dead people,’ she said, and then instantly added, ‘I’m sorry. That was unfair.’
‘It’s all right. But I hate to see you hurt yourself.’
‘I don’t have an answer. I hate it. Allison said I cut so I would feel again.’
‘I hate just a paper cut. Doesn’t it hurt?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t you feel anyway? I feel empty.’
‘Yet you’re not, Miles. You know that you’re not. Because you’d be dead if you were empty and you fought to save me, to save yourself. You feel, Miles, but I bet it’s not emptiness.’ She studied him in the mirror. ‘Did you leave a woman behind in Florida?’
‘No.’
‘Ever married?’
‘No. I try not to be one for needing.’ He smoothed out a length of her hair, trimmed the end of it.
She ducked her head out from under his hands. ‘You’ve cut off enough of my mop,’ she said. ‘Absolutely horrible. I’m completely unrecognizable. Thank you, I love it.’
He dusted her threads of hair from his hands into the wastebasket, read the instructions on the hair dye, slathered on the gunk to make her auburn-haired.
‘I wish you were giving me red-red hair,’ she said. ‘Like Lucille Ball or Carol Burnett. Never sad watching them on TV.’
He spread the concoction through her hair and she sat while he rinsed his hands.
‘If we don’t find Frost, or Edward Wallace,’ she said, ‘what do we do?’
‘You and Nathan go back to Santa Fe and tell the police what happened. You can’t hide forever.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m out of Witness Protection. I guess I’ll go make a new life for myself.’
‘Do you have another trial to testify in?’ she asked.
He raised an eyebrow at her.
‘It’s a logical question,’ she said. ‘Witnesses are witnesses because they testify.’
‘Yeah, I’m supposed to.’
‘So you’re not done.’
‘No. I still will testify.’
‘Then WITSEC will have to protect you again.’
He would probably be in jail for fighting DeShawn, but he didn’t want to admit it to her. ‘I’m done with WITSEC. I broke their rules. I’ll hide myself.’
‘You can’t hide.’
‘You hid yourself. Just behind a wall. I’ll do it behind a new identity. Or I’ll go far away. Cyprus. India. Thailand. It doesn’t matter.’
He sat on the corner of the bed; she stayed in her chair.
‘When you killed that man,’ she said, ‘did you have your breakdown right away?’
He listened to the sound of his own breathing. The walls were painted an awful beige-green. From the other room he heard Nathan’s soft snore. ‘I only remember me speaking, him drawing his gun, me shooting him, him falling, me falling. That’s it. No details. It’s a silent movie with frames missing.’
‘So how can you be sure it was so decidedly your fault? He drew his gun.’
‘He tells me it was my fault. He told me I killed him with a word. I’m afraid to remember.’
‘He’s a figment of your imagination.’
‘No. He’s our disease, given life and breath and voice.’
‘If we had Frost, right now, would you take it?’
‘I – I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know because you don’t want to remember. It might be worse than what you think happened.’
The confession was still folded in his pocket.
