The woods thin out, and a road appears. I take a map out of my backpack and search for the nearest highway. Not too far from here. I peek out from between the elms, scanning both ways for the blue Ford Taurus, and when I’m confident my dad’s not lying in wait, slip out onto the road and start walking.
Washington.
That’s the end of the line.
In the distance, the two sides of the road draw together to a single point. Our art teacher called it the vanishing point. I always liked that: the vanishing point. It’s an optical illusion because parallel lines will never cross, but I like the thought of running fast enough, far enough, that you can reach the little dot where the impossible happens.
And you disappear.
5NICOLA
“EXCUSE ME.”
TheFASTEN SEAT BELTlight’s just gone off, and already a stranger’s standing in the aisle next to our row. He has shaggy, biscotti-blond hair and a smattering of moles across his stubbled jaw. A beat-up backpack droops from one shoulder. He leans down to address the woman next to me. “Would you mind switching seats, so my friend and I can sit together?”
These rows are built for two, which means when he says “my friend,” he’s referring to me. A cold sweat breaks out across my skin. I’ve never seen this man in my life.
“Oh, no—” the woman starts, but he cuts her off.
“I’m in 18A. Extra legroomandthe seat next to mine’s empty. It’s like the jackpot of aircraft seating, and—” He spreads his hands like a daytime game show model. “It’s all yours.”
I want to grab ahold of her jacket, beg her not to leave, but she’s already collecting her purse from under the seat in front of her. Besides, what can I say? That this man isn’t my friend—he’s a reporter cornering me on a long-distance flight? Or a predatory fan? I’ve been lucky so far: No one’s posted my flight number or snapped candids ofme from across the terminal. But if I tell her why she can’t swap seats, it’ll leave me exposed.
The man helps with her overhead luggage, replacing it with his own, then drops into the seat next to mine. “There we go,” he says, removing the sling bag strapped across his chest and fastening his seat belt. I watch with trepidation as he unzips the bag, dreading whatever he’s about to pull out. I can imagine him hauling me close for a photo, as the entire flight starts asking themselves, “Hey, isn’t she that girl from TV?” All it takes is one person to recognize me, one wobbly domino, and the entire weekend will come toppling down.
If I’m the one who breaks the silence, though, who sets the boundaries up front, then maybe I can maintain my anonymity. I shuffle closer to him, even as my body’s screaming at me to stay away. “Hey.” He swivels to face me. “I’m happy to sign something for you, or whatever, but I’m trying not to attract too much attention. And I’m not ready to talk about anything having to do with the show.”
His forehead creases. “Show? What show?”
Horror slowly overtakes me. Oh no, oh no, oh god, no. What have I done? He might not recognize me now, but thanks to my own stupidity (Nicola, you fuckingmoron), it’s only a matter of time before he does, which means I need an escape route. Where can you hide on an airplane? The lavatory, but how long would I have until another passenger comes knocking on the door? Maybe I could barge into the galley and plead with the flight attendants to let me camp back there?
I unfasten my seat belt, but before I can disappear down the aisle, he holds up his hand. “Wait. Sorry. I’m just fucking with you. You’re Nicola Fischer. I knew that when I came over here.”
My name explodes like a gunshot. I swing around, peering through the gaps in the seats, at the passengers behind and in front of us, but they’re all wearing headphones, enjoying their in-flight entertainmentsystems. No one’s paying attention to our conversation. “Okay… so, what do you want?”
He reaches into his open bag and pulls out a phone. “I don’t care about the show.” He drags his finger across the screen. “I wanted to introduce myself because we’re traveling to the same place.”
Onscreen are exact replicas of the messages that were sent to me: the flight confirmation from the Death Row Club, the reminder that all our electronics will be confiscated. All that fight-or-flight energy dissipates, and I slump back into my seat. “You’re a member of the club?”
He nods. “I remember what it was like my first time. You get that letter, and you’re like, okay, this could be real, or it could all be an elaborate scheme to ambush me in an airport parking lot.” He sets the phone facedown on his tray table. “It’s hard to know who to trust.”
Believe me, I want to tell him,I know. The whole town turning against me had been bad, but the people who pretended they hadn’t, at least in the beginning, were so much worse. Take, for instance, the leader of the women’s ministry, who’d invited me over in the days following the arrest. “We’re here to support you,” she assured me. “Whatever you need, all you have to do is ask.” I started to reach for my coffee mug, but halfway across the table, she captured my hand in hers. “Pray with me?” I nodded, even though I hadn’t prayed since fourth grade, when my family stopped using Sunday school as free childcare.
No one had touched me since news of my father’s crimes broke, and I found myself focusing less on her words and more on the topographical map of her hands: the fleshy mounds that dipped and peaked like the rolling hills of the countryside, the lifeline creeks that channeled me toward the peninsular outcropping of her thumb. By the time her prayer ended, my entire world had shrunk to fit inside that hand; so thankful was I for this simple kindness, for the chanceto feel connected to another human, that I was ready to tell her anything about my father.
The following week, an article appeared inTIME: “Portrait of a Monster: An Exclusive Look Inside the Fischer Family,” every secret I’d shared with her printed in stark black and white for the world to read. She’d included an appeal at the end, for compassion toward the family during this difficult time, but that didn’t change what she’d done. It was the first time I really started to grasp my new normal. That no one wanted to be my friend anymore, and the few who said they did couldn’t be trusted.
The members of this club might be different, though. They’re like me; they understand what it’s like to be the daughter of, well, of a monster.
“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed by the fact that I offered him my autograph. “I thought you were a fan, or maybe a reporter. They’ve been following me nonstop.”
“Been there. Here’s the trick: Buy your own portable mic and loop it around your neck. The feedback will drive the camera guys nuts and make all the audio unusable. Or—here’s another one—get one of those little high-lumen flashlights, the really powerful ones, and whenever they come too close, shoot it straight at the lens. They’ll get the hint.”
“Now you tell me. Where were you three months ago?”
“Fending off reporters, obviously.”
That gets a smile out of me. He notices and sticks out his hand. “Zach.”
