Page 69 of The Immortalists

Daniel stops spinning. He removes his hands from his face, blinking in the study’s artificial light. Then he hunches over the keyboard and tries to remember phrases from the FBI posting. There was a photo of a cream and brown trailer, a string of aliases. And the name of a village in Ohio—something Milton—he read Paradise Lost in college and was struck by the word when he read it. East Milton? No: West Milton. He Googles the phrase. Links to an elementary school and a library appear, as well as a map, West Milton outlined in red and shaped like Italy without the heel. He clicks on Images and sees a quaint downtown, storefronts hung with the American flag. One picture shows a small waterfall beside a set of stairs. When Daniel clicks on it, he’s routed to a message board.

West Milton Cascades and Stairway, someone has posted. This place is not well taken care of. People are throwing junk and the stairs and railing are not too safe.

It seems a better place to hide than the main drag. Daniel navigates back to the map. West Milton is a ten-hour drive from Kingston. The thought makes his pulse speed. He knows nothing about Bruna’s precise location, but the cascades seem promising, and the entire village is barely more than three square miles. How hard could it be to spot a rundown RV?

He hears a shrill ringing from the kitchen. These days, they use the landline so infrequently that it takes him a moment to place it. The only people who even have the number are telemarketers and family members, the odd neighbor. This time, he doesn’t have to check the caller ID to know it’s Varya.

“V,” he says.

“Daniel.” She was unable to come for Thanksgiving, having committed to a conference in Amsterdam. “Your cell phone was off. I just thought I’d check in.”

Eddie’s voice crackled from the highway, but Varya’s comes through the receiver from four thousand miles away with such clarity she could be standing in front of him. She speaks with a cool self-control for which Daniel has no patience.

“I know why you’re calling,” he says.

“Well.” She laughs, brittle. “Sue me.” There is a pause that Daniel makes no effort to fill. “What are you doing today?”

“I’m going to find the fortune teller. I’m going to hunt her down, and I’m going to force her to apologize for what she did to our family.”

“That isn’t funny.”

“It would have been nice to have you here yesterday.”

“I had to give a presentation.”

“Over Thanksgiving?”

“Turns out the Dutch don’t celebrate it.” Her tone has tightened, and Daniel’s resentment plumes again. “How did it go?”

“Fine.” He’ll give her nothing. “How was the conference?”

“Fine.”

It enrages him, that Varya cares enough to call him now but not on any other day, and certainly not enough to come see him. Instead she watches from above as he scurries around, never coming down to intervene.

“So how do you keep track of these things?” he asks, pressing the phone to his ear. “A spreadsheet? Or do you have it all memorized?”

“Don’t be nasty,” she says, and Daniel falters.

“I’m fine, Varya.” He leans against the counter and uses his free hand to rub the bridge of his nose. “Everything is going to be fine.”

He feels regretful as soon as they hang up. Varya is not the enemy. But there will be plenty of time to smooth things over. He walks to the counter and grabs his keys from a wicker basket.

“Daniel,” says Gertie. “What are you doing?”

His mother stands in the doorway. She wears the old pink bathrobe, her legs bare. The skin around her eyes is damp and strangely lavender.

“I’m going for a drive,” he says.

“Where to?”

“The office. There’re a few things I want to get done before Monday.”

“It’s Shabbat. You shouldn’t work.”

“Shabbat’s tomorrow.”

“It starts tonight.”