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She turned quickly and walked away.
In the group of moms she passed, one of the women raised a tentative hand in greeting. But Alice didn’t seem to notice, kept her brisk pace. The woman, a green-eyed redhead with a full face and nice smile, looked a little embarrassed.
“She didn’t see me,” he heard her say.
“Shy, maybe?” said the slim brunette.
Not unkind or anything. When Henry looked after her, she was gone. Though he’d been eager for her to leave, he felt a brief, familiar flutter of panic. It was a complicated feeling. He desperately wanted her to go, and when she did he was afraid, always afraid that she might not come back.
He pushed the fear down, the way he’d learned to. Then he turned and walked purposely toward the playground where the other boys tore around with abandon. The girls stood in clutches, like the moms, chatting, giggling. One girl seemed to prefer the company of boys, playing soccer over on the far end. She was fast, agile, tough. He watched her for a while, her blond hair blazing, skin flushed.
There was no heaviness to them. They were not watchful, any of them. Not mindful, like him. It didn’t seem that anyone had ever told them to be quiet. He marveled at this for a moment, standing by the fence.
When the bell rang, there was a great jostling rush to get inside and he was pushed along in the current of bodies. He was new here. The new kid—again. Not his first day, which was always the worst. But the first week.
He didn’t fit. He knew that. His hair was wrong. His clothes were off. The boys wore Levi’s and Chuck Taylors, polos, and tees. Not khakis, and pressed plaid shirts, stiff off-brand sneakers that his mom got for him. If he was going to “fit,” he’d need to wear what the other kids were wearing. And even then he’d still be apart. He knew that. But less so.
What saved him from being bullied like some boys who didn’t fit was his size and his natural athleticism. He could catch, throw, and run. He was strong. He could scale the rope in seconds, beat most of the others in a sprint. Gym was a proving ground where he’d already earned at least the respect of the other boys. He knew how it went. He was in eighth grade. This was his fourth—or was it his fifth?—school.
Math was first period and he took the seat he’d been assigned by the window, just behind the pretty girl who liked to hang out with the boys. Math he understood. There was a calming simplicity to it, a comfort in following clearly stated rules and getting things right. Numbers were the opposite of people. People were mysterious.
The boy beside him gave him a nod, which he returned.
The teacher stood up at the board. He couldn’t help but notice her body, the way her blouse clung to her breasts, the shape of her calves beneath the hem of her skirt. The boy next to him gave him a knowing look, and Henry felt the heat come up to his cheeks. He looked down at his notebook and copied what she was writing on the board.
After a while, he looked out the window. He was surprised and embarrassed to see Alice standing across the street. She had both her hands around a coffee cup, leaning against the side of the building, nearly hidden in the shadows.
She was watching.
6
Hannah
June 2018
She glanced over at her husband, who was staring at the road, hands at ten and two. He drove the way he did everything else—well, carefully, with precision. The space between them was charged; they’d had words before Lou arrived, and after they’d gotten into the car. Not the way she wanted to start off this vacation. It was her fault. She needed to apologize. But.
“I—” she started, touching her finger to the empty coffee cup in the center console. But the words died in her throat.
He drew and released a breath, shifted in his seat.
“I get it,” he said, shooting her an apologetic glance.
“No,” she said. “I mean. It was wrong. Really wrong. I’m sorry.”
Last night while Bruce had been sleeping, after she’d checked on Gigi and heard his work phone buzzing in his office, she’d done something shameful. The pull of that buzzing phone was magnetic. She knew the window revealing at least part of the message would stay up on the home screen for a few minutes, so she quickly, without really even thinking, went into Bruce’s office, sat at his desk and took the phone from the drawer.
There was a message from someone entered into his contacts as Angel:R-61818200.If all goes as planned.
A password, a serial number, some kind of code? She felt her face flush. Who was Angel? It didn’t sound like a client name, and it wasn’t one she’d heard him mention. But obviously, it was work related? Right? It’s not like she stumbled on some sexting, or plans to meet. Why did she feel sick? She felt sick because she was spying on her husband.
“Hannah.”
She had practically flown out of his chair and gone through the window. Her husband stood bare-chested in sweatpants, filling the doorway.
“Whatare you doing?” he asked mildly, almost amused.
She sat a moment, considered lying. “I, uh, heard your phone. And—”
