GATED

By J.D. Ventura

CHAPTER 1

It was a sunless October day and the ride out of the city was depressing. Five years of circling the block for parking spaces, and homeless people peeing on their stoop, and pigeons mating on their skylight, and a growing list of miscellaneous urban annoyances should have made leaving the city a more desirable option. He needs to leave, Claire. It’s not about you any longer, she reminded herself. In deference to him, she kept her protests infrequent and comedic. Still, selfishly – oh so very selfish, Claire! — moving to the exurbs felt like an unbearable indignity and a painful confirmation that they were no longer young and carefree. “It’s not the house, right? You like the house?” Sam pressed, his knuckles tightly clenching the steering wheel of their Audi, the unbuttoned cuffs of his plaid flannel shirt showing the Rolex she had given him last year for their fifth wedding anniversary. She had inscribed, “…always time for you.” They had both chuckled at how corny that was, but when the fit of laughter had subsided, he leaned in and kissed her gently on her forehead, pushing away her dirty blond bangs with his thumbs. “I love it, babe,” he’d said. “The house is fine. More than fine. It’s fantastic. And I’ll be fine, I’m just going to miss the city a little. It’s what we’ve been talking about. But I know you need this-” “We need this.” “That’s what I meant. You know that. Okay, well, now I feel like a stupid, selfish bitch for even saying this…” “But since I asked…” “But since you asked, I guess I just know who I am in DC. Who am I in – I can’t say it without laughing – Frontier Village?” “Let me stop you right there and remind you of who you were as an urbanite. You were a woman who was sick of the rats and the trash and the crime – and I’m just talking about that cut-throat ad agency you despised. You also hated the actual rats and trash and crime in our neighborhood, which you once described as, and I quote, ‘Brooklyn without the fashion sense.’ Claire, you need to trust me on this. Frontier –” “Howdy pardner!” “Frontier Village is going to be a lovely place to live. And I think working at home is going to be a nice change for you. Starting your own studio, maybe even a gallery. That’s exciting! It’s only for a few years, until I –” She inhaled sharply as if from the prick of a needle. “Sam, don’t. I know, I know. It’s fine. I’m onboard. I am. Can we just drive?” She wanted to believe the move was a good idea. Financially, it made a lot of sense.

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They’d bought the house way below market value. A steal, they had both agreed. It’s a fresh start, she told herself. One big reset button. But major change of any kind had always made her uncomfortable to the point of nail-biting. Early on in their relationship, he had tried to change this about her. There they were, Sam, a 6’4” athletic giant to her wispy, petite frame, trapesing through the streets of Tokyo, Sydney and Reykjavik. He made her try whale meet, icepick up a frozen waterfall and swim with actual sharks. She fell in love with his adventurous spirit, but usually, by about day three of any trip, that side of him had her intolerably anxious and homesick and generally no fun to be around. Maybe if the circumstances were different, she could get more excited about the present move. But she was so damn tired. Tired of worrying about him. Tired of waiting for the other shoe to fall. Tired of being tired. Self-identity concerns aside, she also had a general distaste for suburban and rural living. To Claire, it all represented a kind of red state conformity, an averageness that left everything feeling bland and mediocre. She always thought people went to the ‘burbs to get pregnant or fat – usually, but not always, in that order. Wives sat near the bar at Chili’s so their husbands could keep one eye on the game and the other on their two fidgety, pre-diabetic kids. Romance was almost always inspired by guilt and solved with cheap, cellophane- wrapped carnations from the grocery store. Birthdays were celebrated with box cakes. Florida was an exotic getaway. Life beyond the city limits meant jalapeno poppers and trips to Michael’s craft stores and scrapbooking and potpourri and a paralyzing predictability she was terrified might grow on her. She already took too much comfort in routine and the thought of any more of it in her life made her want to grab the wheel from Sam and turn the car around. Of course, these worries were trivial when she considered Sam’s needs. His reasons for wanting to leave the city were real and she would honor them. How could she not? Sam was still talking, combing his thick black hair with his fingers, which he often did when excited. “This isn’t post-war suburbia, babe. It’s entirely different. This is ‘planned rural.’ It’s like ‘soft urban’ with more trees and less retail.” Sam loved a good plan, which was an attribute at NASA, where he worked as an aerospace engineer specializing in satellite operations. He was a scientist to which the world and all its riddles somehow made sense. She was a painter, who, through her art, showed, but never solved, life’s mysteries. So, her husband’s obsession with preparedness and detail was, at the same time, both comforting and irritating. “It will be fine, honey. I’m excited. Really I am.” “You don’t paint a convincing picture for someone who intends to paint for a living,” he said, batting his eyes at her playfully and throwing her a goofy grin. Through her passenger-side window she could see just a blur of green trees and then

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cows and then empty fields and then trees again, rusting farm equipment, dirt roads, “No Trespassing” signs, the occasional farm stand. It was dusk when they crossed into West Virginia. After an hour more on the road, they crested the hill leading down into the valley where their new home awaited them. From this distance, the neighborhood looked more like a settlement, surrounded on two sides by rolling foothills and otherwise encircled by cornfields and orchards. A massive house on a sharp rise overlooked maybe 40 or 50 smaller houses. The cluster of homes had an appearance of congregation that felt necessary given the barrenness of the surrounding landscape. When she saw it now, at sunset, she was overcome with a panicked sense that they should hurry up and get there before nightfall. Before the nothingness of the countryside engulfed them in darkness.

They approached the guard shack now and two men in crisp security guard attire, complete with badges, caps and walkie-talkies affixed to utility belts, emerged from the booth, their exhalations blooming before them in the bracing chill of the October night. Both were tall, muscular and blond, and looked so much alike Claire thought they could be brothers. One guard crossed in front of their car and positioned himself on the passenger side as the other motioned for Sam to stop and, bending forward, gave Sam a friendly wink before waving hello to Claire. Sam rolled the window down. “Mr. Sturgis, sir, welcome home,” said the guard, glancing down at a handheld computer tablet, then at Sam’s face, then back down at the screen again. “And Mrs. Sturgis, welcome. Is this your first night in the Village?” “Yes, it is,” Sam replied before squinting at the name on the guard’s badge, “Officer Collins.” The other guard was now bending over to look in Claire’s window and when their eyes met, he gave a friendly wink and a satisfied smile before standing upright again. “And we have here your movers should be here by 8 AM tomorrow, correct?” “That is correct, sir.” “Well, Mr. Sturgis, if there is anything at all you require this evening, our phone number is right there,” he said, handing Sam a business card. “Don’t hesitate to use it if you need us.” “Will do.” “You both have a pleasant evening and again, welcome home. Myself and Officer Gaines are both glad you’re here.” “Thank you. Okay, cheers.” Sam eased the Audi forward before saying, “Well, that was impressive. Knowing our names like that.” Creepy if you ask me. She said nothing.

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“Claire, this is a good thing. It will be good for us. Good for me. I just can’t manage living in the city anymore.” “I know, baby.” “But…you’re holding back. What do you want to say?” he prodded. “No, nothing, forget it, Sam. Don’t make me feel self-involved again, okay?” “Babe, you’re still allowed to have feelings, despite everything that’s happening.” “You said that already.” “Well…” “Okay, well. Like I said. I had a sense of community in DC. And I know that community would have been there for us when, when things get worse. That’s all. And, I took comfort from my routines. There is a part of me that is … that is just going to have to acclimate to this. Leaving everything we know behind feels —” “Demented?” They both laughed at that and, as they drove slowly, taking in their new neighborhood, a procession of gigantic homes encircled by immaculately manicured lawns and paver stone driveways, she thought about the real reason they were moving to Frontier Village. “Don’t worry, babe, you’ll find community here, too, I promise.” She desperately hoped so. Now, more than ever, it was about finding “a balance in life,” at least that’s how Sam had described it to her after his last doctor’s appointment. Or, more exactly, the last one to which he’d agreed to go. In that moment, she knew this place wasn’t a cure for their problems, but if it would help Sam, benefit him in yet untold ways, well, then, that was enough for now. For him, she would embrace it. No more questions. No more doubts. After all, the move to West Virginia was their choice. You chose to do this, Claire! Unlike his diagnosis, which they had no choice but to embrace. Early. Onset. Dementia. Three simple words, strung together to form a cosmic verdict. When the neurologist had first told them what they were up against, she thought he was reading someone else’s chart. Someone older and less physically healthy. Someone other than her best friend and hero. “Your husband is going to change,” the doctor had said matter-of-factly. “He’ll forget things more often. His moods may become unpredictable. In rare cases, auditory and visual hallucinations are even possible. The bottom, line, Claire, is now, more than ever, he’ll need your help navigating this new reality. But you’ll find the strength. You’ll have to.” As they drove onto their street, Claire couldn’t help but notice how dark the neighborhood seemed. It was only 7 PM, yet many of the homes on their block had no lights on, save for those illuminating empty porches. No kids on bikes, no other cars sharing the road with them, no commuters returning home from work. Sam drove onto their new driveway, and the house loomed above them. Lonely. Waiting.

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CHAPTER 2

The next day, every room was full of moving boxes. Claire sat on the floor, overwhelmed, surrounded by stacks and stacks of them. Some were sensibly labeled: “Kitchen Stuff” or “Bedroom” (Sam’s process). Versus those labeled: “Crap I Don’t Need” and “Misc Things” (her process). Before she met Sam, she had been known to buy IKEA furniture, only to have the box become the thing she was supposed to build. “Why do you have an IKEA box for your night table?” he had asked her the morning after the first time they’d slept together. The truth was she could procrastinate better than anyone, and if Sam wasn’t in the picture, she’d probably never unpack 80 percent of the junk they had accumulated over the years. They were just things, and considering Sam’s diagnosis, they seemed more irrelevant than ever. She came across a box Sam had marked, “Claire, College.” Opening it, she found a stack of photographs of different sizes and sheens. She matter-of-factly rifled through them, not wanting to be seduced by time-consuming sentimentality. You should be setting up your studio, Claire, not indulging in retrospective daydreams! If she took a wrong turn onto memory lane, she knew her afternoon could easily be spent crying over old love letters and pictures of family dogs long since dead. But she allowed herself this one stack: she and her parents, smiling at her grammar school graduation; her grandmother, sitting in her flower garden, surrounded by a ring of her prized African marigolds, as orange as clementines, doing little to soften the stoicism of her expression; and then, there she was, her sister Jenny, laughing in denim culottes and a floral-printed spaghetti-strap blouse. She traced her finger along the edges of her sister’s face, irrationally disappointed to find it impersonally flat and without texture. Her chest and throat tightened and she sat down, surprised by how accessible such old emotions still were. She closed her eyes and saw the dirt road. Jenny’s sun-kissed hair, windswept and illuminated by the campfires below. She could almost hear her sister’s voice, echoing off the quarry walls. “On the count of three, Claire. Three. Two…”

*** “Claire? Honey? Are you listening to a word I am saying?” Sam was standing in the doorway to the living room, wearing athletic shorts and his old, faded USC tee shirt, the underarms of which were dark with sweat. His expectant expression was clue enough a question had been asked. She threw the photos back in the box, but not before putting the one of Jenny in the back pocket of her jeans. “I’m sorry, sweetie, what?”

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“I asked you if you needed help unpacking these, or if I should go set up the bed?” “Sure, babe, yeah, do that, would you?” “Which one?” “The bed. God knows after today sleeping will be a top priority.” “Is there something wrong with you, Claire?” he asked, taking a few steps toward her now, as if to more accurately read her mood. “Are you homesick?” She wanted to tell him, Yes. Yes, in fact, I am homesick. I am starting to wonder why we are living in a McMansion out in the middle of West fucking Virginia. I get it was priced ridiculously low and you want a nice quiet place to lose your mind, but honestly, darling, why have you reserved the entire front row of this slowly unfolding tragedy just for me? What about our friends and family? Why must we go this alone? Way out here. “No, don’t be silly. I’m fine. Go do the bed. I was thinking about taking a walk around the neighborhood,” she said. He was already halfway up the back staircase leading off the kitchen. “Okay, babe,” he yelled as he crossed the second-floor landing. “Let me know if you meet any neighbors.” Claire grabbed a pink windbreaker, slipped into a pair of canvas boat shoes and walked down their front pavers to the sidewalk. It was dusk and the sky was Creamsicle orange, with just a few low-lying clouds tinged periwinkle and purple. She noticed how utterly quiet it was. It was unusual to hear her own footfalls…outside. The silence was so complete, it unsettled Claire, like the moment after a comedian tells a joke that isn’t funny, a soundless void that makes you wish, in that instant, you were anywhere else. There were seven houses on Settlement Way, three on their side, three on the opposite side, and one at the foot of the cul-de-sac. They had only arrived last night, yet, aside from the guards, she had not seen a single human being, or passing car for that matter. “Everyone’s at work, Claire,” Sam said. Where the hell are they all working? As far as she could tell, the only businesses within 20 miles of“the Village” were a Bass Pro Shop, a Texas Roadhouse restaurant and a Wal-Mart. The broker had guessed a lot of residents were teleworkers, like her and Sam, but admitted she didn’t know much about the Village’s residents, either. Since every house had two- or three-car garages, the doors of which were always shut, it was hard to tell who was home and when. All the houses were as magnificent as the one they had bought, except the giant house on the hill. It was surreal, both in its sheer size and in the view the owners must command over the entire development. “Man, the people-watching they must get away with from that second-floor balcony,” she had remarked to Sam. It was incredible to Claire that not a single house looked like the other, yet the craftsmanship and tasteful design were a common denominator. In the suburbs of her childhood, houses reflected the wild variations in status found in the middle class of the time.

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Mr. and Mrs. Erickson, neighbors directly across the street from Claire’s childhood home, both enjoyed generous government pensions and salaries from second careers. Their Cape Cod-style house was meticulous, with a new roof, new siding, crisp, precise landscaping and a swimming pool that was the envy of every kid on the block. Just next door, however, the McPherson’s mid-century split-level’s crumbling driveway featured their teenage son’s car, sans tires, up on cement blocks. It had remained there for almost the entire time Claire was in high school. But here in the Village, there was a homogeny that was striking in its consistency. Every single house on her street was perfect in its own way: an exquisitely designed cupola, a manicured-to-perfection rose garden, a screened in front porch worthy of a spread in Better Homes and Gardens. There was not a soda can or motor oil stain or tiny pile of dog poop or unevenly cut lawn or unraked leaves or a forgotten child’s toy to be found. It was as if the entire neighborhood had been digitally printed from an artist’s rendering. Pin straight, her mother would say. Not a single goddamn hair out of place. And not a single solitary person to be found… “Oh, hey there. Excuse us…” Startled, Claire leapt into the air, and spun around to face the deep voice behind her. The man was wearing aviator sunglasses just below lush black bangs that swept upward into a head of hair as dark and wavy as an oil spill. The starched collar of his gingham Oxford peeked out of a navy sweater, which bunched atop an intricate, stitched leather belt – probably handmade, she thought – encircling white designer jeans, which seemed to Claire a strange choice for Fall. The woman standing next to him had thick brown hair pulled back into a tight bun. She wore large square sunglasses that looked more Hollywood than hillbilly. A turquoise linen scarf adorned a tight yet tasteful V-neck thick cotton pullover atop her retro flare-legged twill pants. If this was how people in her neighborhood dressed, they were going to die when they saw her in yoga pants and Crocs. “Oh, God, we didn’t mean to scare you. We’re the Halls. Your neighbors right across the street. Yellow gazebo. I’m Stephanie, and this is my husband, Marc.” “With a ‘c’,” Marc inserted, leaning forward slightly, as if speaking into a floor mic. Claire stared back at him with a confused look on her face. “Instead of a ‘K.’ M-a-r-c. Anyway, we wanted to say hi and welcome to the ‘hood.” “Yes,” Stephanie said. “Welcome. We’re really looking forward to getting to know you.” And when Claire failed to immediately reply, Stephanie added, “And Sam.”

*** When she got home, Sam was napping in their bed, fully clothed. She could tell he was exhausted. Watching him sleep now, her worry for him overwhelmed her, and she felt a

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jolt of anxious energy race down her arms. It had been almost a year since the doctors told him he had about six to eight years of “somewhat manageable, intermittent symptoms” – visual and auditory hallucinations, dramatic, potentially aggressive mood swings, loss of empathy, acute memory lapses — before his grasp on reality and the ability to take care of himself would start to seriously degrade. And, to underscore just how bad a hand fate had dealt them, the doctor added, “Of course, these timelines vary from person to person. The disease could proceed slower than is typical, or it could accelerate without warning.” Claire thought back to the long and dreary car ride home after the final MRI. DC was receiving a fresh dusting of snow, which looked like powdered sugar on the roads and rooftops. It fell from a sky so resolute in its graying gloominess, Claire could barely remember when it had last been blue. She had begun to cry. “Babe, don’t,” he said. “It’s going to be all right.” He took his eye off the traffic for a second, reaching out to grasp her chin between his thumb and index finger, as if to pick an apple. “I feel great and you heard Dr. Carlson, a lot of medical advances can happen in a decade.” “Eight years, Sam,” she sobbed. “And why are you not more upset? Why am I crying and you’re comforting me? Are you still in shock?” “No, it’s not shock. I don’t know how, Claire, but I’m already accepting it in a way. We will find a way, and we should enjoy what we have, when we have it. I am choosing to feel lucky that the agency is still letting me work on the project and encouraging me to work from home if I need to.” “The project” was something he almost never referenced and certainly didn’t – and couldn’t – talk about in any kind of detail. What she did know was Sam was terrified NASA would revoke his top-secret security clearance after he disclosed his diagnosis. In the end, he had gotten them to agree to let him keep working, so long as he submitted to routine psychological evaluations. “…And thank God we can get out of DC and chill out, do our own thing, enjoy each other. No more gridlock and long commutes. Maybe do some hiking and kayaking before it gets too cold. Maybe, and don’t laugh, get a horse or two. If you don’t like West Virginia, we can always move back to DC. But give it a chance.” “It’s not that, Sam, I’m just so sad this is happening to you, to us,” she said, sniffling and wiping her running nose across her chapped hand. “It’s unfair.” “I agree,” is all he said before they both fell into a silence that held the whole way home.

*** She didn’t want to wake him now but he stirred and sleepily opened his eyes.

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“Couldn’t find the sheets, huh?” she smiled. “They could be anywhere,” he said and they both laughed at the chaos that surrounded them. “Okay, keep an open mind, but I just met some neighbors and they sort of invited themselves over…tonight.” “Claire! No! Look at this place. Baby!” She sat at the edge of the bed and held his hand before making her case. “Sam, they are so nice. They came up to me on my walk and, well, they’re our age, professional, no kids, just really sweet and put-together and he – Marc I think he said -- asked me if we had dipped into the wine cellar yet and I said no, that we don’t drink. And he was nice. He said they weren’t that into drinking either. I don’t know, it just seems like the right thing to do, to ask them to come hang out. You know, like a house warming party.” “Claire, I can’t even find our sheets. Ugh, how embarrassing.” “It was strange. They knew your name and I didn’t even offer it up,” she said, the retelling of the exchange jogging her memory. Sam considered this for a moment. “It’s small-town living, honey. We were probably welcomed to the neighborhood on some community message board.” “Oh, right. That makes sense. Now get up, we need to at least get the living room livable and chill a few near-beers.”

For the first time, Claire felt an optimism about their new home and the Village she could not describe. As they cleaned and readied the house, she struggled to explain to Sam why, but she felt an instant kinship with Stephanie and Marc Hall. She had stood talking to them, locked in effortless conversation, for over an hour, discovering they had a great deal in common with their stylish neighbors from across the street. Stephanie was in marketing; Claire had been an illustrator for an ad agency. Marc was also an engineer, working for a company about an hour’s drive away that made industrial electrical components. They, too, had spent time living in DC, and Stephanie had also been skeptical about moving to such a rural community. Both Stephanie and Claire were learning to cook. Like Sam, Marc played golf. “Wow, is his frontal lobe shriveling like a raisin, too?” Sam said, unpacking some drinking glasses. “I don’t find that funny, Sam,” she said, turning to leave the kitchen. He grabbed her hip and spun her back around in his direction. With his strong hands around her waist he pulled her to him. “Come here, you.” She tried to stay angry but couldn’t. His hands glided to the small of her back and then he let them fall, allowing his thumbs to hook the back pocket of her jeans.

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“What’s this? he said, pulling out the old photograph. “It’s a picture of Jenny. I found it today.” He handed it back to her, cupped the sides of her shoulders and moved his chin forward to gaze directly into her eyes. “Babe, are you getting sad again? In here, looking through old things” “No, Sam. I’m good. I think things are going to be good here.” She threw the photo of her sister into the nearest open box and kissed her husband with a passion she had not known in a great while. He was right, of course. He always was. Some of these boxes were better left unopened. She didn’t need to see the unmailed letters she had written to her older sister after their dad packed up the car, took Jenny and left Claire alone with her depressed, alcoholic mother. She also didn’t need to see the psychotic postcards her mother sent her from rehab. In the languid penmanship of a woman with lots of time and no plans, she had written: “I asked myself today why he took her rather than you. Isn’t that strange? Have you ever asked yourself that, Claire? Really thought about it? Why did he leave you behind?”

*** The doorbell rang at exactly 7 pm. “Prompt,” Sam said, meaning it to sound slightly annoyed. “Be nice. This will be fun.” “Or not,” he grumped, before joining her in the foyer. “Smile,” she said, before throwing the front door open. “Hey there! Hi guys!” The Halls had changed their clothes, but, as Sam took their coats, Claire noticed their fashion sense was still very much intact. Stephanie wore a neatly pressed pink cotton turtle neck, tucked into designer jeans. Her shoes were simple but cute white leather flats. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail that signaled a sort of casual, effortless beauty. Marc Hall was in a pale purple-gray Oxford, the top two buttons undone, revealing a curl of chest hair that reminded Claire, for a brief second, of a beckoning finger. His pale blue chinos bunched smartly just above the laces of brown Longwing Derby brogues. He held a bottle of champagne in one hand and she, a canvas bag, which she held up in offering. “Don’t worry, the bubbly is green apple alcohol-free wine. And, I made some canapes,” she said, almost apologetically. “There’s salmon and cucumber twists and chorizo and prawn skewers.” “Stephanie, you didn’t have to –” “Hi, I’m Sam,” Sam said to Marc, as the women continued their greetings. “Sam, a sincere pleasure to meet you.” “…no, no, no,” Stephanie was saying. “You are doing me a favor. I had so

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many frozen prawns in my freezer, it was just ridiculous, anyway…” “Well come on in guys, for goodness sakes. Let’s get this party started,” Claire said, moving aside while holding open the front door with an outstretched arm. Sam went down to the wine cellar and grabbed some sparkling water and a six-pack of near beer he’d put in the basement’s fridge. But before Claire had even brought out the spaghetti she had thrown together – apologizing for not having more on hand, and eliciting laughter at her recalling the couple’s attempt to use paper towels as a substitute for their still- packed colander – their effortless conversation and obvious group chemistry felt like a celebration between old friends. Claire could tell by Sam’s face he was enjoying them as much as she was. In fact, there were moments Claire thought Sam laughed a bit too loud at Stephanie’s jokes. Is he trying to flatter her? Is he flirting with her? No, she concluded, both Marc and Stephanie Hall could be described as disarming. Like Sam, for whatever reason – perhaps it was a full moon, or because having fun was long overdue – she felt her inhibitions slipping away. She wanted to know these people. And, strangely, she desperately wanted them to know her. Their presence was oddly spellbinding. “To our new neighbors,” Marc said, raising his glass and bending at the waist slightly to reach across the table, where his met their glasses in toast. “And to the chef, and, and… to the fact that, although they do not have a heated pool, at least I think you don’t, we thankfully do, and we expect them to come over and swim in it whenever they wish.” “Cheers to that,” laughed Sam, before turning to Claire and playfully asking, “Wait, did they just say they have a pool? How come we don’t have a pool?” “We put ours in last year,” said Stephanie, filling everyone’s glasses with more faux champagne. “We live in that thing year round. So. Much. Fun.” “You know what else is fun?” Marc asked, shooting Claire a mischievous look, as if the question were directed at only her, before pulling a perfectly rolled joint from the front pocket of his shirt. “Ta da!” “Marc!” Stephanie chastised. “They don’t drink. So, I’m sure they don’t smoke weed! Sorry, guys, if you’re not into it. It seemed like a cool housewarming gift before we knew you didn’t drink.” “I can’t, because of my security clearance, but maybe Claire would like to partake,” Same said. He stared at Claire and it was clear this was an exercise in trust and that he was giving her skeptical permission. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s been so long. I never had a problem with pot. Maybe a couple of tokes. I might get a little loopy.” “I for one would like to see that,” Marc said, dropping his voice to an invitational purr that made the blood rush to Claire’s face.

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“Oh, okay,” said Claire. “Why not? If you don’t feel too left out, babe.” “Party on, dudes,” Sam said, looking satisfied with his generosity. He then gave Marc a chummy clap on the shoulder. “Maybe I’ll have a beer, if you have one.” “Done,” said Marc, patting Sam’s opposing shoulder in response. Soon the night took on a merry fluidity Claire had only felt on rare occasion. She chalked it up to the weed, but she found herself in complete adoration of Stephanie and Marc. Stephanie was gorgeous, but not the least bit arrogant, in fact, self-deprecating and wildly funny. Marc clearly loved his wife, and artfully divided his attention between her and them, instantly endearing himself to Sam with long, rambling stories about science and aeronautics and sci-fi. They were all seated now on the floor, chatting and gossiping like college kids around the coffee table, their laughter echoing off the 12-foot high ceilings. As the men disagreed as to which Star Wars movie was a better metaphor for the Cold War, Stephanie passed the joint to Claire, who waved it away dismissively, as if her neighbor had tried to hand her a squirrel. “Are you kidding? I am so high right now. I don’t even know who you are.” This was very funny to them both and they laughed uncontrollably, holding their sides and wiping tears from their eyes. “Claire, I am Stephanie Hall. And as your new best friend…” This was also hysterical, Claire thought, in part because she knew somehow it was already true. “…and as your new best friend, I ask you…nay, I command you, to come swimming right now. Come on! I know we can convince these two shitheads.” “It’s fucking freezing out! But these shitheads are already convinced,” Sam interrupted, high-fiving Marc, who held Claire’s gaze as he slowly began unbuttoning his Oxford. They crossed through the Halls’ living room on the way to the terrace leading out to the pool. The tray ceiling above the sitting area featured a glass chandelier that descended in layers, like an upside-down crystal birthday cake. The color scheme for the room was gold, black and tan, and the carpet, which felt silken under Claire’s feet, was an intricate pattern of blue and gold sparrows, which matched the upholstered wall behind the sofa, the massive fabric panel sandwiched between two hand-carved, white pilasters. “Oh, wow, guys, this is gorgeous. I mean, just wow,” Claire said, stopping despite Stephanie and Marc continuing to make their way to the back door. With a cupped hand, Stephanie signaled Sam and Claire to catch up, the look on her face saying, “You haven’t seen anything yet.” And they hadn’t. “Our house is going to look like this when we are done unpacking, right?” asked Sam in a whisper, playfully ticking her ribs from behind.

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“Asshole!” she said, with a playful swat to his ass. “Stop!” As they walked out onto the gray stone patio, Claire gasped. The Halls’ backyard was as lush as a rainforest. The pool floor, which was a mosaic of thousands of quarter-sized blue glass tiles, was illuminated from below and gave off an almost electric hue, twinkling off the encircling flora and a gigantic rock feature, complete with a 20-foot high waterfall. The various plantings – rhododendrons, mountain laurel, haws, dogwoods — created a kaleidoscope of color and filled the backyard with a springtime sweetness so fragrant, even in the cold fall air, Claire closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “First, how does this look like this in October?” asked Sam, patting Marc on the back. “Second: what are you, a rapper or something? I feel like I’m on MTV Cribs, Puff Daddy.” “Yeah, what he said,” muttered Claire. “Thanks, y’all,” Stephanie gushed. “That makes me feel so good. We have a great landscaper. I told him I only wanted non-invasive species native to West Virginia. There is a real problem with invasive exotic species, so we didn’t want to add to that in any way. You, girly, look like you could use another toke.” The boys had polished off a couple of beers and decided to dive off the top of the rock feature. “Sam, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Claire yelled up to him, as she waved-off Stephanie’s offer of another drag. The women trailed behind their husbands, meandering up the stone pathway leading to the top of the waterfall. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s Olympic-dive-pool depth. There’s even a diving platform at the top. So, you can pretty much jump off the waterfall.” “Wow, that’s insane. You guys must throw a hell of a pool party!” Claire gushed. “We’re throwing one right now! Race you to the top!” Stephanie yelled, breaking into a sprint, her bare feet smacking the cool stone. Claire ran after Stephanie but when she got to the diving platform she looked out over the water as she felt the wind begin to whip her hair. The intoxication of her high, the softer light and pleasantly-wayward thinking, instantly vanished, replaced with a sickening feeling, an upsetting and sudden combination of nausea, disorientation and panic. She stepped back from the edge and held Sam’s shoulder to steady herself, closing her eyes tightly. Hearing Jenny’s voice. Remembering what she said to Claire, the night she finally came home after living with their father for four years. “I wanted to go with Dad. He didn’t kidnap me, like mom told the judge. Dad was a free-spirit. And so was I, even at 12. This town was too small for him. He needed to see what else is out there. You and mom aren’t like that, Claire. She’s terrified. Nervous and afraid and worried about everything. That’s why she drinks. And you’ll be just like her someday. Just like her. Which is why you won’t jump off that cliff with me. You can't seize the day. Not if your life depended on it.” Claire stumbled backward, and both Marc and Sam caught her before she fell off the

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platform's edge. “Claire,” Stephanie yelled over the wind. “What's wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

CHAPTER 3

She was grateful Sam had to spend a few days near NASA’s Maryland campus. After the impromptu pool party at the Halls’, she just wanted to be alone. Sam explained it away by saying, “She never smokes weed.” That was true, but she had also silently suffered from panic attacks for years. This one left her feeling humiliated and particularly unhinged. Her worry and anxiety around Sam’s illness somehow invited images of old demons: her sister’s lifeless body, face down on the rocks; her mother, drunk and hysterical, wrestling with the cops on the other side of the police tape; the splay of lilies at the funeral, the petals already tinged with decay.

She ran the back of her left hand over the indent on Sam’s pillow, the empty space filling her with a feeling of sad relief. She rolled over onto her right side and looked out the window at the broad, sturdy pergola covering the stone patio below, which sloped into their expansive leaf-strewn backyard. The sunlight spilled from a passing cloud like a breaking egg yolk, causing Claire to cup her hand, visor-like, above her eyebrows. She squinted at a tiny spot of black in the middle of a pile of leaves. What the hell?

Claire flung the comforter off and swung her feet onto the cold wood floor, rubbing her eyes and leaning forward to get a better look. It was a small dog, and it was not moving, just standing still, staring straight ahead at their house. Oh, poor baby, maybe he’s lost. She unlatched the window lock and with a grunt and an upward shove of her lower palms, pushed the bottom of the frame to chin level. The cold air rushed in, making her eyes water. She kneeled at the sill and bent slightly forward, sticking her head out and deeply inhaling the crisp morning air.

The dog did not move a muscle. Oh my God, it must be hurt!

“Hey, there, baby. How are you? You cold? You lost, huh? You hungry, sweetie? Okay, stay there, baby. Good boy. I will be right there. Stay. Stay.”

She grabbed a robe Sam had thrown over one of their bedroom’s leather armchairs and made her way quickly downstairs, jumping over the last few steps and grabbing at the baluster as her feet lost traction for a moment on the smooth tiled floor in the foyer. She ran through the kitchen and opened the sliding doors leading to the backyard. “Come here, puppy. C’mere good boy. Come – ,”

The dog was gone.

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***

Claire spent most of the day unpacking. An activity she would normally despise was proving to be quite pleasant, in that its mundanity allowed her to completely zone out. When she started alphabetizing her just-unpacked spice cabinet, she recognized this as something her shrink called “manic enthusiasm.” It was time to take a Xanax and to breathe. In, one, two, three, out, one, two, three. Be present Claire. Present! She grabbed a sparkling water from the fridge and, with one swig, downed the white oval pill she had retrieved from an otherwise empty coriander bottle. Alprazolam is my favorite spice. The thought made her laugh out loud. You may have a coriander problem, Claire. The realization wasn’t enough to stop her from retrieving a bottle of California chardonnay from the trunk of her car.

When the booze and sedative began to gently welcome her to mid-morning – brunch of champions! – she punched up some Elliott Smith on her smartphone and the melancholic chords of baroque pop filled the cavernous living room. Claire lay on the floor, on her back, and looked up at the towers of moving boxes surrounding her. How are you going to launch your own gallery when you can’t even find the will to unpack? As she faded into sleep, the stacked cardboard looked like stone cliffs, and the distant wail of sirens sounded hopeless. Whew, whew, whew, whew, whew. Urnt, urnt. Whew, whew, whew, whew. Urnnnnnnt.

Someone was ringing the doorbell. How long had she been sleeping? The light coming in the windows was diffuse and gray. It was either raining or late afternoon, she couldn’t tell. She sat upright and for a moment thought she had dreamt it, until it rang again, and she saw the shadow through the frosted sidelights on either side of the front door. “Okay. Just a second,” she shouted, standing up, pushing her hair behind her ears and closing the front of Sam’s robe with a quick-tie of the terrycloth sash. For a second, she felt a wave of annoyance wash over her. I just want to be alone.

She opened the door and a 50-something woman and a 60-something man stood on her porch. She was holding an elaborate, brimming gift basket. Their faces were already seeking forgiveness for the midday intrusion. They were dressed well, but with a hippie aesthetic that made Claire guess they were probably professors at the nearby community college or county workers too close to retirement to bother with business attire.

The woman was slightly shorter than the man, and her hair, a butterscotch blond that looked dry and had begun to pepper at the temples, was banana-clipped back tightly, leaving only her bangs to blow in the early afternoon breeze. She spoke first, “Oh, gee, hi, I’m Marie Hershel and this is my husband, Keith.”

“Hiya,” said Keith, who wore wrinkled khaki pants, a worn, frayed braided belt and a faded corduroy jacket the color of cinnamon. His white goatee matched what was

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left of his wispy hair. “Don’t worry, we’re not selling anything.”

Claire stared at the gift basket with such intense inquisitiveness, Marie, who was wearing a jean jacket over a printed sundress, peeked around the shrink-wrapped fruit and laughed. “Not even gift baskets. We found this on your porch,” she said, handing it to Claire, who received the mass of cellophane and ribbons as if she’d just been handed a live monkey. She placed it behind her, just inside the foyer.

“Thanks, um, I’m Claire Sturgis. My husband and I moved in a couple of days ago,” said Claire.

“Three,” said Keith, before meeting his wife’s disapproving sideways glance.

“I’m sorry?” asked Claire.

“Three days ago, you moved in three days ago,” he offered, his voice sheepishly trailing off to almost a whisper.

“Oh wow, you know, you’re right. It has already been three days. Well, it’s so nice to meet you. Are we neighbors?” Claire asked, bringing the lapels of the robe together with her clutched right hand.

“We are indeed!” said Marie, as if she just realized she had bingo. “We are two houses up from the Halls. A pleasure to finally meet you. And I am sorry it isn’t under better circumstances, but we came by looking for our dog.”

“Oh, yes, yes, small, black –”

The Hershels were nodding their heads in agreement emphatically. “Yes!” said Marie. He jumps our fence all the time and just decides to run around the neighborhood. I hate the idea of putting him on a chain.”

“Oh, jeez, I tried to call him closer to the house, but by the time I got to the backdoor, he…I’m sorry, what’s his name?”

The couple looked stupefied, like she had just demanded they tell her the circumference of Antarctica.

“His name?” asked Marie. “Oh, yes, of course, his name! “Boy,” actually. I know, I know, it’s a silly name. But we thought simple was best. He’s a male, so, voila, his name is Boy.”

“Yes,” concurred Keith. “Our sweet Boy.”

“Boy is such a cute name,” said Claire. “Well, shoot, I will keep my eyes peeled.”

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“Thank you, Claire,” the Hershels said in unison, making her laugh.

She caught herself and grasped her mouth, her eyes widening in apology.

“Claire, thank you. If you see him, we are that house right there, the one with the fountain in the center of the driveway,” Marie added.

“I love that fountain!” said Claire, despite thinking it was a bit ostentatious. “I will come knocking if I see him again. But I’d bet he is already waiting for you at home.”

“We appreciate it, Claire,” said Marie. “We need to have you and Sam for dinner. How about tomorrow? No time like the present, if you ask me.”

“That would be, um, great,” replied Claire, trying to remember if she had mentioned Sam. “Oh shoot, Sam is coming home tomorrow and I expect him to be pretty wiped out.”

“Then the next day,” Marie said. It wasn’t a question.

“That sounds perfect,” Claire said. “Well, I guess we will see you then.”

“I honestly can’t wait,” Marie said, turning to go and then turning back toward Claire, as if seized by an afterthought. “We need to know everything about you.”

***

The next three days were a series of naps and trips to the wine cellar and the coriander jar. Unpacking was an ancillary priority. How in the hell were they going to live here? She already felt like a complete weirdo after her mini panic attack at the Halls’ pool. Not to mention she was drinking like a fish behind Sam’s back. This after he had lovingly checked her in to a high-end rehab – Sunset at Timber Pines! – six months after he was diagnosed. She owed her next door neighbors a better explanation than she couldn’t handle her weed, which, by the way, she shouldn’t have done in front of Sam. Of course, the truth was she had also taken Xanax that night – two! – a fact that only compounded her shame at not having her shit together. It was only a matter of time until Sam figured out, if he hadn’t already, that her recovery had long since been abandoned. The card from the gift basket read:

You’re complicated. I like that. Looking forward to getting to know you better. -- Stephanie

Before Claire could read it again, a fallen tear smudged the calligraphy. Her face grew hot with frustration. Her anxiety, which could be debilitating at times, was indeed complicated. She was relieved to think Stephanie may not be like the catty city women she knew, demanding to know the gory details. Why are you anxious? Do you self-medicate? Who is your psychiatrist? Are you taking anything for it? Do you still attend meetings? Sam has no idea you’ve fallen off the wagon? He let you smoke weed, so he must know what’s up,

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no? None of that from Stephanie. This was a classy gesture. The sentiment was simple: you’ve got issues, and I’m here when you need me, on your terms. Your secrets are yours for the telling. And only when you’re ready. Still, the familiar shadow of shame darkened her spirits.

Sam finally called later that night. Deliberately enunciating her words so as not to sound tipsy, she told him about the dog and about the Hershels and about the gift basket sent from the Halls. He was quiet on his end of the phone, letting her fill the void with her newfound suburban insecurities. “I just hope they don’t think I’m a complete weirdo,” Claire said to Sam. “Anyway, they seemed nice enough and – don’t be mad – but they invited us to dinner the day after tomorrow and I didn’t have the heart to decline.”

Her story was met with silence.

“Sam, are you listening to me?”

“Claire,” Sam said, with the seriousness of a hostage negotiator. “I’m forgetting important things.”

CHAPTER 4

Claire felt like a zoo animal pacing around her backyard and patio. There was an inexplicable yet palpable sense she was being watched. The house and the semi-detached brick garage cast long, boxy shadows in the backyard, fractured by the beamed roof of the pergola. Through a cottony haze of Xanax, as if fever-dreaming, her mind lumbered from one haunting conversation to the next: Sam’s doctor first saying the word “neurodegenerative”; Stephanie Hall, poolside: “Claire, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Sam confessing his memory lapses were now affecting his work. Her husband was two hours late returning from the city. She had returned the empty bottles of wine to her trunk and brewed herself a pot of dark coffee. Maybe if I eat something, I’ll stop this infernal pacing! She walked down the hallway leading into their kitchen, which was arguably one of her favorite rooms in their house. The realtor had droned on and on about its “entertaining flow” and a design that guaranteed “an efficiency of movement.” She just liked the view of the backyard, and the way the sunlight made its way lazily across the countertops and

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gleaming stainless steel appliances, absorbed by the warm, chocolate brown cabinetry. It offered an aesthetic that was a thoughtful blend of practical and pleasurable. She filled a copper saucepan with water and fired up the stove. Grabbing a poaching cup, she hung it on the pan’s rim and submerged it. A poached egg is exactly what the doctor ordered. She grabbed the carton from the refrigerator and cracked one into a ramekin. Just as she was about to transfer the egg from the ramekin into the poacher, the doorbell gave her such a start, she yelped. Jesus! She looked at the small television on the kitchen’s countertop, which displayed the front door camera. Despite the designer sunglasses and a white Panama-style straw fedora wrapped in a grosgrain band, or maybe because of it, she knew it was Stephanie and her pity could be avoided no longer. Her neighbor looked up, staring directly into the camera, and gave Claire a fluttering finger wave, like a breeze rustling tall grass. Claire shut the burner off and instinctively reached for the coriander jar.

They were seated on the patio, under the shadows cast by the branches of a Norway maple. When they toured the house in late July, the tree’s dry shade yielded an explosion of wild bleeding hearts, their pink bulbs had pointed downward, as if stricken by shyness. Now there were no traces of the flowers, just dead, browning grass. Stephanie pulled a bottle of chardonnay out of her tote bag. “I assume you have glasses?” she asked. Claire blushed. “How did you know?” “Please. I could tell by the way you were staring at the guys’ beers the other night. I was surprised he gave you a pass on the weed, to be honest. So, he doesn’t know, huh?” “If he does, we’re avoiding the subject. We have enough to worry about right now without confronting an old problem we thought we’d solved. Anyway, I shouldn’t. He’ll be home soon.” “No worries,” said Stephanie. “The coffee is delicious.” “A lousy substitute if you ask me.” “Look, we all have some form of trauma in our past. Maybe the weed just brought out some shit for you, you know? An anxiety attack of sorts. Paranoia, self-destroyer, that kind of

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thing.” She tilted her head forward and, peering over her sunglasses, looked directly into Claire’s eyes. “I have been through my share of bad times, sweetie. There aren’t enough bottles in my wine cellar, believe you me.” “It’s not that, I just –,” “Look, whatever it is, you don’t have to tell me. Not if you don’t want to. I just sense that you aren’t happy about something. I’m guessing it’s why you’re drinking again. You radiate tension. Whether it’s the move here or…something else…” The sentence hung in the air like an invitation. “The move has been stressful, yes. But we are dealing with…something else, too.” Stephanie abruptly sat back in her chair, as if struck in the head with a rock, sighing before breaking into a lifeless slouch. “Oh, God. Is it cancer? Everyone has goddamn cancer these days.” “Cancer? Oh, no, we’re both physically fine,” said Claire, instantly regretting the emphasis she had placed on the word. Stephanie didn’t miss a beat. “Physically. So, how about men-tal-ly…?” she said in three careful syllables, then winced at the possibility she’d overstepped. “Are we having a coffee klatch out here or what?” Sam’s voice boomed from the open glass doors leading from the kitchen to the deck, startling both women, each of them placing a flattened hand between their breasts. “Jesus, Claire, you didn’t tell me you’re married to a creature from the feline family. My God, if computers don’t pan out for you, Sam, you have a bright future as a cat burglar. You scared us half to death!” Sam walked out onto the patio, beer in hand, his blue Oxford shirt untucked in the back, his hair tousled, his stubble showing more silver than the last time he let it grow in. “I know I must look like shit from my four-hour drive, but is it really that frightening, ladies?” He pulled up a chair and sat between them, resting his burgundy leather slip-ons on the unlit stone fire pit, into which he threw the cap from his just-opened Pellegrino. “Sorry if I interrupted some good girl talk. Stephanie, where is Marc today? Still at work?” “Yes, he doesn’t get back to the Village until 7 usually.” “I met some more neighbors today,” Claire offered.

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“So, you met the Hershels?” Stephanie said matter-of-factly, but with just a hint of annoyance. “I kind of hate that bitch. She’s chair of…our…the neighborhood association, and she’s let it go to her head.” Sam looked somewhat bemused as he took a sip of his water. “There’s a neighborhood association? And who are the Hershels again? Do they live on the other side of you and Marc? The house with that horrendous fountain?” “That very one, yes,” said Stephanie. “Some people around here take the association a bit too seriously. There’s a lot of bylaws and rules. Marie and her followers-” “She has followers?” Claire asked. Sam laughed at this. “Is she running a cult?” “More like a clique. Anyway, yes, the Hershels live next door. Marie, the wife, obviously, is very much opposing some of our ideas,” said Stephanie, suddenly seeming to choose her words carefully. “What kind of efforts?” asked Sam. “It’s complicated,” replied Stephanie dismissively, an expression on her face that Claire interpreted as regret for mentioning it. “Stephanie, you obviously don’t like this woman. No offense, but how important could the issues the neighborhood association are wrestling with be? I mean, it’s obviously something contentious. You called her a bitch.” Stephanie thought for a moment, a regretful frown on her face. “Umm, well, for example, if me and a few others had our way, the wall around the Village would be torn down. We’d integrate ourselves into the community. Get to know the locals, not wall ourselves away from them. Marie and her people believe in separation, between us and them.” “Them?” asked Claire. “Yes, them. The locals,” she said, suddenly on her feet and throwing her purse over her shoulders. “Anyway, I don’t mean to bore you with stories of neighborhood politics.” “When are these meetings? I’d love to attend,” Claire offered. Stephanie’s face went white and she let out a nervous laugh. “Oh, they’re dreadfully boring, Claire. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

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“Claire,” Sam offered. “Neighborhood politics was never your thing, babe. Remember when you were on the condo board, for like a week?” “Sam, they argued for three meetings about whether to replace the broken garage door. It was insane.” “Oh, God, well, you definitely don’t want to even consider this neighborhood association. It’s currently very divisive and, at times, if you can believe it, openly hostile.” “Don’t worry,” Sam said to Stephanie while looking at Claire. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t.” While she didn’t like him speaking for her, he was probably right. They had agreed to talk about his memory problems in greater detail when he got home. Not knowing how bad things may be getting with Sam’s mental health, it probably wasn’t a good time to immerse herself in the Village’s assuredly quirky system of neighborly governance. “Trust me, Claire, he’s doing you a favor. Anyway, I should be going,” Stephanie said, putting her coffee mug down on a glass café table and standing to leave. Claire sprung up and slipped her arm through Stephanie’s, interlocking the crooks of their elbows and pulling her toward the doors leading to the kitchen. “Let me walk you out.” At an arm’s length, Claire could appreciate more fully the architectural perfection in Stephanie Hall’s face. The bridge of her nose was long and sturdy, yet creamy white, and it exuded an almost earthy femininity. Her eyebrows were wispy, curving playfully upward, creating a permanent expression of intrigue on her impossibly symmetrical face. Her top lip was two glossy peaks, rising over the bottom like tiny mountains over a cinnamon red sea. Captivating was the only word Claire could find to describe this woman. How was she so perfect? Her clothes, her husband, her house…it all felt like a movie set, and the star of the show, Stephanie, a sleek and scripted leading lady. “Claire, back to what we were talking about. No judgement on the drinking. Your secret is safe with me. And whatever is bothering you, I am here for you. You know that, right?” This was hard for Claire to hear. She had always prided herself on how strong Sam was, how capable he was in any situation. Together, they were an unstoppable team. Her weaknesses had always been complimented by his strengths, and vice versa. If he sensed she had forgotten someone’s name at a party, Sam would say, “Can we do names again?” When he started to get cranky, she would make him a snack. When she had a cold, he would go out in the snow and

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clear off her car. There were a million examples of how they cared for and loved each other. But she didn’t know the Sam who freaked out at the waiter and she didn’t know the Sam who had dragged her all the way out to West Virginia to live in a gated community full of McMansions. She wondered what opposing strength of hers would stand up to Sam’s ultimate weakness. And, for whatever reason, she didn’t entirely trust this beguilingly beautiful woman. It’s none of her business, Claire. Tell her to go fuck herself. “Stephanie, you are so sweet. We’re fine. But I appreciate your willingness to listen.” “Totally understand,” Stephanie said, slipping back on her sunglasses. “Here if you need me.” As she walked out onto the front porch, Stephanie turned abruptly and put her hand out, preventing Claire from shutting the door. “Oh, and Claire, stay away from Marie Hershel and that committee. She’s a complete bitch who really doesn’t like living here.” “In West Virginia?” asked Claire. Stephanie Hall smiled and ignored the question, walking down the front stairs and crossing the street, never once looking back at Claire.

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*** She found him in their master bedroom, naked, lying in their bed, staring at the ceiling. The shades were drawn and it took her eyes several minutes to adjust. When they did, she saw he was crying. She sat at the end of the bed and caressed his bare foot with her hands. His skin was cold and the sense of defenselessness she felt in the foyer returned, filling her with dread. “I’m so sorry, Claire,” he sobbed. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” “Babe, we do know what’s happening to you. There’s just a real difference from knowing it theoretically, intellectually, and then actually experiencing it. The forgetfulness is the disease. There is no need to apologize.” “Did you tell Stephanie?” “Tell her what?” Claire asked, although she knew what he was asking. “Did you tell her that I am slowly losing my marbles?” “Slowly?” she said with a smile that made him laugh despite his tears. “No, Sam, it’s none of her business. Get some rest, okay, and we can talk some more after you’ve had a chance to sleep off that drive. The details can wait until tomorrow.” “I love you,” he said. “I love you, too,” she said, before covering him with the comforter and walking out of their bedroom, shutting the door gently behind her.

Claire went downstairs and poured herself a glass of wine from a bottle she had stashed in her gym bag, which hung in the laundry room. Her head was spinning. She was convinced Stephanie thought she was a mental charity case and a total drunk. Smart lady. She didn’t know what to make of the animosity Stephanie had for Marie. Bitch. It wasn’t the word, but how she said it. She had practically sneered. Something was off, like a chord played out of tune, or a tire going slowly but surely flat, a slight wiggle in the wheel. Thump, thump, thump, thump. She sat on a barstool and poured a generous second glass of wine. Otherwise known as half a bottle, Claire. You essentially poured yourself a carafe. Danger! Curves ahead! She went to hop off the stool, but her ankle caught in the foot rest and she fell forward, dragging the barstool with her, before catching herself with her free hand. Drunk, Bored Housewife Dead in Kitchen-Barstool Accident. Honestly, Claire, that cannot be the way you go out.

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She needed to sober up. She returned the half-full wine bottle to the duffel bag in the laundry room, rinsed out her wine glass, dried it, returned it to the cupboard, and headed to the basement to retrieve a bottle of Pellegrino from the case Sam kept in the wine cellar. A bit wobbly on her feet, Claire made her way down the narrow staircase. The wine cellar was on the right, and a door to the left led to Sam’s locked office. There were times she hated the secrecy surrounding his work. It created a sense of unwelcomed detachment. He had said it was locked in case someone ever broke in, but she knew it was locked from her as well. With no effort or malice at all, his work introduced innumerable secrets into their marriage, some of them undoubtedly behind that damn door. That’s when she noticed it. It hadn’t shut all the way. The always-locked door was slightly ajar. What could it hurt? Just a peek. If your husband is losing his mind, Claire, you should know what he is working on to help him judge whether he is capable. If his judgement is slipping, maybe you need to convince him to give up his clearance and fully retire from NASA. This was for Sam’s benefit. This will lend clarity to an otherwise unclear time. Claire pulled on the door and entered the darkened room, which was cold and smelled like copy toner and new carpet. Motion detectors activated the fluorescent overhead lights. The room had several large screen televisions and six computers – all with the same hand scanners Sam had to use with his laptop — lined up side by side on several plastic folding tables. The NASA logo bounced across the monitors. This is it? This is the top-secret computer lab? She turned to leave, feeling stupid for violating Sam’s trust in such a way. That’s when she saw the other door. Padlocked.

“Claire? Where are you?” She left the office on tip toes, shutting the door silently behind her and crossing the hallway to the wine cellar before shouting back her reply, “Down here, getting some Pellegrino, babe.” “Let’s go out for dinner tonight,” he said, still yelling as she entered the kitchen without him seeing her. “Sam, I’m right here.”

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He got up and took the bottle of sparkling water from her hand and placed it on the counter, before cupping his hands just above her hips. “We could head into Grover. I was looking on Yelp and there is this little Italian restaurant, Mama Mia’s or something like that. It got decent reviews.” “You don’t think we’re going to be killed by the hordes of Appalachian opium addicts beyond the great wall?” she asked. “Ok, I think they call them opioid addicts these days. ‘Opium addicts’ sounds very 1920s. And, no, I think we’re pretty safe. Something tells me the crime wave in Grover is a Tuesday afternoon in our old neighborhood in DC.”

They drove along the winding mountain roads without speaking. Sam listened to classical music on the satellite radio. Claire tuned in to her thoughts. Before, Sam’s disease was a concept, a theory some pill-pushing M.D. had floated to explain the inexplicable. But the recent real-life manifestations of the dementia would not be easy to dismiss, or minimize. She was struggling mightily to be positive, especially around Sam. But the condition’s unpredictable progression was maybe its most cruel characteristic. Since his return from DC, she had pressed him for specifics on what he had been forgetting. He seemed less willing to talk about it than he had before, as if he had thought better of it. “Passwords,” he mumbled, while getting ready for their night out. “I’ve sorted it out. Not to worry.” But she was worried. He could live for 15 years, merely troubled by forgetfulness and emotional outbursts, or, five years from now, he could be unable to feed himself. The disease didn’t come with a GPS. Nothing could tell them when Sam would descend into total dementia, when his body would be completely abandoned by his mind. There was a tiny part of her, a place inside her she would let no one see, especially him, that emphatically urged her to leave him, to leave the coliseum before the lions tore the once-glorious gladiator from limb to limb. She couldn’t bear to see that. And this cowardice filled her with self-hatred and shame. God, I want a drink. One, two, three. Glasses. Bottles! Barrels! The town of Grover consisted of a main street and five or six marginally significant cross streets, each with one or two viable storefronts, alongside just as many shuttered businesses.

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Fannie of Fannie’s Fashions was no longer helping the women of Grover pick out the perfect dress for a daughter’s wedding, or the most appropriate hat for a great aunt’s funeral. Whoever owned Grover Trading Cards and Collectables had probably taken to the Internet long ago, if they knew better, selling their most cherished players to the highest bidding screenname on eBay, rather than to the wide-eyed boys who, for generations, had pressed their noses against a display case, hoping to one day own a Babe Ruth or a Ty Cobbs. Grover felt achingly familiar to Claire, a place that, at one time, had undoubtedly felt safe and impervious to the horrors of the outside world. Until it simply wasn’t. Given the silly debate her neighbors were having over the community’s wall, Claire half- expected a zombie apocalypse to be unfolding on the dimly lit downtown streets. But aside from a few scraggly looking teenagers and a stumbling man who she guessed was either homeless or drunk or both, Grover was hardly the kind of place that justified the fact they lived behind a giant, video-surveilled gate. Mama Mia’s was actually called Mama Mama’s. The interior walls of the small shotgun- style building were covered in knotty pine, and the room was brightened considerably by the classic red-and-white checkered Italian-restaurant tablecloths, which Claire was disappointed to realize were plastic. Still, the place was packed with people and that lifted her spirits slightly, as the waiter gave them two menus and “a couple of minutes to look things over.” “What are you getting?” Sam asked. “I know this sounds like I’m a six-year-old, but I think I want spaghetti and meatballs. It’ll be a good test to see if this place is legit Italian or not.” “Good plan. I know what you mean, you don’t want to start with linguine and clam sauce in a place like this.” “Exactly,” she whispered, giving him a playful wink. “You feeling better? I hate to see you sad like that. And you don’t have to talk about it, but you can if you want.” “Sorry, yes, I’m all right. It’s just frustrating and scary to actually experience symptoms. The forgetfulness is particularly unnerving, you know? I got up at work to go to the bathroom and I wandered our floor for 20 minutes looking for it. I was too freaked out to ask someone where it was. I almost pissed myself.”

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“Oh, Sam, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was already that…bad,” she said, suddenly feeling like she wasn’t getting enough air. She started ripping the edges off her napkin and wishing desperately she had taken a Xanax. He slid his hands over hers. “Stop. I need you to not let my condition be a trigger for your condition.” “Sam, it freaks me out. I don’t know what to do, so I do nothing,” she said, looking directly into his eyes. “Did you go see Dr. Carlson again while you were in DC? Is it progressing faster than he originally predicted?” “Maybe it’s time you stopped doing ‘nothing,’ your word. Maybe you could focus on getting your consultancy off the ground.” “You didn’t see him,” she said, unable to hide her disappointment and frustration. “No, I didn’t see him, Claire. But we must start accepting he doesn’t have a clue how slow or fast this thing is moving. For what it’s worth, it’s my body and I do think it’s moving faster than either of us hoped and….” He traced his index finger in figure eights on the table, something he did when he was stressed. “Say it. And…” she prompted. “There is a code I am going to give you, Claire. Something for my work. It’s a password and when the time comes, you may need to use it. A man named Ethan Fromholzer-” “Ethan, yes, I met him once at Sarah’s dinner party. Right?” “Yes, I forgot about that. That’s good. You’ll recognize him then. He may come looking for it. It’s okay to give it to Ethan. He will know what to do with it. This may never happen, but if it does, do what he says.” Claire’s head was spinning as the waiter returned and she numbly told him what she wanted, desperately wishing she could quit the ruse of sobriety and just order a bottle of chianti. “Sam, this is starting to sound insane.” “The code is the word ‘Jeopardy,’” he whispered, leaning in to her, their noses practically touching. “Don’t repeat it to anyone, and don’t write it down anywhere. Just commit it to memory.” The waiter appeared from the kitchen with their entrees, and they both waited in awkward silence as he ceremoniously poured sparking water into their tumblers. Smelling the

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steaming plate of pasta in front of her only confirmed for her she had completely lost her appetite. Xanax, Xanax, Xanax, Xanax. “I’m going to run to the ladies’ room. Be right back,” she said, abruptly heading for the rear of the restaurant. Once in the bathroom, she took one of the tiny pills from an Altoids tin in her purse and filled her shaking, cupped hands with tap water and swallowed it. She stared at herself in the mirror. She looked older. The crow’s feet near her eyes were more pronounced. Her hair, flatter and less silken. Being Sam Sturgis’ wife was taking its toll. Early on in their relationship, Claire didn’t mind the skullduggery associated with the secret projects Sam worked on. It was mysterious and sexy. Her girlfriends would joke he was in the CIA, calling him James Bond. She played along but, in truth, there was nothing glamorous or exciting about Sam’s work life, mostly because he could provide so few details. One night, six months after they met, on a date night much like this evening, Sam drank too much wine. They had parked three or four blocks away from the restaurant and the moon was full, and suspended low in the sky. They walked quickly down leaf-strewn city sidewalks, turning their collars up against a cold November wind. As she waited by the passenger door for him to unlock the car, he instead came around to her side and pulled her tightly to him and kissed her. “Look at the moon,” he whispered, gently pointing her face skyward. “Look up.” She did and then he said, “Art thou pale for weariness; Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth; Wandering companionless; Among the stars that have a different birth; And ever-changing like a joyless eye; That finds no object worth its constancy.” “Sam, that’s beautiful, and a little bleak, if I am being honest. Did you write that?” He laughed. “No, it’s Shelley. I had to memorize it my freshman year of college and I have never forgotten it. The ‘wandering companionless’ part has always bothered me. And now it sort of inspires my work, I guess.” “How?” she asked. “What?” “How does it inspire you?” “It’s complicated. Let’s just say it provides interesting perspective on a side project I’ve taken on, okay? Maybe we can leave it at that? I’m sorry, Claire. Someday maybe I’ll be able to tell you all about it.”

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As she walked back to the table, an angry resentment washed over her. “Sam, I can’t do this spy shit. You should be winding things down at work, isn’t that what Gunderson told you…not getting involved in —” “Claire, I am already way involved. And lately I have been forgetting all kinds of passwords. None of them are as critical as this one, okay? Please, you just have to trust me. When I called you the other day, I had completely forgotten this word and it really freaked me out. My mind was utterly blank, like a chalkboard wiped clean. You will probably never meet Ethan again, okay? But if you do, you must tell him this word if he asks. Promise me.” She took a long swig of her sparkling water, wishing so desperately it was a lush pinot noir or a moody merlot. “Fine, fine. But can we take this food back to the Village? I’ve lost my appetite.” “Excuse me,” a rotund woman in her early 40s seated at the table immediately adjacent to theirs interrupted. “I hate to be an eavesdropper, but I couldn’t help but overhear you mention that you live at the Village. My husband and I – this is my husband, Carl – we live in the Village, too! We are always interested in meeting our neighbors! I’m Beth. Beth Plaskett.” Claire immediately wondered what else she heard. Oh, Hi, I’m Claire, and this is my completely crazy husband, Sam, who works at NASA but now believes he is a secret agent. “Oh, well, hi,” said Sam, clearly rattled by the intrusion. “We’re the Sturgises. I’m Sam and this is my wife Claire. Yes, we do live there. We more or less just moved in. Very nice to meet you both.” Beth Plaskett immediately struck Claire as a busybody. Maybe it was the half-hearted apology for the interruption. Or for the fact that, now that she was conversing with them, she seemed somehow oddly needy for information: her eyes were too wide, her expression too hungry and expectant. She wore a lime green pantsuit, with a brownish stain on the jacket’s worn lapel, which Claire took as a sign that Beth Plaskett had long ago stopped paying attention to herself. But she apparently took an overly active interest in the lives of others. Her husband reminded Claire of a basset hound, his droopy cheeks and sad eyes conveying the neutered domesticity of which he was undoubtedly a prisoner.

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“What street are you folks on?” Beth asked. “Settlement,” replied Sam. “Oh, well, then, you must know the Hershels? Or the Halls? I think they’re on that street,” Beth ventured. “Marie and Keith? Stephanie and Marc?” “Yes,” said Claire. “It seems we have great neighbors.” “I’m on the neighborhood committee with Marie and Stephanie,” Beth offered, ignoring a look of displeasure from her husband as she said it. “The committee opposing the wall’s removal?” Claire said, her Xanax buzz goading her to test the waters. She struggled to hide the slight slur of her words. “Claire, no neighborhood politics tonight, please,” Sam said, before turning to the Plasketts. “She isn’t feeling well. We were just about to head out for the night.” “Not aware of the wall being an issue,” Beth said, sucking up the last of her cola through her straw. “We are a gated community after all. But there has been some spirited debate about other related issues lately. Sometimes tempers get the best of people when they hold passionate views.” “Maybe I could join,” Claire said, sounding a bit standoffish, finding more conversational courage from the Xanax, which was just starting to dull the outer edges of her vision. “I think Stephanie Hall is a member, also. She’s become a good friend of mine.” Beth didn’t try to hide the displeasure in her plump face. “Oh, I know her, too, Claire. Quite well, in fact. She is very fond of…the local flavor of this place. Very, um, liberal gal.” “Well,” Sam said, now standing up and pushing in his chair. “It was lovely meeting you both. I am sure we will see you around, back at the Village.” “Yes,” Carl said, flatly. “Back at the Village.”

*** With the interior of their car smelling like garlic and the windows fogging up from the warm doggie bags in the back seat, the first 10 minutes of the drive back to the Village was marked by silence. Claire’s mind was as cluttered as a landfill. “Fond of the local flavor?” What was wrong with the people in the Village? Something was off, but what? And was Sam really

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going crazy? Why would Ethan ever come looking for her? For what contingency was he planning? Was she losing her mind right along with him? “Sam,” she said, looking out her window at the darkened valley below. “I need to know. Do you think your symptoms are getting worse?” Instead of answering her, he began driving faster, taking the winding corners of the mountain road with such speed, Claire reflexively reached for the handle above her window. The tires screeched and she heard the crunch of gravel as the car straddled the road’s shoulder. “Sam, what the hell are you doing? Slow down, for God sakes!” Rather than slow down, Sam sped up. The take-out in the backseat slammed from one side of the car to the other. Through her peripheral vision she saw her spaghetti fall out of its open carton onto the floor. “Sam, please, babe, you are scaring me. Slow down. You’re acting—” “Crazy, Claire? I am not crazy!” he yelled. “Yes, yes, you are acting batshit crazy right now Sam, and I want you to stop the goddamn car!” Sam suddenly drove off the road and onto an unpaved service lane that led into the state forest. Rocks and dust kicked up in a cloud behind them. When the Audi was completely encircled by woods, he shut the lights off and turned to face her. “I’m not crazy, Claire. I will tell you when I think I am, but I’m not yet. You have to trust me on this.” Get out of the car, Claire, and just run! This disease is stronger than Sam, and stronger than your love for him. You don’t have what it takes to see something as gruesome as this through to the bitter end. It will be too messy. “It’s complicated,” he had said long ago on that moonlit night. But she never imagined this. “If you’re not crazy, Sam, then why in God’s name are you driving like a total asshole?” “Because we’re being followed, Claire. Someone was following us.”

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CHAPTER 5

Surrounded by darkness, in the woods, Sam, her husband, the man she felt she knew better than anyone on Earth, for a moment was someone she only barely recognized: the face of a passing stranger, the tiniest glimmer of recognition in the eyes and then, disconnection. He shut the car off and the chirping of crickets enveloped them. She studied his face in the dashboard’s glow. His handsome countenance had new lines, fresh wrinkles, more gray, a familiar landscape upturned and foreign.

Dealing with Sam’s disease theoretically was difficult enough. When he was diagnosed, they spent hours, both alone and together, Googling everything they could about it. Often he would go to bed before her, and she would stay up in the darkened kitchen, her troubled face illuminated by the laptop screen. She was particularly drawn to the first-person accounts on the various disease support websites. A woman, who went by the screenname of MarciaV, would write: “Hey guys, I need help. I don’t know my husband anymore.” A man going by BertBud3 would lament: “My wife forgot our daughter’s name today.” As powerful and heartfelt as these stories always were, they read like fiction. Maybe it was the mind’s way of defending itself from such horrors. Surely, that won’t happen to us.

Even though Claire intellectually knew she would one day have her own tragic narrative to contribute, she hadn’t imagined it would arrive so soon, here on a dirt road, in the grasp of both darkness and lunacy.

She grabbed the rearview mirror and repositioned it so she could see the road behind them. There was nothing but blackness beyond the steamed-up back window. She felt like screaming as a jolt of anxiety traveled up and down her arms and legs, forcing her to shake her hands as if she were drying just-polished nails.

“Sam, what the hell are you talking about? There is nothing out there! You cannot be this bad this soon Sam. It’s too soon. You said we had more time, Sam. Years! And now you think we’re being followed? I need some air.” Claire got out of the car and leaned against the hood, deeply inhaling the cold mountain night. Somewhere off in the distance an owl let out a deep, questioning hoot. Her breath hitched and she started to cry. He was out of the car now, standing

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behind her. Gently placing his hand on her shoulder, he spun her around to face him. His face was caring but serious.

“Baby, listen to me—,”

“This is just bullshit, Sam. I don’t know what’s happening and —,”

“I know, I know. Just listen to me, please. Can you just do that?”

She nodded, looking downward, as a tear slid off her nose and fell onto the toes of his wingtips.

“The hard part of this is going to be me not knowing what is real and what is not. I am already getting confused by a lot of things. I am going to need your help in discerning what is real and what isn’t. I am wrapping up my work. I’m almost done with the project. But I have to sort out my results and I have to be careful about who I share them with. That’s all I can tell you. But, the dementia doesn’t have me yet. Okay? I am eyes-wide-open right now and dealing with some important information. And I know, without any doubt whatsoever, we were being followed.”

“Sam, why would anyone want to follow us? Does it have to do with this Jeopardy shit and Ethan? Is Ethan in trouble? You just dropped that on me at dinner, with no real explanation. You have to see this from my point of view, hon. It really is cuckoo-cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. One minute we’re on date night and the next we’re sitting in our car on an abandoned mountain road hiding from, from who? Who the hell is following us? What do they want?”

“I don’t really know,” Sam said, squinting into the darkness at the main road below. “But I have my suspicions.”

***

They drove back to the Village without speaking to one another. The guard at the front gate recognized them now and waved them through with a half nod and a wink. The neighborhood was as quiet as usual, with theirs being the only car on the road. The minute Sam put the car in park, Claire was walking up the stone walk to their front door, not waiting for him

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or looking back. Not wanting to let him see she was crying again. Tacked to the door was a large silver envelope. Now what? In the porchlight, she noticed it was addressed in cursive handwriting: “Sam and Claire, You’re Invited!”

“Invited to what?” Sam asked, reading over her shoulder, holding their reassembled doggie bags.

She snatched the envelope off the door. “It’s classified.”

“Claire, don’t mock me,” he said, smiling slightly, annoyed but appreciating her stamina for argument. He unlocked the door and they made their way down the hall and into the kitchen. She stood in front of the stove and, looking up to be sure she had his attention, began reading:

You are cordially invited to the Murray’s Farewell Masquerade Ball

Saturday, October 20

Join us for a night of anonymous, suburban debauchery

Formal attire and masks required

Make the last, lasting memories

Celebrate our departure

WHERE: The House on the Hill

Luanne and Marcus

Claire dismissively tossed the invitation onto the countertop. “I just can’t deal with this place getting any weirder. They’re moving. Lucky them.” I need a drink. Get a drink. I need a drink. Get a drink. I need a drink. Claire opened the fridge and begrudgingly retrieved a bottle of Perrier from the door. “I mean, that’s weird. A masquerade ball? What is this, like Kubrick kind of shit?”

Sam retrieved two glasses and placed them on the counter between them. “It does sound very Eyes Wide Shut, I have to admit.” Claire filled their glasses. “So are we going?”

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“We certainly don’t have to decide now, Sam. I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”

“Claire-”

“Sam, I’m sorry for the way I acted on the way home, okay? Let’s just talk in the morning. We’re okay. I just need time to process tonight.” She wasn’t sure, however, if she could justify his behavior. As much as she loved him, she was struggling to understand how much of what he was telling her was truth and how much delusion. Was there really someone following them? Was his work actually winding down? As confusing as it all was, Claire was sure about one thing: her husband was in trouble and she felt powerless to help him.

“Sure, babe. I love you. I’m going to watch TV. I’ll try not to wake you,” he said.

Claire walked down the hall and up the stairs, pausing on the landing to look at a picture of her sister. It was a school portrait. She was maybe 11 or 12 in the photo. A reflection of her in profile floated to the right of the centered image. Its intended effect was probably to add a layer of dimension to the subject. Claire looked at it now and saw only a ghost, transparent and doomed.

Their bedroom suddenly seemed cavernous and, not from a lack of trying on her part, continued to feel like a hotel room, a place that gave a good first impression, but never offered any authentic sense of home. The master suite was carpeted in tasteful, muted beige the realtor described as “buckwheat.” Her bare footfalls made no sound as she made her way to her nightstand. Her backup bottle of Xanax was nearly empty. Jesus, I need to call in a refill. You cannot run out of these, Claire. Not now. Especially now. She dry-swallowed two of the oval tablets and lay on the bed, fully clothed. The drug swept her quickly toward slumber…

She was standing in the middle of a flat muddy expanse, surrounded by high rock walls. Her heartbeat quickened as she realized it was the quarry from her childhood, only all the water had been drained. With its departure, a graveyard of detritus remained. Discarded things poked out of the mud at odd angles: old tires, a few cars, a suitcase, milk crates, a bicycle. The sky above was a deep smoky gray, and the air was thick with moisture, as if a storm was imminent. A paralyzing trepidation crawled up her spine, a snake wrapping around its prey, slowly

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squeezing. There was no air in her lungs to scream for help. This place was not what it seemed. Something was not right. She called out for her sister. She had to warn her. Jenny! Had to warn everyone. She looked up and saw silhouettes on the cliff’s edge. People, watching, judging. They had been watching her for a long time. They had been watching her forever…judging her. She looked up in terrified defiance. Their faces were dark and filled with stars. They held their fingers to their lips.

“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”

CHAPTER 6

She awoke before him, to a soft hum rustling from the window sill closest to her bed. She opened the one eye that wasn’t pressed into her pillow to find a large crow staring at her from behind the pane. It sat perfectly still, its wings motionless and so black they looked purple in the sunlight, almost an amethyst hue, shiny to the point of reflective. Was it sick? Was it injured? Something was off. Rather than the usual herky-jerky cocking and bobbing, the animal’s head moved smoothly from side to side, like an oscillating fan. Its eyes swept the entirety of the bedroom, and then back again. Claire sat quickly upright, her back tense and rigid against the cherrywood headboard. The animal’s eyes, two tiny onyx orbs ringed by yellow bands, focused on her intently, blinking slowly three times. And then, with a quick whir of blurry black motion, the bird was gone.

The animal’s departure let the morning sun break through the shuttered slats, casting a ladder of light over Sam’s body. After last night, the serenity of this moment was both welcomed and jarring. This man, her stalwart companion, her strength, looked childlike to her now – a child who must be shook for school, just a boy with an overactive imagination. If only it were that simple. She wondered if his dreams had changed, too. If somehow the chaos in his frontal lobe now commanded his slumber with brutish indifference. It was too painful to dwell upon.

Claire slipped quietly from the bed and headed for the kitchen, determined to exact a domestic routine – brew coffee, make breakfast, read the news together, shower, go for a run – because the familiar patterns of their life together, she was convinced, would quiet his paranoia. Surely, she figured, if he could see that nothing has changed, could wrap himself up in a

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comforting sense of home, they would vanquish the monster beneath the bed. There would be no more car chases. No crazy talk of passwords and unseen bad guys in hot pursuit. Just their ordinary lives back. She would make a stand against this insidious foe. Not yet, frontal temporal dementia. You can’t have him yet. He’s mine.

The smell of coffee woke him, as she expected it would. By the time he walked into the kitchen, still in his underwear, groggy and bed-headed, she was already flipping his southwestern omelet in the frying pan. He poured himself a cup of coffee as she sprinkled parsley over his eggs before sliding his plate across the kitchen island toward him.

“Smells incredible, thanks babe,” he said, shoving a large forkful of cheese-filled egg into his mouth. “Listen, about last night, I-“

“Sam,” she said, pouring her share of the eggs onto the griddle before dropping a handful of onions and green peppers on one half of the eggy circle. “Can I ask you for a big favor?”

He looked at her skeptically before he sighed and resigned himself to what she knew to be the loving patience he always reserved for her. “Yes, dearest,” he said, a playful half smile on his face. “Anything for you, my angel.”

She flipped her omelet over and then came around the island and took his hands into hers. “Can we have a normal day at home, today? And what I mean by that is: can we just forget about what happened last night and just be present, here, together? You know? Like we used to be, before the move and-”

“And before the diagnosis,” he offered.

She hesitated, not wanting to hurt him or make this about her, but it had to be said. It was what they both needed. “Yes, like before you got sick. Just a regular day. A fun day. Okay?”

He took a sip of coffee and looked at her for a few seconds, as if contemplating his answer. He pulled her into his arms and they hugged. His embrace was all the answer she needed.

“Your omelet’s burning,” he said matter-of-factly.

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“Shit!” she said, running back to the stove and sliding the pan quickly off the burner. “I’m still going to eat it. I like my eggs chewy.”

“Uh huh,” he said, giving her a wink. “So, how are we going to have fun today?”

“Well,” she said, hopping on the bar stool next to him and diving into her own omelet with gusto. “I thought we would go for a run, come home and have sex, have a nice long nap, then a couple of glasses of wine at sunset, and then go over to some new neighbors I met for dinner.”

“Yes to the first four,” he said, already knowing it wasn’t up for negotiation. “Especially the second one. So down for that particular offering.”

“I’m afraid they all come as a package deal, my angel,” Claire laughed, choking a little on her eggs.

“I’m afraid to ask, but who are these neighbors? If they are like Stephanie and Marc, I am not sure I can handle it.”

Claire got up, grabbed their coffee cups and walked over to the pot and refilled them. “They couldn’t be more different. In fact, Stephanie Hall told me to stay away from them.”

“Which of course has made you determined to find out why,” he said, sounding jaded at how well he knew his wife. She didn’t take offense. Her need to form her own opinions was something she knew he loved about her.

“Of course. The Hershels. They own the house across the street, with that tacky fountain in the driveway.”

Sam glanced out the kitchen window at the house. “Are they as tacky as the fountain?”

“They’re older than us. In their fifties, I would guess. They seemed sweet enough. Marie and, shit, I cannot remember her husband’s name. Stephanie not only told me to stay away from them, she called Marie a bitch.”

“Women are forever calling other women that,” Sam said.

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“It was the way she said it.”

“How so?”

“Like she feared her. Like she was threatened by her.”

“Creepy,” said Sam flatly, seemingly disinterested in the topic.

“She just seemed really angry. Like there is some big backstory between them.”

He got up from his bar stool and stood behind hers. His hands slid over her breasts and his index fingers slowly circled her hardening nipples. “What about our backstory?” he purred into her ear. “Let’s skip the run.”

Marie Hershel opened the door and before even saying hello to them, turned and yelled up the staircase directly behind her. “Keith, they’re here. Be a gentleman and get your old fanny down here.” She then turned back to Claire and Sam and held out her plump arms, grabbing them both for an awkward group hug. “I am so happy you both came. Come on in!”

“This is for you,” Claire said, handing her a bottle of wine and a bouquet of roses she had picked from the bushes in their backyard. “Marie, this is my husband, Sam.”

Marie took a few steps back and looked Sam up and down, as if he was something she was considering purchasing. She was dressed in a ‘60s-style house dress, lime green and covered with an orange and yellow floral print that made Claire dizzy. “So, you are the elusive Sam. Keith and I were beginning to wonder if you were real or a figment of your poor, lonely wife’s imagination. But here you are, a real live astronaut!”

Sam was laughing, but shot Claire a sideways glance that she took as a bookmark for a later discussion they would have about why she had told the Hershels he worked for NASA. Had she? As she tried to remember, Keith Hershel came down the staircase wearing an oversized gray suit with black elbow patches and a bright blue bowtie with a paisley print. His white hair, still wet from a shower, was combed back and he smelt of soap and spice.

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“I’m not an astronaut,” Keith was saying to Marie, who ignored him in her exuberance to introduce the couple to her husband.

“Keith, may I present our guests. You have met the lovely Claire, and this is her husband, Sam.”

Keith shook their hands vigorously. “I hope you don’t have any dietary restrictions. I am the chef of the house and I should have asked, but I rolled the culinary dice. Usually people from the big city have wide-ranging palettes.”

“Who? Us? No, you’re right, we’ll eat anything,” said Claire, following the couple into their living room, which smelled like vanilla candles, onions, thyme and lamb. Unlike their house, the large living room was open to the kitchen. The room was defined by two massive floor to ceiling bookcases, filled with what Claire quickly assessed had to be thousands of books.

“Sit, sit, sit,” said Marie, motioning them to sit on a lemon-colored overstuffed sofa facing two blue suede chairs. Four martini glasses, a pewter shaker, a bottle of gin, a plate of citrus rinds and a bucket of ice sat atop a silver serving tray on a glass coffee table between them.

“Don’t worry, it’s gin, not vodka,” said Keith.

“Keith, says vodka martinis are vulgar,” Marie said. “I have no opinion on the matter.”

“I’m so sorry, but we don’t drink,” Sam said, as Keith vigorously shook the shaker before abruptly stopping, as if he’d been slapped hard across the face.

“Oh, I see,” he said, with enough undertone to make Claire start to sweat. She imagined herself grabbing the perspiring shaker from Keith and downing the icy gin in a couple of clamoring, desperate gulps. I drink! You drink! We all drink, gin drinks! Yay!

In what seemed like a second, Marie had gone to the kitchen and returned with a terribly disappointing two-liter bottle of warm ginger ale.

When they all had beverages in hand, Marie lifted hers higher than the rest. “A toast,” she said. “To learning as much as we can about our assuredly interesting new neighbors.”

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“And friends,” Keith added before they all clinked glasses.

“Well,” said Claire, after sipping her soda, “you’ve set a high bar, Marie. Hopefully we are interesting enough.”

Sam smiled politely, as if lost for words.

“You’re too humble my dear,” said Marie. “The fact that you have become friends with Stephanie Hall already makes you interesting to me.”

“Oh, why’s that?” Claire said, smiling broadly to hide a sudden feeling of defensiveness.

“Marie, Claire isn’t here to engage in petty neighborhood gossip,” Keith said. “Claire, my wife can be a bit of a cad and you need to tell her to mind her business if she oversteps.”

“Do you know the Halls well?” Sam asked, trying to turn the conversation from inquisitive to informative.

“Stephanie Hall is a very, um, vocal member of our little community’s council. Our politics differ quite a bit. I don’t dislike her, if that’s what she told you-”

“She honestly didn’t mention you,” Claire lied. Marie’s expression couldn’t hide her disbelief.

“And what are your politics?” Sam asked.

The question sat with the four of them for a few seconds before Marie attempted to diffuse the gravitas of the question with levity. “Are we talking politics before dinner? That’s a sure way to ruin a party.”

They all laughed at this, everyone clearly relieved at the evaporation of an inexplicable, building tension. Claire, however, took the last sip of her flat ginger ale and decided to dive into the deep end of the pool.

“My politics is basically screw this administration and this imbecilic president’s ass- backward policies. There, I said it.”

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Sam poured himself a second ginger ale. “You certainly did.”

Marie looked pleased, like a fisherman with a tug on his line. “Now, see, I don’t think it’s so cut and dry. I agree with you that his ineptitude is frightening, but he has some admirable instincts.”

Keith was violently shaking the next round of their martinis and everyone sat in silence rather than talk over the sound of breaking ice. As he poured, he meekly offered, “Well, I thought I was in charge of breaking the ice, but I see now that was only in the literal sense.”

This time nobody laughed. The tennis match had commenced and all eyes were on Claire’s serve.

“Admirable instincts? What would those be, exactly?”

Marie held her replenished martini glass in front of her, looking through it as if looking for her response in the gin. “Well, take immigration,” she said. Sam put his hand on Claire’s knee. “And more generally his America-first policies. Here you have a once-great nation. A civilization so successful, a society so advanced, that it became a beacon of hope for other civilizations around the globe. A model that others tried and, time and time again, failed to emulate.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” asked Claire.

“Over time, yes.” Marie said, as if her point was obvious.

“How exactly, Marie?” Sam asked, installing the patience in his voice for which he knew his wife was incapable.

“I think what my wife is saying is that when a civilization attains its apex, outsiders want in. The American dream is not sustainable. Over time, immigration is invasion,” Keith offered.

“Exactly,” said Marie.

“So, what’s for dinner?” Sam said, seeing the blush of anger bloom like roses across his wife’s face. “Smells good.”

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Based on the throw-back hippie garb the Hershels seemed to enjoy wearing, it had never occurred to Claire they might be right-wingers. Well, Claire, this is West Virginia. This shouldn’t come as a surprise. Just roll with it and don’t bring up politics again. Or religion.

“So, Hershel, is that Jewish?” Claire asked, as Keith stood up but then paused, now unsure if this was, in fact, an ideal moment to invite them into the dining room.

“Yes, but we don’t practice. In fact, we’re polytheistic. It suits us. There are way more gods to blame when things go wrong.”

Sam managed a tepid, acknowledging giggle but Claire was just getting started. “So, wait, you worship multiple gods, like the Greeks?”

“Worship is a pretty strong word. It’s more custom than faith. For us, anyway,” Keith said, before placing his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Dear, would you help me with the lamb?”

“Of course,” Marie said cheerily. “It smells luscious, my darling.” She grabbed the shaker off the table and topped off her guests’ drinks. “Oh, dear, what am I doing? You don’t drink. Leave that right where it is and I’ll get you new glasses and more ginger ale. Don’t let it tempt you.”

Is she screwing with me? She knows. She knows how much I want it.

“Do you need help?” Sam offered obligatorily.

“Heavens no!” Marie laughed, as if he had asked if she were a duck. “It’ll just be two shakes of a stick.”

The Hershels shuffled off into the kitchen behind them. Claire glanced back to see Keith taking a large roasting pan from the oven and Marie busied herself with the table settings. When she had gauged the distance in relation to how quietly she needed to speak, she whispered to Sam, with a tinge of panic in her voice, “They’re Republicans. Shit!”

Sam brushed her hair back from her face and gently turned her head to face his. “Sweetheart, it’s fine. We live in West Virginia, after all. It’s kind of to be expected, right? I

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don’t mind it. It’s civil discourse. Face to face. Not that echo chamber of similar ideas online. Maybe we can open our minds and learn something tonight. What do you think?”

He was right, of course. And she was the one who had convinced him to do this in the first place. But if she was going to learn something from the Hershels, she was determined to teach them something, too. She didn’t have to say it. It was something Sam fully expected she’d do.

“Dinner is ready!” Marie yelled from the dining room area, on the far side of the open kitchen.

The Sturgises made their way to the table, where Marie had pulled chairs out for them and poured them new glasses of ginger ale. Although Claire already knew she didn’t agree with their politics, she had a hard time understanding why she didn’t like the Hershels. They were polite, welcoming and had undoubtedly gone out of their way to make a delicious meal Claire knew was not as simple as her hosts were making it look. In that moment, she decided to go easy on these seemingly kind people. They were, after all, neighbors they would see all the time. No sense making future run-ins awkward.

Keith walked out the rack of lamb on a bone white china serving platter. The meat was playfully surrounded by sprigs of thyme and rosemary, and coated in a sugary glaze of vinegar and mint.

“Just wow,” gushed Claire. “My compliments to the chef.”

“You haven’t even tried it yet, dear,” said Marie. “Maybe you’ll detest it.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” said Sam, as Keith returned to the table with a plate of asparagus and a bowl full of couscous and cranberries. “It all looks heavenly.”

Marie filled wine glasses with a burgundy for herself and Keith, more ginger ale for her guests and then tumblers with ice water for everyone, before taking her seat alongside her husband.

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“This time I would like to make a toast,” Sam said. Everyone raised their glasses expectantly. “To our new neighbors and friends. You can never have too many of them.”

Everyone clinked glasses, but Marie held back, a doubtful look spreading across her face. Claire studied her face closely. Is she actually pondering that sentiment?

She was.

“Well, now, I don’t know if that’s true,” she said, as Keith passed the bowls of food around the table and then stood and began carving the steaming meat. “I’m afraid that takes us back to our previous discussion. It is entirely possible to have too many friends. Take unchecked immigration for example…”

Claire reflexively reached for the wine glass she did not have and resisted shooting Sam, who was nervously moving food around his plate with his fork, a sideways glance.

“Porous borders invite many would-be friends into the country. This is where I don’t agree with our president. They’re certainly not all rapists and murderers. But they all want something.”

“Yes,” Claire said, who wanted a glass of wine so badly she was nauseous. “Freedom, Marie. They want freedom.”

Keith, finished with his carving duty, sat down and began spooning squash into his plate. “Well, that isn’t always the case. Take Mexico, for example. There is freedom in Mexico.”

“I think Claire means economic freedom,” Sam said, in reluctant defense of his wife.

“Sam, you don’t have to clarify what I said. I also meant freedom,” Claire snapped, feeling the anger she felt in the living room returning. “Marie, is this why you want the wall around the Village to stay up? You’re afraid this neighborhood will be overwhelmed with people the association deems as undesirable?”

Silence enveloped the table, like a power failure in a movie theater. The clinking of utensils on the china did little to fill the auditory void.

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After several moments, Keith stammered, “Oh, my, my, Claire, how rude of me, your ginger ales have no ice.” He pushed his chair back, went to the freezer and came back with a frozen steel tray of cubes, which he cracked by lifting the tray’s frost-covered metal lever.

“Thank you,” Claire managed half-heartedly, as she used her fingers to place two shattered pieces of ice in her glass.

“Did Stephanie Hall tell you that?” Marie asked.

“Yes, she did. Personally, I think gated communities are silly. We went to Grover last night for dinner and it was lovely. What is the threat? I don’t get what all the guards and cameras are for, I really don’t.”

“I am afraid your friend Stephanie is over simplifying things for you, dear, perhaps to facilitate an abbreviated discussion of a very complex issue. Mrs. Hall and I discuss a wide range of issues at the council meetings. She uses the wall as a red herring when it suits her. It’s a symbol of her broader political views and I, for one, don’t give it much thought.”

Keith stared at his wife, looking wide-eyed and angry. “Marie, I think that’s quite enough politics for one night. Don’t you agree? Dear?”

Marie slowly turned her gaze from Claire to her husband and her expression instantly changed, as if she realized she had gravely overstepped. Locking eyes with Keith, she nodded slightly in agreement, before turning to Sam, a cheery expression washing over her face, “Tell us about NASA? How exciting!”

Before Sam could respond, Claire pushed her chair back and stood. “May I use your bathroom?”

“Of course, dear, it’s down that hall. First door on the left,” Marie said, a broad satisfied smile crawling across her wrinkled face.

“Excuse me,” Claire said, turning and abruptly steadying herself with one hand on her chair as the Xanax she had taken before coming over hit her.

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She walked down the dimly lit hallway to the bathroom and shut the door behind her. On the opposite end of the room, another open door led to the master suite. Claire took hold of the door and slowly closed it, then paused. An odd silhouette in the corner of the bedroom caught her eye. She peered through the darkness trying to make out what the object was. Was it a floor lamp? Maybe. A long black pole shot up toward the ceiling near the nightstand, but then curved suddenly toward the floor. Where the pole bent forward, a sheet covered what she imagined to be the lampshade. The white covering rustled gently, ghost-like, catching the faint eddy of heat rising from a vent along the floorboards. As she walked closer she realized what it was: a birdcage.

Claire went back to the sink and ran the water and then returned to the bedroom, walking softly across the carpeted floor. She grabbed the edge of the sheet and slowly lifted it. A large dark bird sat on a perch at the very back of the deep enclosure, its dark silhouette barely discernible in the blackness. It just sat there, silent and unmoving. She moved her face closer to the cage, her vision slowly adjusting to the darkness, but still not able to tell even what type of bird it was. As her nose touched the cage’s metal bars, the creature’s eyes flew open. They were illuminated, electric, as red and enflamed as campfire embers. It cocked its head in study of her and she stifled a scream.

***

“So, the agency has really been an amazing place to work. It really has allowed me to pursue science on my terms, even if the bureaucracy can be a bit maddening at times. And I-”

Sam stopped talking as Claire emerged from the hallway, looking pale and flustered. She preempted their questions by pushing her dining room chair back underneath the table. “I am so sorry folks. I must be battling a tummy bug. I’m, I’m so embarrassed. Please forgive me, but, Sam, I really need to go home.”

Everyone immediately rose to their feet and Sam came around the table and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

“Oh dear!” Marie said. “I do hope it wasn’t Keith’s cooking?”

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“No, no, no,” Claire said. “Everything is divine. I really think I’ve just caught a little virus, and I especially don’t want to give it to you folks. The dinner was so lovely. So thoughtful.”

“Do you want some lamb to take home with you? For later perhaps?” Keith asked, following everyone through the living room to the front door.

“Oh, please, we’ve troubled you enough,” Sam politely pleaded. “We will have you folks over to our place real soon.”

Keith opened the front door and the two couples shook hands goodbye. As Claire and Sam stepped onto the front porch, Marie closed the door and turned off the porch light, plunging Claire and Sam into darkness.

***

She awoke without Sam beside her, just as an orange line of emerging sunlight cast a cool band of pink and purple skyward from the horizon. She was glad she hadn’t told Sam about the bird in Marie’s bedroom, choosing instead to let him also believe she was ill. The addict in her often preferred white lies to curious truths.

After donning her robe, splashing her face with cold water, and pulling her hair back in a ponytail, she made her way down to the kitchen, where she immediately noticed the absence of the smell of coffee. Near the coffee maker was a note in Sam’s exacting penmanship:

Claire, I hope your tummy is feeling better; I didn’t want to wake you. Gunderson wants me to meet him to provide a progress report on the project. Be back next Sunday. Afraid I’m going to miss the masquerade ball. Have fun! And give Stephanie and Marc my best. I’ll call and text. Hope your tummy feels better. Love, Sam

She flung the note aside like a bill she had no intention of paying. Her face went hot with anger. We came out here to this house presumably for him! Claire, he said, I need the solitude. I need a place to work, he had insisted. The house’s price is too good to pass up. The director himself insisted I spend more time away from the agency. Bullshit! He is never even here!

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She fished in the back of her spice cabinet for the Xanax, her hands trembling, and her eyes beginning to tear up from an overwhelming sense of frustration. She took two of the pills and brewed a cup of coffee. The irony of a masquerade ball made her laugh out loud. Perfect, just what I need, more mystery! Her phone’s ringtone indicating her mother was calling – The Bitch is Back by Elton John – gave her the green light to pour a shot of Jameson’s into her mug in lieu of cream. Guess the gloves are off, huh Claire?

She took a deep chug from her mug and answered the phone. “Hello, Mother.”

“How is life on Mars, dear? Have you learned how to thatch a roof or work a loom yet?”

“Ha. Ha. Seriously, Mother, I was just sitting down to breakfast. Can I call you back?”

“I’d prefer to talk to you now, while your personality is…crisper.” This was an obvious shot at her daughter’s suspected relapse. Jealous much, old lady? You just wish you were off the wagon with me.

“Yes, well, I would have preferred my mother was crisper throughout my teens and twenties, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

“No, Claire, we most certainly do not. Almost never, in fact.”

“I’ll call you in a few,” Claire said, not biting at her mother’s conversational bait.

“A few what?” her mother asked.

“Huh?”

“Days, weeks, months? I’m managing my expectations, given your renewed interest in old vices.”

“Mother, please, I’m not in the mood to spar with you, okay? Sam is gone for a week and I am not in a good mood. Can I just call you back when I am feeling chattier?”

“Where did he go this time?”

“Back to DC.”

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“Lucky him. For what?”

“Work,” Claire said.

“I thought he’d retired, to be with you, out in the country.”

“He’s closing things out, but he has some loose ends to take care of. Anyway, let me call you later, okay?”

“Are you upset with him? Leaving you alone?” her mother asked.

Claire poured more whiskey into her mug. “No, mother. I’m used to being left behind.”

***

The week had gone by in slow motion, as if someone had poured maple syrup over the world and everything had come to a sticky standstill. Her days went like this: wake up, have Irish coffees, first with coffee and then without, plus two eggs and toast; take Xanax; nap; drink some more; eat dinner, usually a frozen Lean Cuisine; take more Xanax; drink; drink; drink; drink; black out; sleep.

On Saturday, the day before Sam was due home, Stephanie’s call woke her from her nap. She had fallen asleep on the couch shortly after finishing her breakfast, which consisted of the usual two Xanax, a shot of Scottish whiskey and a piece of buttered seedless rye. She answered the phone, sounding groggy and unsure. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

Silence.

“Stephanie. Claire? Are you still in bed, honey? It’s 1 pm.”

“What? I, no, I’m awake. I was just napping. Who is this again?”

“It’s Stephanie. Hall. Your new BFF, remember? Anyway, I was wondering if you and Sam are going to the Murray’s masquerade ball tonight.”

“Oh, right. Shit, that’s tonight. I feel like we just got that invitation.” 52 | Page

“Well, the actual invitations went out a few weeks ago, before you were here.”

“So, what’s the deal, they’re moving? Is that right?”

Stephanie hesitated for a moment before replying, “Apparently, the decision was rather sudden. I, for one, hate to see them leave. If I know her, she’ll throw one hell of a party, though.”

“Sam can’t make it. But I’m going. I think.”

“Fantastic. Do you know what you’re going to wear? The buzz around the ‘hood is people are taking the theme pretty seriously. Never too old for playing dress up, I guess.”

“I haven’t the slightest clue.”

“Well, why don’t you and I go gown shopping? I know this shop in Charleston that specializes in evening gowns. And I have an extra masquerade mask you can use. Can you sneak away from Sam today?”

“Damn. Good thing you have a mask. I would have been stuck. And, as far as Sam goes, he’s been gone all week. I’m all yours, girlfriend.”

“I’ll be right over.”

As she left the house, Claire retrieved a pack of cigarettes she kept hidden in a cookie jar in the kitchen. Smoking for her was occasional, a vice born not from physical addiction but from what one of her shrinks called “a deep-seated fatalism.” Whatever. She just liked the way they boosted her energy, albeit temporarily, in the face of too many Xanax. She sat on a wicker chair on the porch, staring out onto their empty street – always empty – and was struck with an overwhelming sense of homesickness. She missed her friends, the taqueria down the street from their apartment, the smell of wet pavement after it rained, the noise.

The sedative and the nicotine embraced before dipping and pirouetting through her brain, interlocking in a delicious and delicate chemical dance. She closed her eyes as she took another deep drag. For a moment, she did not resent the silence. For just a second, she found an odd peace, a bright flash of acceptance. I am here and it’s okay. But the feeling was fleeting and soon

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the tide of worry rolled back in, its dark, unwelcomed undertow dragging her down, drowning her in a feeling she had only experienced once before. Dread.

Her daydream was broken by the incredibly loud horn of Stephanie’s white Mercedes SUV, which was idling at the end of the house’s front walkway. The passenger side window rolled down. “Claire, for heaven’s sake. I have been sitting here and you’re just staring off into space. How much wine exactly are you hiding in that house, anyway? Come on, girl!”

The ride into Charleston was marked by unremarkable expanses of highway and Stephanie’s pleasant chattiness. Claire found herself further drawn to Stephanie. They shared a cynicism many people merely dismissed as negativity, when it was, for Claire, a healthy outcropping of critical thought. On the road trip, long, winding conversations with Stephanie revealed her to be a deep thinker, a caring person, someone with a sense of self, yet a person capable of deep loyalty and emotional intelligence. By the time they found parking in front of the dress shop on Bridge Road, Claire felt a warmth for Stephanie she usually only experienced with friends she had known for years. Inexplicably, she completely trusted this person, who, when you came right down to it, was still a total stranger.

Stephanie shut the engine off and turned to face Claire, who was staring at her and smiling. “What?” asked Stephanie.

“I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but I am so glad you’re here. Not here, in Charleston with me, but here, as in, a part of my life, right now. My poker face sucks, so you probably know I am struggling with this – being here, with Sam, without Sam, and the guilt and, well, shame…about drinking again, secretly. It’s just been nice to have a friend to do things with, you know? And to listen.”

Stephanie unclicked her seatbelt, removed her sunglasses and repositioned herself to face Claire. “Sweetheart, is there something you are not telling me? I felt like when we last saw each other, at your house, you were about to tell me something. But then Sam showed up and it seemed like the moment had gone.”

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“I honestly don’t remember. No, no, I’m fine. We’re fine. Really.” Claire unclicked her seatbelt and opened her door, turning so Stephanie couldn’t see she was tearing up. “Let’s go buy some dresses. This place looks adorable.”

A small bell above the door announced their arrival to the boutique. Claire was immediately struck with the overpowering smell of vanilla-scented candles and lavender potpourri. They had taken no more than two or three steps into the shop when an incredibly tall, big-chested woman with short, platinum blond hair, high, angular cheekbones and hazel eyes abruptly stopped sliding the hangers of a dress rack and shouted, “Well, as I live and breathe! Stephanie, you better be buying a dress for my ball tonight, you silly slut! And shame on you, B.T.W., for waiting until the last second!”

“Oh, you stupid bitch, Lu,” Stephanie said, arms extended for a hug. “You scared the shit out of me! How are you?”

“I am fabulous,” the woman said, looking over Stephanie’s shoulders at Claire, who noticed the woman’s diamond nose piercing as the slanting afternoon sun moved lazily across her perfectly symmetrical face. “And who is your gorgeous new friend?”

Claire blushed and awkwardly reached around Stephanie to extend her hand. “I’m Claire. Claire –”

“Claire Sturgis! Yes, Stephanie has told me so much about you.” Claire looked quickly at Stephanie and then back to the woman. “I am Luanne Murray, but my friends call me Lu. So, you can call me Lu.” She batted away Stephanie’s hand and instead leaned her face into Claire’s, whispering, “And I don’t do handshakes, only kisses.”

Lu then grabbed Claire’s shoulders and kissed her on each cheek, before pushing her away but continuing to hold her at arm’s length, as if beholding something precious. “You are as interesting as you have been described. Lovely.”

“Um, well, thank you,” Claire stammered, now fully appreciating Lu’s Amazonian stature, severely accentuated by an impossibly yellow leather jumpsuit. “And thank you for the

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invitation to the party. Sorry to hear you’re moving, though. I hope it didn’t have anything to do with Sam and I arriving.”

Instead of polite chuckles, Stephanie and Lu exchanged an awkward glance and for a second Claire felt as if she had somehow hit on a sore subject between the two women. “Of course not!” Lu finally squealed, bursting into what felt to Claire like an exaggerated peal of laughter. “And, hell, there is still plenty of time to get to know y’all. Our move date is, um, a bit up in the air right now.”

“I just went through it, so I feel your pain,” Claire said.

“Lu and Marcus are the closest the Village has to royalty,” Stephanie said, before turning to Claire. “Nobody is as sad to see her go as me.”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear, my dear,” Lu said, a tinge of acid in her tone. “But that ship has sailed, as they say.”

“Claire, my dear, I am having a going away party that will rock you to your goddamn core. It is my way of giving back to a community that has, time and time again, stood by Marcus and I. It will change you, Claire Sturgis. You will leave a different person. You will say to yourself, ‘Now that was no goddamn ordinary party!’ You see, where I’m from Claire, it is all about pleasure and having a good time. Hedonism! Stephanie vouched for you. She said you could hang, so don’t go proving her a liar. Don’t be afraid to have a little fun. I expect a respectable sendoff.”

Both Stephanie and Lu burst into laughter, although Stephanie’s reaction was less animated, almost cautious. “You’ve made your point, Lu,” Stephanie said. “And, yes, we, of course, are here to pick out our dresses. I am going for something low-cut.”

“Of course, you are,” Lu purred, while winking at Claire, as if they shared an inside joke. “You’re whorish like that.”

“You. Are. Terrible!” Stephanie laughed, playfully reaching up to push Lu’s shoulder as the other woman towered, giraffe-like, over her.

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“Well, good luck girls. There was nothing here that turned me on. Our party planner is running around like a chicken with her head cut off, and I’m shopping. Shame on me. Anyway, off to another little place I know.”

“Target?” Claire teased. Neither woman laughed. Lu pivoted on one heel to face Claire directly and looked her up and down, as if taking stock of an adversary’s capabilities. A smile slowly oozed across her face, like yoke escaping from a thin film of egg white. “You’re funny. Is your husband Sam as funny as you?”

“Lu, the poor girl came here to buy a dress, not play 20 questions. You’ll have more than enough time to interrogate her at your little house party.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I plan on it,” Lu squealed, giving Stephanie a kiss on each cheek. She then kissed Claire, first on the right cheek, then on the left. As she pulled away from the second kiss she whispered, “Until then, Claire Sturgis.”

***

It was dark out as Claire fumbled for her house keys, shopping bags in hand. She waved goodbye to Stephanie, who was already driving away. When she walked into the darkened living room, the silhouette of a person sitting in a leather arm chair in the far corner made her jump backwards. “Sam, Jesus, you scared me. I thought you weren’t getting back until tomorrow.”

Sam just sat where he was, staring straight ahead. Claire felt for the light switch and, flicking it on, saw he was crying, something he told her he did only twice in his adult life: once when his mother died and once again, in 2003, when the Space Shuttle Columbia disintegrated upon reentry, killing all seven astronauts on board, all of whom Sam had known personally. This wasn’t a simple as grief. His eyes looked dark and hollow; his hair was matted and stuck in sweaty ringlets to his forehead, which was covered in sweat. This wasn’t sadness, Claire thought. This was despair.

“Baby, what’s wrong, Sam?” She dropped her bags and knelt before him, placing a hand on one of his knees. “Tell me, Sam. What’s the matter?”

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His unfocused eyes suddenly fixed upon her and his face seemed to reveal surprise at her presence. “Claire?”

“Yes, it’s me. Who else would it be, sweetheart? You’re scaring me. Sam, why are you crying?”

“They think I’m nuts. They all think I’m crazy,” She reached in to hug him and noticed, for the first time, how thin he had become. She felt with alarm the protrusion of his spinal column and the ridges of his shoulder blades. He began to sob uncontrollably into her neck. His moans were low and primal, the tortured, baleful cries of an animal caught in a steel trap.

“Baby, who thinks you’re nuts? What are you talking about? Shhh. Shhh. Breathe.”

He lifted his head from her shoulders, wiped the tears from his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. “They put me on medical leave and revoked my security clearances, Claire. They’re suspending my project and I am so close. I know I am. I am so close, baby.” His face crumpled again and he rested it in his open palms, utterly defeated.

“Close to what, Sam?” She wanted to help, wanted to tell him everything was going to work out, wanted to cast aside this feeling of helplessness and save him from his brain’s betrayal. “Close to what?”

“I can’t remember, Claire. I honestly can’t remember!”

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CHAPTER 7

She was hesitant to calm him with references to his previous rants, but she desperately wanted to comfort him. “Is it about Jeopardy? Is that the thing you can’t remember? Did you meet with Ethan in DC? Is it something to do with Ethan?”

He stared back at her with only a flicker of recognition. “I never met with him. I was on my way to meet him and then, I don’t know. I was in the back of a car. A, a limo, maybe? It’s fuzzy, but I remember that.”

“Was there someone in this limo with you?”

“I don’t know!” he screamed, horrified at his lack of recall.

“Breathe. It’s like when you lose your keys, okay. Let’s walk through it together. Someone asked you to get in a limo?”

“Yes, yes, I guess so…”

“Did you know this person?”

“Yes, yes, I must have. I remember…whiskey.”

“You had a drink with this person? In the limo?”

Sam nodded, at first hesitantly and then more emphatically, rocking back and forth as his memory revealed a face.

“Who was it, Sam? Who offered you a drink in the limo?”

“Gunderson. It was Gunderson!”

“Good!” said Claire. “Okay, and what did you talk about? Think, Sam.”

Sam strained to remember. “It’s so cloudy, like trying to remember a dream long after you’ve woken up. But, I think we talked about the project. He told me it was over. Yes. Told me

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I was done. That, that my condition posed a security risk. Dammit, Claire, I’m losing my mind. I can remember the bottom line of what we talked about, but none of the specifics of the conversation. I can remember him telling me to leave, to get out of the car and go home, but I can’t remember leaving. I couldn’t even remember how to get home, Claire. I used the GPS the whole way. I, I-”

He was crying again and each one of his heaving sobs fissured her heart. How is he this bad so suddenly? How is it possible?

“Jeopardy. Does that word mean anything to you? Were you talking to Gunderson about Jeopardy?”

“Claire, what are you talking about? Are you screwing with me right now?” He stood up and pushed his way by her, knocking her from her knees to a sitting position on the floor. Then, with one quick swat of his hand, he knocked the Tiffany lamp her mother had given them for their first wedding anniversary off a nearby table, the shattering glass marking an abrupt and terrible turn in the evening.

“Claire, don’t you get it? It’s blank. I couldn’t remember how to drive home. Jesus Christ! Oh, Jesus! Jeopardy? Fucking Jeopardy? What the fuck are you talking about?!”

She stood up and approached him cautiously, her arms outstretched, a child attempting to pet a pacing tiger. “Shhhhh…okay, let’s calm down. Sit Sam, please, sit back down. Forget about what I said, okay. It doesn’t matter right now.”

He flopped onto the couch, and laid on his side in the fetal position and continued to sob. She had never seen him so exposed and vulnerable. There was nothing that had prepared her for the sickening feeling that, although they were here with each other now, soon they would both be completely alone. Together, and yet, terribly alone.

“Claire, why is this happening to me? To us? Why my mind? I’d rather lose all my limbs, but not my mind, Claire. Please, baby. Please, baby, help me.”

“Do you want me to call Dr. Carlson? I can—,”

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“He can’t do anything! None of them can. And they can’t get my job back for me. I’m supposed to just retire now and go crazy. That’s what I am supposed to do, Claire. Right? Just sit back and watch the connections in my brain short out, one circuit at a time?”

Claire moved his legs out of the way and sat at the end of the couch, before taking off his shoes and returning his feet to her lap, where she caressed them through his socks. “Sam, I think we should move back to the city. I know you originally thought peace and quiet and detachment was what you needed and wanted, but I can’t, can’t do this without the support of our friends and family. You’re far worse, far sooner than we imagined, and the drugs don’t seem to be as effective as we’d hoped.”

“Whose drugs, Claire, mine or yours?” The question was meant to confront; she noticed the empty wine bottle and glasses now, mocking her from where she had left them on the coffee table. Claire pushed his feet from her lap and walked over to the fireplace, staring at a picture of them taken on a trip to Montreal a year or two after they met. “Ok, point taken, Sam. Yes, I take Xanax. Maybe they help me with my anxiety. Do you ever consider that? I shouldn’t be drinking. Agreed. Okay? But it’s under control. This time. And can you blame me?”

“Yes, I can. You know you’re wrong. You are self-aware, which makes it worse. I can excuse the occasional joint, but not the drinking. It’s too insidious. I’m talking to the addict right now. I know that. It’s why since we’ve been here you have done nothing to launch your consultancy. Addiction runs on both sides of your family. This, this intention to slowly harm yourself makes it worse. And it leaves me feeling horribly guilty, like you are this way because of me. Because of the stress of my diagnosis and the disease. It’s a burden I never intended to give you. I’m sorry for that. I truly am. But you don’t get to drink yourself to death because of it. You just don’t.”

She thought she had wanted the apology but when she finally had it, she felt guilty for ever thinking it would make her feel any better. For all her urban snobbery, there was a part of her that believed life would improve out here, away from everything. It was a childish notion thrown at a grown-up problem. It was the ending of countless feel-good movies. The protagonist finally overcomes the odds and, in the end, hits the open road in pursuit of a better life. Taillights

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have illuminated thousands of fulfilled dreams, or so Hollywood would have you believe. But it didn’t work that way, did it?

She wanted to believe they could escape the pain and inevitability of confronted loss. But it came with them, like some awful bomb placed in their luggage, counting down what time they had left. How many seconds had her grip on Jenny’s hand held? Tick, tick, tick.

“I know, sweetheart. I promise to reign it in, okay? Right now, you need some rest. And I have to get ready soon.”

“For what?”

She wasn’t surprised he had forgotten. She didn’t remind him he knew about it. What was the point in that, really? Especially now.

“Tonight is the Murray’s going away party. Apparently, it’s a big event in the Village. I have no idea why. Stephanie and I even bought dresses for it in Charleston.” He looked at her as if she’d just announced she intended on knocking off a 7-Eleven, before his face softened with what she took to be understanding.

“I’m glad you are making friends here, even if you do want to maybe go back to the city. That’s one of the things I love about you, Claire. You’re fearless. And you don’t need booze to be that way.”

“Okay, dad, I get it. And don’t say, that, Sam. I’m not fearless for going to a party, okay.” Her heart was racing and she suddenly found herself inexplicably annoyed with him. She felt her mood swing as quickly as a carnival sledgehammer. She was not fearless. Jenny had been right. Hers was a world of constant fear and anxiety and self-medication. Her fear of losing Sam was hauntingly familiar. Instantly she was there again. Looking down from her bedroom window at her father packing up the family’s station wagon. A tiny wave from Jenny. Her mother, drunk and oblivious, on the sofa downstairs.

***

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Sam was still talking to her and she forced herself to pay attention. “…and, well, you know I am grateful and I just hope you guys have fun. Say hi to the Halls for me. But, you’re right, I need to just go to bed. Just, turn everything off for a while. And, if you do drink, don’t get shitfaced. Try for me, okay?” He stood to leave, and she met him at the foot of the staircase. His kind eyes looked heavy and full of worry, a sailor noticing storm clouds above swelling seas. He kissed her on the forehead and, for a moment, she felt connected to him again. “I love you, Sam. I won’t go to this thing. It’s stupid. I’ll make us some tea and we can watch some TV in bed.”

“No, I’m fine. It’ll be good for you to get out of the house. Go make some more neighborhood friends. We can talk about my deteriorating mind tomorrow. Over coffee.” He ascended the staircase to the first landing and, without turning around, said, “I love you too. Be careful, Claire.”

***

Her dress was a strapless, floor-length gray tulle ball gown that, in DC, would have quickly been labeled a “prom dress.” But it was quite pretty, Claire thought, standing in front of the master bathroom’s full-length mirror, admiring the garment’s bust of pearl beading and subtle appliques of lace flowers and sequins. Stephanie had come back and dropped off her extra mask, which Claire now quietly retrieved from a box atop her dresser as Sam snored loudly in their nearby bed, totally spent.

The mask was fancier than she would have expected, adorned with handcrafted satin roses, lace trim and black feathers that fluttered upward from just above her right eye. Black satin ribbons fell from her ears to her shoulders. Her eyes were encircled by tiny glass pieces that busily shimmered, diamond-like. The anonymity afforded her in this outfit filled her with an odd sense of relief. Has anyone seen Claire Sturgis? She said she was coming. She smiled despite her newly depressed mood and gently closed the bedroom door behind her.

***

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There was no mistaking where the Murray’s party was. The house’s position on the hill and size aside, two floodlights illuminated the clouds above it, crisscrossing the night sky as if searching for God himself. Tuxedoed ushers stood outside of the front gate, checking invitations and escorting guests across the expansive front yard, to a stone walkway that encircled the house to the right, terminating at a large caramel-colored stucco wall and a massive wooden gate, flanked by more ushers and two gas carriage lamps, flames roaring.

As her usher extended his arm toward Claire, she hesitated, taking in the splendor of the architecture. In viewing its enormity, she could only imagine the views the upper floors of the house were afforded. Its stucco exterior and surrounding gardens were tastefully illuminated, and the lighting revealing the gabled Spanish-tiled roof, the eaves of which were topped with gargoyle-like figures, and at least twenty windows and verandas of various shapes and sizes. Claire imagined it had at least seven bedrooms, maybe more. Did the Murrays have kids? Had she ever, for that matter, seen a single kid in the Village?” Why on Earth do they need a house this big?

The drapes of every window were thrown open and it seemed as if every light in the house had been turned on. The interior, even from this distance, revealed rich-looking artwork, floor to ceiling bookcases, tapestries and a stunning constellation of flower arrangements and plants. “What is their electric bill?” she quipped. Her usher smiled but said nothing before handing her off to the two ushers stationed at the large door leading to the house’s backyard, where a maze of outdoor heat lamps kept guests warm from the chilly October air.

“Mrs. Claire Sturgis,” he said, sounding cool and official. Then, turning to a woman wearing a headset, softly, “Without her husband.” She turned to explain he wasn’t feeling well, but the usher was already making his way back to the main gate, his back to her.

As Claire walked through the archway, she was struck by not only the opulence of the backyard, but by the sheer size of the party. It was as if every resident of the Village, she guessed maybe 200 people – many of whom she had never seen before – were standing in either a tuxedo or full ball gown in the Murray’s “backyard,” which seemed far too flimsy a term for what Claire was witnessing. Pulling her dress up and stepping aside to let other arriving guests

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walk by her, she thought this was hardly a suburban barbecue. They were somewhere else. This was the French Riviera. This was Times Square. This was Santa Monica pier on a Saturday night. This was not a gated community in the sleepy foothills of West Virginia. “What the fuck?” she said aloud.

The back of the house featured a massive pool, which made the Halls’ look like a hot tub. The perfectly still heated water, which was steaming into the cold night, was covered in rose petals and at least one hundred floating candle-lit lanterns. Strings of miniature lights outlined the house’s stunning frame, which boasted outdoor spiral staircases to second and third floor verandas, massive archways, 15-foot high columns and several completely furnished outdoor rooms, their ceilings crisscrossed by oak and iron beams. Waiters with trays of shrimp, crab cakes, caviar, champagne flutes, mini-quiches, stuffed mushrooms and a rainbow of glitzy party drinks darted between the mingling guests like bees pollinating a field of wild flowers.

As she walked, she overheard bits and pieces of cocktail conversation, exaggerated and amplified, as tipsy partygoers shouted above the din:

“I, for one, think it’s the right choice, but there are things I’ll miss…”

“Shhhhh, remember, discretion. This is a going away party for the Murrays…”

“Do you think they’ll actually invite her…”

A burst of flowing yellow satin broke off from a circle of admiring tuxedos and floated toward her like a firefly through the delicate flickering air. She recognized the dress. “Well hello, mystery lady!” Stephanie Hall exclaimed from behind a gauzy silk mask decorated with layers of yellow rose petals, shaped like the exaggerated wings of a butterfly. A DJ, suspended fifty feet above the party in the basket of a fully inflated and illuminated hot air balloon, tethered to the ground by cables wrapped in ivy, played a song by the The Cure.

I’ve been looking so long at these pictures of you,

That I almost believe that they’re real,

I’ve been living so long with my pictures of you,

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That I almost believe that the pictures,

Are all I can feel.

“Holy shit,” said Claire, laughing at the spectacle before her.

“I know, right?” Stephanie said, looking around to survey the scene with Claire. “So over the top. I’ll give them credit; they know how to throw a goddamn going away party. For real.”

“Stephanie, I need a drink.”

Her friend raised a finger and a waiter gave Claire a choice of beverages from a mirrored serving tray. She chose what she imagined to be a cosmopolitan. The first sip of alcohol felt warm and loving, like the embrace of a long-lost friend.

“This is beyond, beyond, beyond what I imagined,” she shouted above the music.

“Are you excited that Sam’s coming back tomorrow?” Stephanie yelled back.

“What? Oh, um, no, he, he’s back. But he couldn’t come. He’s not feeling well. He’s, um, just exhausted. I accepted his rain check.”

“Oh, sweetie, I am sorry to hear that. Well, at least you are here. With me! That’s all that matters. Mine is here somewhere but I may never find him. All the men look alike. If I’m not careful I might kiss the wrong guy. Wouldn’t that be a naughty, naughty pity?”

“You’re bad,” Claire said, placing her suddenly empty martini glass on a passing tray before retrieving another.

“Can I ask you something personal, without seeming like a flaming opportunist and horrible…enabler.”

“Ugh, I hate that stupid word,” said Claire. The vernacular of rehabs always made her queasy. “But, by all means, enable away.”

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“How off the wagon are you? Would you say you’ve just left the trail for a moment, like, to pee, and then you’re going to jump right back on, or, are you waving goodbye as the wagon fades from sight?”

“In my present state of mind, I have no immediate plans to find said wagon,” Claire replied, not surprised to find the statement ringing true.

Stephanie opened her sequined gold clutch and pulled out a glass compact full of blue pills with tiny Ks cut out in their centers, holding it up for Claire like a butcher showing a customer a cut of meat.

“KPins. I’m a bad friend, right? And, a bad human being, too, I guess.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe I’m a bad human being or maybe you want to get a little mellower than those silly Xanax you keep popping.”

“When in Wonderland, I guess,” Claire said, motioning at the revelry around them. “I haven’t had a Klonopin in a very long time.”

“Well, Alice, tonight I’ve got quite a rabbit hole to show you.” She grabbed Claire by the arm and led her through the crowd, bumping up against groups of laughing party-goers, some engaged in loud, animated conversations, some dancing, some in romantic entwinement. They crossed through one of the exterior rooms and then into a large central hallway that led straight through the main house. A tremendously large grandfather clock chimed loudly in the enormous living room just as a waiter burst through a swinging door further down the hall, revealing a hotel-sized kitchen full of cooks. A few doors down from the kitchen, they went through a door that led to a large bathroom, full of illuminated oil paintings and vases of flowers. The smell of lilies made Claire’s stomach roll.

“I hate the smell of lilies.” Claire said, feeling suddenly claustrophobic, their billowing gowns filling the space between them.

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“Well, I have the solution for that,” Stephanie said, spreading the pills on a cherry wood Demilune table set against the bathroom’s back wall. She then removed from her purse a small red plastic tube, capped at the top. She removed the cap and she dropped two of the pills into the tube. She replaced the tube’s top and then twisted it back and forth, before removing it again and dumping a small pile of blue powder onto the table. With the quick back and forth of a quickly produced credit card, she formed two neat lines. She then took a small straw from her bra and handed it to Claire.

“Bon appetite,” she said to Claire.

“What about you? You’re not doing any?”

“I’m way ahead of you, dear,” Stephanie said, pointing at her own face. “You can’t see it under this mask, but my nose is bluer than a Smurf’s ass.”

The cloying stench of the lilies hung in the air. In that instance, she saw her sister’s face. Her oddly-styled hair across a white satin pillow, her head slightly misshapen. They hadn’t gotten it quite right. She saw the imperfection. Beneath the makeup, the reconstruction faltered. Her sister’s face was a mask. She saw her rings unclaimed in the trash can. Pick them up. Wear them around your neck. Something to remember her by.

In that moment, she envied Sam, envied the bliss in unfettered forgetfulness. She longed for oblivion, as she snorted the first line. “One more,” she said to Stephanie, barely hiding her sad resignation.

The two left the bathroom and made their way down to the pool. Everything now was electric for Claire. This is so not how I remember Klonopin. The strings of lights seemed to throb with energy, seemed to interconnect the main house with the nearby gazebo with the wall encircling the property. She felt oneness with these men and women, an intense sense of belonging. It was the pills, no doubt, but it was something else, too. She briefly wondered what they were even celebrating. “It is my way of giving back to a community that has, time and time again, stood by Marcus and I.” What had Lu meant by that? Stood by them through what? And why was everyone so excited the Murrays were leaving?

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She wasn’t all that interested in the particulars, when she really thought about it. There was something fresh and new and interesting about this place and she wanted to understand it, wanted to be a part of it, wanted so desperately to lose herself to this feeling, this sense of unjustified debauchery. She and Stephanie snaked through the crowd and she felt their eyes on her. She felt bare and exposed, but it was not a feeling of vulnerability, it was the feeling she was the guest of honor. It was as if the crowd was suddenly very aware of her presence, parting for her and closing in her wake. She stared up at the night sky and a million stars stared back.

“Claire!” Stephanie yelled, grabbing her arm. “Slow your roll, sister, you almost walked right into the pool. Hey, there’s Marc.” Stephanie began waving at her husband, who said his goodbyes to a group of fellow tuxedos congregating near the pool’s diving board. “Honey, over here!” Marc approached them, beer bottle in hand, and stopped short, leaning backward as he looked Claire up and down. “Hey, Stephanie, who is your mysterious and incredibly alluring friend?”

“Hi, Marc,” Claire said, waving him toward her before giving him a hug. “You look very handsome. Even though you look like every man here. I have to start memorizing people’s masks, I guess.”

“Where’s Sam?” Marc asked, taking a long swig of his beer. “Did he smartly avoid this craziness?”

“He’s just tired. He was supposed to be out of town, actually. But he came back early. He’s way wiped out.”

“Well, that’s too bad. Guess it’s just the three of us,” Marc said, sounding somewhat pleased. Claire noticed his dilated pupils and imagined he also had partaken in the “KPins.” He was staring unapologetically at her breasts, so to avoid his stare, Claire surveyed the partygoers on the various patios and verandas ascending to the house’s roofline. Stephanie was saying something but Claire squinted and then held her hand, visor-like, over her eyebrows, not understanding what she was seeing: a cat-shaped gargoyle slowly walking along the eaves overhanging the third floor.

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“…don’t you think, Claire, that would be fun?” Stephanie asked. “Claire? Hello? Earth to Claire.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question.” Claire took another look upward, but the gargoyle was stationary now, as immovable and solid as stone. Stephanie playfully frowned, as if her feelings had been hurt by Claire’s inattention.

Marc injected, “She asked you if you maybe wanted to have a cigarette.”

“Ooooo, that would be perfect,” Claire cooed. “Just not menthol. Those gross me out.”

“A pack of non-menthols coming up. I noticed the bar has some freebies. I’ll be right back,” Stephanie said, kissing Marc on the cheek before walking backwards into the crowd. She gave Claire a playful wink and finger-wave goodbye.

And with that, Stephanie’s yellow gown flowed effortlessly into the crowd of masked revelers before disappearing into a large gathering near the main bar.

The bright party lights dimmed to a delicate purple hue and, as if rescuing her from her painful daydream, Marc gently grabbed her arm and pulled her to the dance floor. Maybe it was the pills, but she didn’t resist and instead leaned against his strong frame, letting him lead her away from her melancholic thoughts, spinning her out of her unwanted recollections.

As they spun slowly, she caught the glimpses of others. Hundreds of eyes, peering through masks, some, Claire thought, revealing sympathy, and others, it frightened her to realize, unveiling disdain. The fear jolted her from the gauzy remembrance and she pushed away from him. “I’m sorry, Marc, I have to use the ladies room. I’ll find you guys.”

She pushed through the crowd, her face flush, her heart racing. Her hands were sweating, as they had in Marc’s as he led her across the dance floor. The heat between them had sparked in her an emotional eroticism she hadn’t felt with Sam in years. It was hard to explain, but, in retreat, she had to acknowledge she had felt an incredible relief in Marc Hall’s arms, a warm hearth on a cold night, a sense she would be protected from an approaching storm. But what was approaching?

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Instead of calming her down, she suddenly felt a surge of panic. Something was coming. For her, for Sam. It’s the inevitable onslaught of the disease, Claire. It’s making you crazy. You are fleeing the disease’s approach. That is all. That is all. Don’t let a couple of snorted Klonopin make you paranoid.

She noticed a staircase alongside a darkened side of the house, just beyond the lights of the party and, removing her heels and hiking her gown above her knees, she climbed it quickly, arriving on a darkened, empty patio overlooking the massive green expanse of the unlit side yard. The wall from which the terrace extended was all glass, with sliding doors opened, filled with the ghostly motion of breeze-stroked, full-length lace curtains. The room beyond them was dark, save for the glow of a single floor lamp in the corner.

She sat on a wicker chaise and inhaled the cool night air. Alone and slightly more clear- headed, she felt the familiar pangs of guilt. Booze and pills again, Claire? Dancing with your friend’s husband? Where is this all going, Claire? What’s the end game? Call Sam.

She reached into her clutch and retrieved her iPhone. She dialed him and, after several rings, it went to voicemail. She tried again with the same result. Dammit, Sam, pick up the fucking phone! Maybe it was for the best he didn’t answer. She was feeling manic and emotional, edgy and yet dull. What would she have said? That she loved him, but thought, lately, about leaving him, about running away, abandoning everything like her father had done. Her eyes filled with tears. She stood to leave, but then heard familiar voices through the swaying curtains. She pressed her back against the wall and turned her head as far as she could to the right, peering through the rippling fabric.

Unmasked, Marie and Keith Hershel were talking to Beth and Carl Plaskett, the couple from the restaurant. The four stood in a coven-like circle, their voices hushed yet audible. From their expressions, the conversation was in sharp contrast to the frivolity outside. Claire strained to hear over the breeze and the din from the party below.

“It should be tonight, for sure,” said Marie. “They should be given the go-ahead.”

The others shook their heads in agreement.

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Carl added, “I worry about Stephanie.”

“Me, too,” said Keith. “She’s gotten too close. And while I can appreciate the window of opportunity she has created by convincing Lu to invite her to this, many are treating this year’s celebration as marking the end of the mission. They’ve been told not to talk about it, but with all of the drinking, someone could get messy and fuck it up.”

“Well, you know how I feel about her,” said Marie. “And she has made it clear at Council how she feels about me. Honestly, I don’t think she’d intentionally sabotage the plan, but her sympathies are a problem. She’s apparently asked Lu to consider taking the Sturgis couple with us.”

Claire’s heel slipped through the deck’s planking with a clap. Marie stopped talking and all four of them turned in the direction of the noise. Claire froze. Move, Claire, down the stairs. Take your shoes off and go. Now!

Claire slipped off her heels and went down the stairs two at a time, hiking her gown up to avoid tripping. As she rounded the corner on her way back to the party, she collided with Stephanie and Marc.

“Whoa! Where you off to in such a hurry?” asked Marc, putting his hand up to stop Claire from running right by.

“The party is this way, girlfriend! Hey, you know, they have port-o-johns down here, although not in that dress. Gross. Honey, are you shaking?” Stephanie asked, grabbing Claire by the shoulders to look her squarely in the face. “This is a party. Hey, are you upset Sam isn’t here?”

Claire couldn’t look Marc in the face. Marc looked at his watch. “I’m fine. I just needed some air. I think I should go home, actually.”

“Here, I got you a water. You are not leaving. You just need to cool off, babe.” Claire downed the bottle of water as they walked back to the dance floor, which was even more festive then when she’d left. Shoulder straps had slipped off, some people were barefoot, tuxedo jackets

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and beer bottles floated in the pool. She turned to insist again to Stephanie she had to leave, that she needed to check on Sam, but the words floated in her brain like soap bubbles floating slowly through hot summer air. Marc and Stephanie exchanged serious, knowing glances. She was suddenly gripped by an almost paralyzing paranoia. Did they put something in my water? Ecstasy, maybe? No, that’s ridiculous, Claire. It wouldn’t work this fast. And they wouldn’t do that, anyway. What a ridiculous thought. Why would they do that? Why didn’t Stephanie snort the pills with her again? Was that important to remember?

She had no answers to these questions and the realization never had the chance to provoke outrage. Suddenly she was filled with the most fantastic sense of well-being she had ever experienced. Claire literally felt her consciousness expand and what would have been horror at being seemingly drugged – did she really believe that? – against her will turned immediately into a powerful sense of gratitude. This feeling was an incredible gift, and she owed it to Stephanie and Marc. She loved them, trusted them, wanted to be nowhere else but with them, in this moment. “What did you guys do?” she said playfully, giggling at the now-obvious deception.

“Do you like it?” Marc asked seductively. “Are you feeling good?”

“I don’t remember ‘E’ feeling like this. They’ve improved it since I last did it, that’s for sure.” Claire watched the writhing bodies around her, felt the rhythmic pulse of the dance music surge through her like a full-body case of pins and needles, only decidedly pleasurable. Every nerve ending was open and ready to receive stimulation. Every thought was awash in optimism. Her heart beat in her chest, mighty, defying age and inevitable death. She could do anything she wanted. Live in the Village forever. Body surf naked across the crowd. Cure Sam. She looked into Stephanie’s eyes. They were like liquid caramel, warm and sweet and soft. Her lips were cherry blossoms, pink and open and fragrant. She didn’t resist when Marc’s hand gently pushed her head toward his wife’s face. She didn’t protest the hungry intrusion of Stephanie’s tongue in her mouth, or Marc’s hands grabbing her hips from behind. When the kiss finally ended, Claire thought, I have no secrets with you. I am open. My walls are down. “We have no secrets with you either,” Stephanie whispered. “When the time is right, we will tell you everything. I promise.”

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CHAPTER 8

First, only darkness. Then, quiet consciousness. A flicker of light. A campfire. Teenagers cheering. Jump! Jump! Jump! Jenny’s hair, whipping and wild. Free. “One!” Jenny yelled, grabbing Claire’s hand. Jenny, jumping. Off the rock wall’s ledge. Like they had planned. “I can’t believe you’ll do this with me, Claire. Maybe I was wrong about you.” Claire froze. Her sister’s still grasping hand. Jenny swinging back before hitting the wall. A thud. Like a side of beef thrown onto a butcher’s block. Sweat. Skin. Slipping. Jenny is falling! “JENNY!” Tumbling into darkness. Akimbo on the rocks. Moving. Then still. More darkness. Then another flicker. Candles on a table at the funeral home. The undertaker giving Jenny’s rings back to her mother. Placing his hand on her mother’s shoulder. “The fingers swell, I’m afraid. We can cut the rings to make them fit for the wake, or you could keep them. Keepsakes.”

The light dimming. Shadows crawling across the floor. A ringing phone. “Would you excuse me?” the man was saying. Claire’s mother placing Jenny’s rings in a tissue, before tossing them in the waste basket by the water cooler.

Blackness.

Claire opened her eyes and looked around her sunlit bedroom. Sam wasn’t beside her. Reaching for her phone on the nightstand, she glanced at the time: 3:30 pm. She had way overslept. She didn’t smell brewing coffee and guessed that Sam must have brewed his first pot hours ago and decided to just let her sleep.

She got out of bed and grabbed a large, white bath towel from a linen closet just outside the bedroom door. Tossing her tee shirt and underwear into the hamper alongside the glass shower stall, she turned on the hot water and waited until the spray started to steam. Standing beneath the showerhead, she let the water hit her directly in the face. The slight sting on her skin

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was invigorating and sobering. She grabbed a plastic bottle from the built-in shower caddy and held her hand out to dispense the shampoo. She squinted at her wrist. Something black. A tiny bruise? Dirt? No. It was writing! She dropped the water bottle and quickly exited the shower stall, making her way to the stronger fluorescent light encircling the vanity. The script was very tiny and now blurred from the moisture, but the words were unmistakable:

You are pregnant. No more drugs/drinking.

Why would Sam write this? It was definitely his handwriting. Whatever his reason, it wasn’t the least bit funny. She was late, but she had been before and it was never the big “P.” They took precautions. Sure, sometimes she forgot to take her pill, but if she did they would almost always remember to use a condom. And, anyway, how would he know? She went downstairs to the living room. Everything was in its place. Same for the kitchen. And the dining room. “Sam?” A cool draft blew through her bare legs as she walked down the hallway leading from the kitchen. The basement door was open.

“Sam?” Silence. She looked down the staircase into the darkness before sliding her hand along the wall to find the light switch. At the bottom of the stairs she glanced quickly into the wine cellar to her right. The dim track lights cast a soft glow on the empty shelves. The door to Sam’s lab was open and the lights were on. “Sam?”

As she entered the room she broke out into a cold sweat. Her heart beat in her chest, a biologic conga drum keeping time with her suddenly spiking adrenaline levels. The interior office door was also open. She walked over to the doorway. The air grew cooler and smelled musty and damp, the familiar scent of a forgotten place. The room was smaller than she expected, furnished with a small desk and a single computer, the screen of which was illuminated. As if approaching a cornered animal, she walked slowly to it. She leaned cautiously forward, the small electrified type coming into sharp focus: “975,000 files deleted successfully.”

***

Sam’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Claire waited several more hours for him to return before she picked up the landline cordless phone in the living room. Stephanie was at her door 15

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minutes after she called. It occurred to Claire, for the first time, that Stephanie was never at work. But the thought flitted away, a tiny moth maneuvering through the hurricane force winds wreaking havoc on her mind. She opened the door to find her neighbor standing there, looking refreshed, her wrinkle-free skin as polished and milky as ivory, her hair pulled back in a tight bun that tamed her thick curls into silky submission. Her flawless face looked appropriately concerned. Without waiting to be asked, she walked past Claire into the living room and took a seat on the sofa. She pointed her closed knees toward the fireplace before reflexively pulling down her pencil skirt and patting the cushion alongside her.

“Come here sweetheart. You sounded so upset on the phone. You said Sam is….missing?”

The unbridled trust she felt for Stephanie, that bond from the party, that powerful connection, that magic, or the drugs, or whatever it had been, was gone. In its place was an uneasy paranoia, creeping slowly over her consciousness like a black mold along a damp basement wall. Something suddenly didn’t smell right. Another mental butterfly fluttered into view. Jessica. She would call her best friend in DC. Today. After Stephanie left. Jessica. An old friend. A real friend.

She sat beside Stephanie. Her face grew hot with frustration and confusion, and she looked down at her shaking hands and began to sob. “Stephanie, I don’t know what’s happening. I’ve been asleep for like 12 hours. What the fuck kind of drugs did we do at the party? It really fucked me up. I can’t remember anything from last night, except for getting there. I don’t remember coming home, or seeing Sam. But, he, he was supposed to be here.” She looked up and held her face for a moment in the sunlight streaming in through one of the living room’s bay windows, remembering. “He was here. When I left. But, but, he isn’t here now and there’s no note and he’s sick, Stephanie, he’s sick and I’m worried and I-,”

Stephanie reached for Claire’s hands but, as they touched, Claire felt an odd sense of revulsion. She thought about mentioning what Sam had written on her arm but then resisted, and reflexively turned her wrist toward the floor. It wasn’t worth mentioning. Not yet. Not until she had more time to think on it and talk to Sam. Was she now going to buy an EPT because her

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demented husband wrote on her arm before he disappeared? She pushed these thoughts aside and stood up before walking over to the nearby armchair’s matching ottoman. She sat down on it and straightened her back before looking directly into Stephanie’s eyes, hoping to project what little emotional strength she had left. “Do you know where he is?”

Silence filled the space like water through a breached hull. Stephanie’s look was an infuriating blend of sympathy and patronization. “Sweetheart, why on Earth would I know where your husband is?”

The water rushed in now and Claire couldn’t breathe, couldn’t find the words as an angry muteness washed over her, a just-injured child insulted by pain, moments before the scream.

Aren’t you listening to me? One minute I am out snorting pills with you at some fucked up swingers’ party and the next minute my husband is suddenly gone. He’s gone! Without leaving a note! Without mentioning he had plans to go anywhere! Oh, and I have been asleep for more than 12 hours! Fuck! She was up now and pacing the room, wiping the tears from her eyes and inhaling sharply, attempting to reset her emotions. “I’m sorry, Steph, I’m just really confused. I feel like I am losing my mind.”

Stephanie sat back on the couch and rested her head in her hand, her arm an elegant triangle of white cashmere. She sighed. “I’m not going to tell you to calm down, because I would be just as fucking crazy as you are right now. But I am sure there is a logical explanation for this.”

“Logical?”

“Well, for one thing, you snorted a lot of Klonopin at the party. I should have just given you one.”

“I did?”

“Yes. And, while we’re on it, KPin doesn’t play well with booze. But, you’re allowed to let your hair down. He’s been away so much and you’ve been home alone a lot, in a new place.

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It’s stressful. You’re only human. You’re just a little cloudy from a party that got a little out of control. Mystery number one solved.”

Claire desperately wanted to make sense of it all and Stephanie’s matter-of-fact explanation blunted her sickening skepticism. Logical. Yes. She craved logic as much as she craved a Xanax. “But where is he, Stephanie?”

Stephanie reached into her purse and pulled out a cell phone. She held it up for Claire to see. “Maybe you should check your phone. You left it at the party. I was going to call you and tell you but, well, obviously, you wouldn’t have answered.”

Claire stood up and walked slowly over to the couch, and, without a word, reached out and took the device from Stephanie. There were several unread texts from Sam, and a missed call. She opened the first text:

Didn’t want to wake you. Must have been some party. They’ve reconsidered decision. One more trip to DC regarding project wind-down and then I am home for good. I’m feeling much better. I should be back in a week, maybe less. Text you when I get there. Love, Sam.

Claire sat down next to Stephanie and leaned in and hugged her, crying softly into her shoulder. “Stephanie, I am so sorry. I just don’t know what’s come over me. He’s never here and I worry so much about him and I just wish he would stop working, like he promised he would and we could just be here, together, and we could focus on us and living with this diagnosis.”

“Diagnosis?” Stephanie asked, wincing as if just pricked by a needle. The question dissolved their embrace and Claire turned away, staring out the living room’s front window.

“Oh, Steph, this is why I am so upset,” said Claire, a new, more intense storm of emotions forming in her throat. “Sam has early onset dementia. And lately he has been showing symptoms. Forgetfulness, paranoia...delusions.”

“Claire, I, honestly don’t know what to say,” Stephanie said, her eyes filling with empathetic tears.

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“This was meant to be our reboot. I would paint, maybe open a small gallery and between that income and his disability retirement, we would be fine. Totally fine. That was the fucking plan. But I feel like he is not living up to his end of the bargain. He can’t seem to leave his work behind. He’s obsessed with it. Until he moves on from it, I feel like we are both stuck.”

Stephanie reached out and held Claire’s hand, “Babe, can I make a suggestion?”

Claire wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. “Fuck, I’m a mess. Yes, suggest away.”

“You do need to start working again. Or at least get a hobby.”

“And two?”

“Have you thought about maybe convincing Sam to move somewhere other than here? You know, somewhere a bit more inspiring.”

“You’re looking at it,” said Claire, gesturing around the room. “This was supposed to be our grand second act.”

“I mean someplace truly different. A place where maybe Sam’s health would really improve.”

“Stephanie, he has dementia, not asthma. I don’t think moving to the West Coast or Spain is going to improve his prognosis.”

“No, but it might change yours. And, I don’t know, I think if you were happier, well, I’m just saying, if the opportunity arises, you should consider it.”

“Consider leaving Frontier Village? Fuck no. I plan on retiring here. You can’t get rid of me that easily, bitch,” Claire said, managing to crack a sheepish smile.

They both laughed and the normalcy of that noise made Claire lean back on the couch and break into a fit of the giggles. Stephanie stood and made her way back to the front door. They bid their goodbyes and as she walked onto the porch she turned back to face Claire.

“Seriously, Claire, my prediction is neither one of us will be here for much longer.”

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***

Claire awoke Monday morning and reached into her night table and grabbed the bottle of Xanax. Just one. Just one. But what if you are pregnant? Just one. Just one.

In the kitchen, she put a couple of eggs in the steamer and grabbed a bag of bread from the freezer. As she prepared breakfast her mind drifted to the day before. Sam’s subsequent text messages and the voicemail, which she’d read and played after Stephanie’s poetic departure, explained that he was going to be spending much of the week in a secure, underground government facility that didn’t allow him to use cell phones, but that he would try to call Wednesday night to check in. Aside from the fact that the messages did little to explain the deleted files or the fact that the door to his office was open, they were otherwise not that unusual. She had grown accustomed over the years to her husband’s quick, unannounced departures. But there was something about his voicemail that wasn’t quite right. She grabbed her smart phone from the kitchen’s island and pushed “Replay Message:”

“Claire, it is your husband, Sam. Please don’t worry about me, baby. I know how these unexpected trips to DC unsettle you. All is well, and I will return in about a week. I love you.”

Unsettle me? “Your husband, Sam.” It just didn’t sound like him, but then again, Sam wasn’t himself lately, either. The toast popped up and her thoughts were broken. She peeled her hardboiled eggs and sat on a barstool at the island, eating silently before she remembered to call Jessica.

Out of all her acquaintances and associates in DC, her relationship with Jessica Kincaid was the most enduring. Their friendship predated her marriage to Sam by several years, and she regarded Jess as someone who could remind her not only of who she was, but who she had been. They had seen each other through several failed romantic relationships, a stint in rehab, the death of a parent, a breast cancer scare and, of course, Sam’s diagnosis.

She trusted Jessica. She didn’t know Stephanie Hall. And she was beginning to think maybe that was a good thing.

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CHAPTER 9

After Stephanie left, Claire’s day devolved into a blurry, anchorless timeline of Lifetime movies, Hot Pockets, gin and her best friend, Ben Zodiazepine (Ha! That old joke). Fresh from a hot shower, her mind numbed and blank, she made a breakfast of mini bagels and a hard-boiled egg, she decided it wasn’t too early to finally call Jessica. Perspective, Claire. She will give you perspective.

Her old friend answered on the third ring and the familiar sound of her voice made Claire audibly sigh with relief.

“Well, well, well, she lives after all. How’s life in the suburbs girl? Are you pregnant yet?”

Claire tried to laugh but the sound she made was more like a stilted high-pitched moan that stuck in her throat like a cotton ball. She bit her bottom lip as a tear escaped down her cheek.

“Claire? What’s wrong, sweetie?”

She tried her best to explain to Jess, and made it a point to exclude the more crazy- sounding parts of her narrative – the creepy dog and the crow, for example – and instead spoke of Sam’s odd and unexpected departures and her ever-increasing anxiety, paranoia and now nightmares. She was surprised and consequently relieved at how hum-drum most of her story sounded when spoken aloud.

“Claire, you sound like every suburban housewife I have ever met, honey,” said Jess. “You are going through a period of adjustment out there. His illness is a lifestyle change. Moving is a lifestyle change. And his inability to stop working is, well, it’s not fair to you, Claire. Especially when you’re rightfully worried about his mental health.”

“You’re right. You’re right.” Claire said, taking a tissue from the box on the kitchen counter and dabbing at the corners of her tear-filled eyes.

“When he comes back from DC, Claire, you need to sit down and tell him all of this. You know? And you need to keep busy.”

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“Busy, right, yes,” Claire said, thinking about Stephanie’s similar suggestion. “Jess, I’m afraid if he changes too much, that, that I won’t know him anymore. That he won’t be the person I fell in love with.”

“You’re borrowing trouble, sweetie. We’re always changing, all of us. I’m not downplaying how horrible his dementia is, but even if you guys weren’t dealing with that, nobody in any relationship is exactly who they were going in. Who’s to say who you’ll be after this experience? But at a certain point you have to let go.”

Claire’s bottom lip was quivering again and she wished she could lean across a dinner table and kiss Jess’ cheek, wished she could just go home. “You’re a good friend to me,” she said with a sniffle. “Come visit soon.”

“Too far,” Jessica said with a laugh. “Next time you move, it better be closer. Take care.”

“Bye, babe.”

***

She was determined not to pace around today, like a restless pet anxiously awaiting the arrival of its owner. No, today, she would get out of the house. A sober day. Was it possible? Yes! After a quick shower, she tossed her breakfast plate and coffee mug into the dishwasher, put on her running shorts, sports bra and tank top and, iPhone strapped to her arm, left for a head-clearing run.

She first ran down the street, toward the stop sign at the foot of the hill leading to the Murray’s house. Indecipherable visions from her dream crept into her mind, a powerful sense of familiarity she vanquished by running faster. In staunch defiance of the intruding visions —- Sam, wait! Sam, no! – she banked right, and began sprinting up the hill. The Murray’s compound unfolded above her, its imposing gates and enclosed gardens looking down on the development like a royal castle lording over a lowly settlement of serfs.

As the road curved and sloped further upward, an animal ran by her at what seemed like extraordinary speed; so quickly, in fact, she couldn’t discern what it even was. It must have been

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fleeing something. Claire stopped and turned, but before she could stop the music blaring in her ears, a group of teenagers came around the sharp corner she had just scaled. There were four of them, two on bikes and two on skateboards, and the shortest of the four plowed into Claire with a force that sent them both rebounding in opposite directions. Claire hit the ground hard, and without even looking, knew she had badly scraped her arm. The skateboarder, a sandy-haired kid with a slight frame and faded skinny jeans, rolled forward onto the pavement, his baseball cap flying skyward and one of his high-top sneakers hurdling into the roadside bramble. His skateboard slipped under the guard rail and sailed into the valley below.

“What the fuck, lady!?” the skater yelled, springing from his somersault and futilely running in the direction of his board. “Great! Fucking great! That was my favorite fucking board. Fucking fantastic!”

His three friends, who looked to Claire like they ranged in age from 12 to 16, were now laughing so hard at their friends’ misfortune, nobody seemed to notice or care a grown-up had just been body-slammed to the ground and was now bleeding on the side of the road.

“Hey, you little shits! What about me? That fucking hurt! Jesus Christ! Do you live in this neighborhood?”

The question immediately silenced the group, and the oldest teen, a curly-haired redhead with a skull-shaped earring and a concert tee that read “Crusty Splits, Roanoke, 2013,” extended a freckled hand to Claire and, leaning back, hoisted her to her feet. “Shit, lady, are you okay? Fuck, you’re bleeding.” He peeled off his tee shirt and handed it to Claire.

She pushed the sweat-soaked garment away with a grimace. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Thank you. My name is Claire. Cut the ‘lady’ shit okay?”

“We are so sorry, Claire. Um, I’m Craig, this is Brad, Skylar and Bird.”

“Hey,” Skylar said.

“Yo,” Bird said.

“You’re going to buy me a new board, Claire,” Brad sneered.

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“Why were you guys chasing that animal?” Claire said, ignoring Brad.

More silence. The four boys looked at each other as if determining who had betrayed the group by telling this woman such a closely guarded secret.

“What are you talking about?” Craig asked, trying to sound surprised. The down-turned eyes and slack jaws on the younger boys’ faces did little to back up his attempt at conviction.

“I’m not stupid. There was a cat, or a raccoon, or a dog, fuck, something furry. It ran by me, clearly being chased by you guys.”

“It’s a dog,” Skylar, the shortest and presumably the youngest of the group, blurted out with a pre-teen squeak. “It hangs out in town, but always comes back here.”

“Big fucking mouth, Sky,” Brad said, still staring into the valley in hopes of spotting his board. “Fucking pussy.”

“We ain’t trying to hurt it or nothing,” Craig interjected. “We just want to know where it goes when it comes back here.”

“Why do you care about that? If it’s a stray, just call animal control. Poor thing is terrified of you, clearly.”

“No it ain’t,” said Bird, wiping the sweat from his blond, prepubescent mustache. “You don’t understand. When we ain’t chasing it, it follows us.” The other boys all shook their heads in emphatic agreement.

“Maybe it’s hungry?” offered Claire. “Or hurt?”

“Nah, we left a steak out for it once. In the parking near the skate park. It walked right up to it, stared at it, didn’t even sniff it,” Skylar offered, inviting a slap from Brad.

“Shut up, Sky,” Brad sneered, as he climbed onto the back of his friend’s bike. He then turned to Claire. “Sorry, lady, we’ll bug out. Come on guys, it’s getting late anyway.”

With a flip of skateboards and kickstands the boys started rolling down the hill. “Wait!” Claire called after them. “How did you even get in here?” 84 | Page

Ethan just gave her the peace sign as they rounded the bend, disappearing from her view. If given more time, she may have told them she, too, saw the dog once, and believed it belonged to Marie Hershel. That dog was weird though. Creepy. Why was it in town? And always off leash? And where had it been the night they had dinner at the Hershel’s? She should probably call Marie but, given the awkward dinner party, she didn’t want to commit to any more politically-charged small talk. Claire pulled her iPhone from the jogging holster velcroed to her arm and hit the preset for neighborhood security. The phone rang only once.

“Officer Donovan. Guard shack. Front gate.”

“Yes, hi, this is Claire Sturgis. This is going to sound strange, but I am jogging on Pine View Lane, on the hill leading up to the Murray’s, and I ran into these kids chasing a dog.”

“Where are they now?” The security guard sounded slightly eager, as if he was familiar with these teens.

“I think it might be Marie Hershel’s dog. Do you know if she is still looking for it?”

“Did you just see these kids?” he asked.

“Yes, but they just left me, they’re on bikes and skateboards. I think they’re leaving the Village. They were heading down the hill, your way, I guess.”

“We will take care of it, Mrs. Sturgis. We appreciate your call.”

“Well, I don’t know there is anything to-” Claire stammered, before realizing the line had gone dead.

Claire strapped back on her iPhone and began jogging down the hill, toward the guard shack. As she descended and took the left back onto her street, she saw the kids in the distance, heading to a service ladder she had never noticed on the perimeter wall. As her endorphins kicked in she broke into a sprint. Even though she had called security, she now felt she needed to warn the boys, or at least let the guards know, face-to-face, that they had really done nothing wrong. She felt foolish and guilty, as if she had caused unnecessary trouble for the kids. Her

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heart rate quickened, and the thumping of her running shoes provided a soundtrack to an inexplicable and growing sense of anxiety.

Claire came to a dead stop in the middle of the road. She probably saw the white paneled van before they did. It raced down the street leading from the guard shack at an alarming speed. What the fuck? It was driving at about 50 miles an hour, right for the kids, who presumably now saw its approach, evidenced by the evasive maneuvers they all made by banking hard right. The van spun sideways in a move clearly meant to block their escape. The boy who had offered her his shirt jumped off his skateboard and sailed through the air, his entire body slamming into the vehicle’s sliding side door. Claire covered her mouth with her hand in horror. Shit! Shit! What the fuck!

Concerned for their friend, the other boys ditched their bikes and board and ran to his aid, arms up in protest. Two uniformed guards got out of the vehicle, holding Tasers and handcuffs. Claire moved from the center of the street to the sidewalk and positioned herself behind a large oak tree. You have got to be joking?

The guards were, however, clearly not in a joking mood. The boy named Brad puffed his chest out and attempted to push one of the men. The match-up was akin to a ballerina picking a fight with a marine. The guard grabbed the boy’s neck and body slammed him to the pavement. As the other teens knelt over the boy who had hit the van, the guards began zapping them with the Tasers, their stunned bodies falling to the ground and shaking convulsively. Claire was frozen with fear. You’ve got to do something, Claire. Do something, for Christ sakes!

She sprinted to her house and frantically grabbed her car keys and purse from the kitchen counter and headed for the garage. Still in her jogging gear, with her smartphone still strapped to her arm – dammit, Claire, you should have filmed that – she turned the Range Rover’s ignition and drove quickly toward the still ascending garage door. The roof of the SUV scraped it and for a moment she thought she might drag the entire garage door with her. She raced down the street without any clear idea what she intended to do. But she had witnessed something. That was not cool. Totally excessive. Her mind raced with all the things she might say to the guards. Chill out. I’ll give them a ride home. I overreacted. Sorry I called you guys. Fucking thugs.

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Claire’s opportunity to protest had already passed, however. The boys, along with their bikes and boards, had already been loaded into the van by the time Claire reached the end of the street. As the vehicle pulled away she thought about honking or flashing her lights, demanding they pull over. She was, after all, Mrs. Sturgis, an association-fee-paying homeowner. At the end of the street, the van passed the shack, still manned by another guard, and continued onto the main road into town. She decided to hang back and follow it. Claire, what are you doing? You’re a fucking detective now? You should call the police, Claire. Just call the damn police.

She tailed the van for several miles before it pulled onto one of the fire service roads running parallel to the main road leading into town. It drove into the tree line and disappeared. Claire pulled onto the shoulder of the main road, just ahead of where they’d turned, and tried to control her breathing. Her hands were shaking as she unlocked her driver’s side door and peered through the slanting sunlight, squinting to see the van through the dense woods.

The sound of gravel beneath tires and a flash of white signaled its return. She back- tracked to her car and, jumping in, slid down in her seat. Shit, shit, shit. Without raising her head, she adjusted the left-side mirror. The van burst from the woods and turned left, heading back toward the Village. If they saw her at all, she figured, they may have assumed hers was an abandoned car. Still, she held her breath and, only when she didn’t see brake lights did she finally exhale.

She was out of her vehicle now, running down the service road, the dust from the upturned gravel still settling around her. But the boys were gone.

On her way home, as her car crested the slope above the valley, her eyes immediately went to the guard shack at the bottom of the hill. Had the guards seen her tail them? Given what she had witnessed, could she now calmly ask about what happened to Marie’s dog?

Seeing the white van parked alongside the small building at the entrance to the Village, she felt her adrenaline level going up, so much so her right knee began to jump. She laughed at the thought of plowing her car through the guard house. She also considered demanding to know

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what they did with the fucking children they’d kidnapped? Or, maybe more sensibly, she could just call the cops.

As she descended the long, winding slope, it occurred to her she had no earthly idea what she was going to do and that gave her such pause, she pulled over to the side of the road, maneuvering the SUV into a field of tall grass. From her vantage point she could just make out the guards faces through the reeds and bramble. They were laughing and patting each other occasionally on the shoulders. Oh, yuck it up, assholes. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size? She couldn’t say that to them. Could she? Maybe after a Xanax and a half a bottle of wine, but now, in the bare, sober light of day? Her first cold-turkey day was not going as planned.

It appeared from the same tall grass she had driven into, a couple of hundred feet closer to the security office. It was black and moving slowly across the road, even-paced, almost cautious. The two guards emerged from the building. The taller guard held his hand out, as if offering a treat of some sort to the animal. Not altering its speed, or wagging its tail, it came over to the man, who reached out and touched the dog’s head. The canine instantly collapsed. The shorter man went into the building and reemerged with a large green plastic bag with a handle on top, the kind that reminded Claire of bowling ball cases, only much larger and longer. The more muscular of the two men picked up the prone dog and matter-of-factly dumped it into the bag.

Claire’s hands were shaking now. She laughed out of sheer shock. Am I losing my mind? Did I just see what I think I saw? What in the hell is happening right now? She certainly had every right to lose her mind. Where to begin? Her husband was losing his, for starters. For real. She was convinced that, mentis competens or not, some screwed up shit was going down: the night Sam thought they were being followed, the deleted files, him being called back to Washington after being fired. “Claire, it is your husband, Sam.”

And now there were these kids and the goddamn dog these mall cops just threw into a plastic bag like a case of empty Bud Light cans. She thought about calling Stephanie, then thought better of it. Fuck it, I’m calling the goddamn police. Yes! Call the police, Claire. NOW!

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With trembling fingers, she pulled the iPhone off her arm and pried it from its plastic sleeve. She dialed 911, not taking her eyes off the guard shack window, behind which the two men were smoking and drinking coffee. The line was ringing. Once, twice, three times. One of the men in the shack put down his coffee mug and lifted a phone receiver to his ear. “Wirt County Sheriff’s Department, what’s your emergency?”

Claire hung up the phone and threw the SUV into reverse and made a U-turn, flooring the accelerator. She got the car to 90 miles per hour before she was satisfied she wasn’t being followed.

***

She didn’t need to call Stephanie. Or Sam. Or Jessica. No, as Claire drove into town, all she needed was a drink. Plain and simple. And, as if God had finally cut her a break, she came upon a low building covered with weathered red barn board, surrounded by a rotted-out front porch adorned with rusted metal wagon wheels. An unlit neon sign proclaimed the establishment “The Broken Spoke.” There was only one other car out front and she parked in front of it. She walked up to the glass front door, which was covered with old newspapers and duct tape, and yanked it open, feeling more determined than she had felt in months.

The interior of the bar was so dark, for a second she thought the building may have been abandoned. But as her eyes adjusted, she noticed a row of mismatched bar stools. A pair of bone white deer antlers rested atop an arch of worn pine framing the bar’s offerings. A shaft of sunlight reflected off the bottles. Through the shifting glare, Claire made out the silhouette of the bartender and, as the door shut loudly behind her, the establishment’s only other patron. A woman.

The bartender, a smallish bald man with red eyebrows and a white beard, dealt her a cocktail napkin. As Claire slid onto the bar stool two down from the woman, the barkeep asked, “Watch havin’ darling?”

“Whisky. Straight,” she said. You need to get tested, Claire. Oh, and fuck you if you are actually pregnant. Off to a good start, mommy.

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He reached for a bottle and poured her a glass. He looked over her shoulders toward the door. “They with you?” he asked.

She turned to see Beth and Carl Plaskett walking up to the bar behind her.

“Okay, this is too weird,” said Beth, wearing a leather jacket and dark blue jeans. “I swear we’re not following you!” Carl acknowledged her with a mere nod.

“You know what’s funny?” Claire asked, hoping they detected in her tone her sincere hope they would leave her alone and not ask to sit with her, “I have seen you twice outside of the Village, but never once there. In fact, I have never seen another moving vehicle there that I haven’t been riding in. Isn’t that nuts?”

Much to her relief, the Plasketts’ expressions revealed a shared disinterest in small talk and Carl held two fingers up to the bartender and pointed at Claire’s drink. He soon had two tumblers of whisky in hand and retreated to a two-top in the darkest corner of the bar, behind a tarp-covered pool table and an unplugged jukebox.

“Well, it’s nice seeing you Claire,” Beth said, ignoring the question. “Carl takes his whiskey seriously. Can’t keep him out of this place.” She gave Claire a slight pat on her right shoulder as she walked to the other side of the room to join her husband.

The woman Claire had noticed when she’d walked in was two stools down from her. After a closer look, Claire guessed she was in her early fifties. If she was any younger, by the looks of her, there had been many years of hard living. She was wearing an age-inappropriate juniors halter top. Hot pink. Her bare and considerable stomach muffin-topped over the waist of her faded jean skirt, which was the same color as her liberally-applied eye shadow. She removed a damp hand from her margarita glass, wiped it on her turquoise and rhinestone-studded white leather belt, and held it out for Claire to shake. Her other hand held a lit cigarette, which she pulled way back behind her hair-sprayed head in a polite, if futile, effort to keep her smoke from enveloping Claire.

“Sharon,” she said, grabbing Claire’s hand. “You visiting town? Someone die?”

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“Die?”

Sharon pointed out of the bar’s cloudy front window. “The only time people driving a car like that come to town is when someone dies. You know, someone’s kid moved away and then they reappear with families of their own to bury mother, father, blah, blah, blah and then they disappear as quick as they came. Sorry, I’m being nosey. Just tell me to shut up. I’m a little tipsy and I get chatty.” She leaned back and turned her head to the bartender, yelling, “God knows this ginger cue ball ain’t got two words to spare for good ole’ Sharon. Sharon who’s putting his goddamn kid through that community college with the amount of scratch I spend in here.”

Without looking up from his television, he swatted her away.

“Oh, no, nobody died. I live right out of town. In the Village.”

The bartender looked up then slowly averted his gaze. Sharon looked as if Claire had just pulled a live chicken out of her bra. “No shit! At that Frontier Acres or some shit, with the wall and the poh-lease out there in front? I ain’t never met nobody from that goddamn place, not one person, ever since it was built.”

“Um, I’m Claire, by the way.”

“Claire, well, now that’s a real pretty name. Sounds more girly than Sharon. Your name is sweet. Claire, my dear, would you care for an éclair?” Sharon burst into hysterical laughter, then coughed her way back to seriousness. “No joke. I mean, where the hell do y’all go to drink?”

“Let me get this straight. Sharon, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You mean to tell me you have never met anybody else from the Village? It’s been there awhile, right? Like for a few years at least.”

Sharon shook her head no.

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“Nope, nope. That’s only been there for two years, tops. Went up overnight. My friend Karen is a real estate broker here in town and she said those houses never even went on the market neither. Some out-of-town company sold every house in the place —- to one buyer.”

“That, that isn’t possible. There’s at least 50 houses in there.”

“There may be 50 houses, sweetheart, but ain’t no way there’s 50 families. I figure half those damn houses got to be empty.”

“And what do you base that on?” Claire said, sounding skeptical and a little annoyed.

“The kids.”

“Not sure I’m following you. The kids?”

Sharon took a long drag of her cigarette, and then exhaled an enormous amount of smoke out her nose. It enshrouded them like a fog and Sharon leaned forward, her face so close to Claire’s she noticed the brunette hairs growing out of Sharon’s left nostril.

“I drive the bus, honey, for the only grade school this side of that mountain, public or private,” said Sharon. “And there ain’t a single kid from that place enrolled. Now tell me that ain’t fucked up. Guess they’re all those homeschool weirdos. One less stop for me, I guess. Shit.”

“That is weird” Claire agreed and genuinely meant it. “Hey, Sharon, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot darlin’,” Sharon said, fishing around in her purse for her pack of cigarettes. “Ask away.”

Claire lowered her voice to nearly a whisper. “Without being obvious, you see that couple over there?” she asked.

Sharon was a pro in barroom body language, and turned her head toward the Plasketts under the guise of not wanting to light her cigarette in Claire’s face. Once it was lit she turned back to Claire and exhaled out of the left corner of her mouth. “Yeah, what about ‘em?”

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“How many times a week do you come in here?” Claire asked.

“Every day,” Sharon said, with jaded pride.

“You ever seen them in here before?”

“Never once,” said Sharon. “Never ever.”

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CHAPTER 10

Claire wasn’t sure how long she had been sleeping in the front seat of her SUV. The day had gone increasingly hazy after the fourth whiskey sour with Sharon. Sharon had ordered them a fifth round, but Claire made polite apologies and a wobbly retreat to her car. She was relieved that she at least had the presence of mind not to drive home, and, instead, had opted to nap it off on the reclined driver seat. Through the steamed-up windows, she watched the Broken Spoke’s neon sign flicker on. It was dusk and the streets of town were quiet. A pickup truck and a motorcycle waited for the nearby stoplight to turn green. A man jogged through the crosswalk. She pulled out her phone and Googled the number for the only taxi service in the county and ordered one.

The cab took 30 minutes to arrive. A black woman named Marcy showed up in a purple Toyota Corolla. Claire got in the back seat and met Marcy’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Her stare was slightly skeptical and Claire imagined the look was inspired by the fact that she was still wearing her jogging outfit, and had a severe case of bleary eyes from the booze and bed- head from her car catnap. “It don’t start?” “I’m sorry?” said Claire, wiping cigarette ashes from the armrest of her door and rolling the window down a quarter of the way. “That’s a pretty nice car you got out of. But it don’t surprise me. British elegance my ass. See this car?” She waited for Claire to respond. “Yes.” “Japanese. My fifth one.” “Ah, right.”

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“Nah, nah, not my fifth Toyota mind you. My fifth Corolla. If it ain’t broke don’t fix it. That’s what I say.” Claire had absolutely no energy for small talk. “You know where the Village is, right?” Marcy took the hint and broke eye contact with Claire, offering only a mumbled, grouchy acknowledgement. The fact Sam was calling home tomorrow was the only thing holding Claire together. He always made her feel safe. She drew a heart in the steamed-up window, writing “C+S” inside of it. Just like Sam had done in a cab in Paris, on their rainy but romantic honeymoon. Her eyes teared up at the sweet memory. As the Toyota crested the hill leading to the Village, Claire tapped on Marcy’s right shoulder. “This is good, right here.” Marcy shot her a confused look in the rearview mirror. “I can bring you right to your house, lady, it ain’t no trouble.” “No, right here, please. Please pull over.” Marcy pulled the car over. Claire thanked her and, fishing in her pocket, handed her a twenty-dollar bill. The gesture seemed to erase the driver’s doubts. She smiled broadly and handed Claire a business card. “If you need a ride back to your car tomorrow, you know, while you wait for the tow or whatever, give me a call, darlin’.” Claire nodded and exited through the back-left door and just stood on the side of the road until Marcy did a U-turn and drove back toward town. Claire crossed the street. It was dusk. A group of crows feeding on a dead deer carcass cawed in protest at her approach, hopping away from the rotting carrion before flying to the overhead telephone wires to watch her arrival or await her departure. She walked to the edge of the woods and, hugging the tree line, made her way down the hill. She could see the Village’s wall now and the roof of the guard shack. She could also see the service ladder the boys had used to scale the development’s brick perimeter. Claire, this is crazy! You live there! What are you doing? What in the hell are you doing? The rusty ladder was bolted into the brick, its first step level to her chest. She grabbed the ladder’s frame above her head and, kicking off the wall, hoisted herself to the first step. As she pushed her body flush against the ladder, she looked right toward the guard shack. Through

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the open window she saw the guards, standing at the doorway of the hut, their backs to her. Now, Claire! She scrambled up the ladder, pausing one more time before swinging over the top of the wall. Her hands were wet with sweat and, descending the other side, her foot slipped and her body banged loudly against the ladder’s metal frame. She dangled there for a moment, listening for what she imagined was the inevitable approach of the men. She heard only the crows arguing over their spoils.

As she walked into her living room, she prayed for Sam to have returned early, but thought calling out his name was a bit too hopeful. Everything was as she had left it and she knew immediately he wasn’t back from DC. Out of sheer habit, she made a beeline for the coriander jar before spinning around and diving headfirst onto the couch. You’re going to deny yourself serenity because your husband, who has dementia, declared you were pregnant by scribbling it on your arm while you were sleeping? Pick a side, Claire. Either you’re off the wagon and you’re not pregnant, or you’re back on the fucking wagon. You can’t have it both ways. Right? She imagined sitting at the kitchen table, downing two Xanax and three glasses of wine in rapid succession. Her body needed it. Her mind craved it. Just one. Not three, Claire. One tiny little pill. She grabbed one from the jar and washed it down with a glass of white wine. As she waited for the pill to kick in, she felt her anxiety level rising, like the temperature of an engine denied coolant. She was overcome with the urge to call someone, anyone to help her make sense of what felt like a panic taking hold. Stephanie! Yes, she could trust Stephanie. Of course, she could. They had a connection. Stephanie understood the stress she was under. She is a true friend, Claire. Maybe there was an explanation for the relentless weirdness of the past few days. Maybe the objectivity of a clearer head would bring swift resolution to these seemingly inexplicable events. Yes, Stephanie would help her. She would tell Claire she was nuts and they would laugh and tomorrow Sam would call and everyone would have a good laugh at Claire’s clumsy attempts at suburban living. You scaled the service ladder? What are you, nuts, Claire? Yes, it would all be very funny. Very funny indeed.

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She took a long hot shower and managed to reach a near meditative state, staring at her feet and slowly breathing as the hot water cascaded down her back. She threw on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, dried and brushed her hair and grabbed her house keys. She would plainly present the facts to Stephanie and then open her mind to her new best friend’s comforting interpretation and, better still, explanation of the undecipherable psychobabble running through Claire’s mind. She rang the Halls’ doorbell several times but nobody answered. She walked down the stone walkway and peered through the garage windows. Both cars were parked inside. The pool, Claire. They must be at the pool. She followed the fence line around the side of the house to the gate. Just before she shouted a tentative “hello,” she caught herself. Voices. Stephanie and Marc were talking behind the fence. Not just talking, their voices were raised in argument. Claire froze, lowered her head, and listened. “Why did you tell her that shit about the wall? If the leadership finds out about that, you could be questioned, or worse. You’re playing with fire. You have to maintain your distance.” “I’m doing my best, Marc. I didn’t want to invite her to the party, but Lu and Marcus had other plans. I also wanted her to steer clear of Marie and her people. Did you know she and Keith had them over for dinner? God knows how that went. They’re clearly sizing her up.” “When his interrogation and erasure is done and the files decrypted, they’ll be reunited.” “But, he’ll be a zombie, Marc. Surely there must be another way. I’m going to convince Lu it’s not our only option.” “It’s been decided by the Council. Yes, Lu can override it. But she won’t and you need to leave it alone. When it’s all over, neither of them will remember any of this. The doctors will make sure of that. Lu has ordered she be brought in tonight. Orders are orders.” “Well, Lu also ordered a work-up on her blood, so I’m going to take that as a positive sign.” Claire’s torso was suddenly floating across the Halls’ front lawn. She couldn’t feel her feet. The adrenaline fought the Xanax and the result was a numbing, dreamlike retreat. Her body was panicking while her mind hummed with a soothing white noise that drowned out most of the fear. Once in the house, she floated up the stairs to her bedroom and sat down on the floor, trying

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to control her breathing. What in the fuck were they talking about? Am I experiencing auditory hallucinations? “He’ll be a zombie?” Sam? Are they talking about Sam? “…her blood?” My blood? In the distance, she heard her cell phone ringing. Where is it? Did I leave it downstairs? In the kitchen, maybe? It took her nearly 30 seconds to realize it was in the front pocket of her jeans. Her hands felt as flimsy as wet cardboard. She pushed answer and put the device to her flush face. “Hello?” “Babe, it’s Sam.” She swallowed the hitch in her throat and her eyes filled with tears. “Sam, oh my God. I, thought you were calling tomorrow. It’s so good to hear your voice sweetheart. I need you to tell me you’re coming home this weekend, like you said. I’m going nuts. Weird shit is happening.” “What weird shit? Tell me.” “Just come home, please. I am too, too tired and confused to tell you over the phone. Please, Sam. Just come home.” “You need to tell me what you’re talking about, Claire. You have me worried now. Tell me.” There was something about the way he said “tell me” that sounded angry and impatient. It just didn’t sound like the man she knew. The off-key command fueled her already out-of- control paranoia. She sat in silence and didn’t say anything. “Claire?” “Sam, babe, do you remember when we were in Paris?” There was a pause. “Yes, of course.” “Do you remember what I wrote inside the heart on the cab window, the night of that protest?” “Claire, am I on a quiz show right now?” “Answer the fucking question, Sam!” “This is ridiculous. Okay. Let me try to remember. Um. You wrote ‘I love you.’” Claire hung up the phone.

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CHAPTER 11

Claire took Marcy’s taxi back to her SUV and, a few minutes later, she was merging onto the eastbound interstate. At one point, she looked down at the speedometer and she was driving nearly 100 miles per hour. If she could have taken a helicopter back to DC she would have. After the phone call with whoever-was-pretending-to-be-Sam, she called Jessica. She left a long, rambling message, complete with choking sobs, in which she declared herself utterly insane, unstable and in need of serious help. “I just hung up on someone pretending to be Sam! Call me back!” she had concluded. Within a few minutes, Jess had called back, and told Claire to come back to DC and stay with her. That everything would be fine. That things would get worked out. It was just what she needed to hear.

The rolling West Virginian hills gave way to more congested Virginia traffic. By the time she pulled into a parking space down the street from Jessica’s Capitol Hill apartment, she was so exhausted she couldn’t even parallel park the boxy Rover. She left it at an odd angle, with the vehicle’s back tire on the sidewalk. She grabbed her purse and walked the few blocks to Jessica’s brownstone. Jessica must have spotted her approaching from behind the iron-bar-covered front bay window, because she was waiting for her at the top of the red stone stoop. She was wearing sweatpants and a Georgetown tee shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was holding a mug of tea in her delicate hands. To Claire, she looked like an ambassador from the United Nations of Sanity. Seeing her friend’s obvious disarray, she put the tea down at her feet and opened her arms wide. Claire accepted the hug as if it were a life preserver thrown from a rescue ship. “Thank you so much,” she said into Jessica’s ear. “You don’t know how much I need you right now.” As distraught and emotionally fatigued as she was, Claire was still able to appreciate the beauty of Jessica’s home. One entire wall of her friend’s living room was exposed brick, on

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which a massive modern art piece hung, an explosion of blue and pink and yellow. A tinted-blue crystal vase on a silver plate contained a massive bouquet of yellow gladiolas, which served as the centerpiece atop a rounded glass and chrome dinette. From a high-gloss, rectangular coffee table the color of soot, Jessica picked up a red kettle she had on a black walnut trivet, and filled a clay mug with chai. “Sit, sit,” said Jessica. “Let me take your bag.” Jessica took Claire’s purse and put it on the open kitchen’s gray quartz countertop. “Do you have a suitcase in the car?” “I didn’t pack one,” Claire said, flopping onto the overstuffed sofa and dabbing her lower eye lids with the unbuttoned sleeves of her blouse. “Your house looks so pretty.” Jessica pulled up a black leather cantilever chair she’d retrieved from the dining area and positioned it directly in front of Claire. She pulled it close to the sofa, so that when she sat in it, their knees were touching. “Now, look at me,” she said to Claire, pinching her chin with her thumb and index finger and gently raising Claire’s downcast gaze. “What in the fuck is going on with you?” Claire willed her bottom lip to stop trembling. She inhaled deeply, opening her hands wide and moving them down her jeans before grabbing her knees and straightening her spine. She shook her head slightly from side to side, as if to wake herself from sleep, and looked directly into her friends imploring eyes. If you tell her everything, Claire, she will think you’re certifiably insane. Maybe you are losing your mind. Maybe coming clean about all the chaos in your head is the only option left. Maybe you need help. Real psychological help. Is it possible both you and your husband are losing your minds together? Is that a thing? Claire realized she hadn’t responded to Jessica’s question. Instead, she began giggling uncontrollably. “What’s so funny?” Jessica said, hesitantly smiling. Claire’s giggles erupted to a full-on belly laugh. She lay back on the couch, holding her stomach and twisting her body from side to side. “I, I-” “What? You what?” Claire was gasping for breath, trying to compose herself to no avail. “I am totally losing my mind I think. Sam and I are going batshit crazy. Together!”

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“That doesn’t seem very funny, Claire,” Jessica said plainly, which inspired anew Claire’s dwindling giggles. “Claire! You are freaking me out now. What is going on with you?” “Oh, and I fell – actually, no, I fucking jumped, if I’m being honest – right off the wagon. Yippee!” Claire exclaimed with a squeak. Claire cast her gaze away from Jessica as a heavy silence filled the small space between them. Jessica broke the silence with a resigning sigh. “So, in that case, whatcha’ drinking?” Claire blushed, now allowing herself to make eye contact with Jessica again. “Wine? White? Californian?” “ “You have pretty discerning tastes for a drunk,” Jessica said, as she got up and made her way into the kitchen. Claire got up from the sofa and walked over to the bay window. You have to get that test. Test! Test! Test! She parted the sheer drapes and inhaled deeply, like a diver preparing to leap. Outside the summer heat was almost visible. A city work crew was sweating in the wavy haze, patching a pothole on the opposite side of the street with clumpy black asphalt. A man in a business suit and an orange safety vest rode a red bike down the sidewalk, weaving around a young hipster couple, he, sporting a man bun, and she, a dandelion-covered sundress. Another man sat in a black sedan, intently reading a magazine. “Here we are,” Jessica announced, setting a serving tray with two white wine glasses and a bottle of Riesling on the coffee table. “Your truth serum has arrived, my dear.” It was all Claire could do not to just grab the bottle and empty it with one hearty chug. The first sip was as comforting as regaining your footing before an imminent fall down a steep staircase. Ah, this is what I need. A glass of chilled stability. “So you got my message?” Claire was already nearly done with her first glass of wine. They both sat side-by-side on the couch and Jessica, feigning a surprised look, refilled Claire’s glass. “Baby doll, that message made no sense. I mean, really, I was going to send the truck from the loony bin to go pick you up. For real. You sounded unhinged.” “I don’t know where to begin, Jess,” Claire said, appreciating the alcohol’s first tickle of warmth up and down her tense shoulders and arms. “Sam left for work unexpectedly a few

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days ago, even though he was previously fired, or put on medical leave, and since he has been gone, really weird shit has been happening in my neighborhood.” “You had said. Something about some kids chasing a dog? That doesn’t sound too weird to me, babe, right?” “Yes, but then I called our neighborhood’s security guards and they, they…they chased them with a van and, and, fucking tased them, Jess, and threw them in the back of the van and, and then, just sped off.” “Okay, that is a bit fucked up,” Jess said, pulling a pack of cigarettes, a tiny Bic lighter and a brass ashtray from a drawer in the coffee table. “Want one?” “Um, I shouldn’t,” said Claire, reluctantly waving them away. Test! Test! “Okay, so, totally devil’s advocate here, but I once saw these mall cops in Indiana beat the shit out of these teenage shoplifters,” offered Jessica, turning her head to the right and reflexively blowing smoke up and out the side of her mouth. “That type of guy gets so bored. You know, they wanted to be real cops and they sit around all day nodding at pretty housewives like you-” “Yes, but-” “But nothing, Claire. So, listen, finally, these deputy dogs have, you know, like a mission, and they overreact. You know what I mean, they take the little power they have and they just take that to an unnecessary level. It happens all the time.” She inhaled deeply and then exhaled a large cloud of smoke. “It’s all over YouTube.” “I guess that’s possible,” said Claire, taking a deep pull of the secondhand smoke through her nose. “Besides, you don’t know the back story, right? I mean, those kids are probably huge pains in the ass. And, for starters, they were trespassing. They’re lucky those guys didn’t call the real cops.” “But then they drove them out to the woods,” said Claire. “A few miles from the development.” “Probably just trying to scare them,” said Jessica dismissively. “Okay, maybe, but what about the, the dog. The dog they had been chasing. I think I mentioned this in my message…”

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“Did you?” “They were chasing a dog, Jessica. A dog I had seen before in my neighborhood.” “Okay, and?” “That dog walked up to the guards, they touched it, and it just collapsed.” “Maybe they taught it how to play dead,” said Jessica, pouring them both more wine before extinguishing her cigarette in the ashtray with a quick twist of her wrist. “It didn’t look like a trick. I can’t explain it. I mean, it just laid there, and then one of them picked it up and put it in a plastic bag.” Jessica was smiling now. “You don’t believe me. See, this is why I think I’m going crazy.” “I believe you, but, babe, maybe it was some kind of new-fangled doggie crate. I saw a guy the other day in the park with a fucking bulldog in a papoose around his neck. And how far away were you when you saw all of this, anyway?” “A few hundred feet,” Claire mumbled, reexamining the memory as she nervously chewed on a hangnail on her index finger. “I was tired. And hungover.” “Exactly!” Jessica exclaimed triumphantly, as if she had finally proven her point in front of a riveted jury. The reasonable doubt Jessica was infusing into her thinking set off a chain reaction of skepticism in Claire’s mind. She wanted so desperately for Jess to be right. She craved the comforting normalcy logic promised to deliver. Maybe Sam just forgot about the details of Paris, because – hello Claire! – your husband has early-onset dementia. Maybe Stephanie and Marc weren’t talking about her and Sam. That’s what you get for eavesdropping, Claire! Claire allowed herself a relief-filled giggle. Jess laughed along with her. “I love you, Jess,” Claire said, inhaling deeply, as if surfacing from the darkness of a deep dive. “God, I feel so much better.” “Good, now, look, call Sam. He’s probably worried sick about you. You did hang up on him like a lunatic, because you thought he wasn’t your husband, if I’m remembering your crazy voicemail correctly. In a few days, you’ll see him and everything will make perfect sense. Okay?” Jessica poured the last of the white wine into their glasses. “If you want some privacy,

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babe, feel free to call him from the veranda.” The word was funny given her tiny balcony leading off the master bedroom. They both smiled. “Thanks,” Claire said, as she scaled the single flight of oak stairs leading to the second floor. Jessica’s master suite was just to the left. A four-poster, mahogany canopy bed took up nearly the entire room. The piece was masculine, yet tamed by two feminine sheer swags, draped dreamily over the top of the coffee-colored frame, the posts of which were intentionally distressed. The bedding, right down to the collection of neatly arranged pillows, was a crisp, bleached white. A door leading to the en suite bathroom was off to the left. Claire caught her reflection in the mirror above the vanity and slowly approached it, as if greeting a stranger. She barely recognized the woman staring back at her. Her hair was snarled and uncombed. The tee shirt she wore – some beachy print she’d bought on a cruise she and Sam had taken what felt like a century ago — was wrinkled and a bit too small. Absent any makeup, and slightly sunburnt, her face looked puffy and slept on. There were purplish half-circles under her eyes, which were bleary and bloodshot. Her visage was the epitome of stress and worry and she impulsively turned on the faucet and filled her cupped, trembling hands with cold water, which she splashed over her face. The gesture felt clarifying and almost baptismal. No more of this bullshit Claire! Her mother’s words rang in her ears. “Time to be a big girl, Claire. Jenny’s gone. You didn’t mean to kill her.” *** Claire opened the French doors leading out to the tiny balcony. The air was hot and thick, and the sounds and smells of the city assaulted her senses. For the first time since she’d left West Virginia, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket. She had five missed calls from Sam and two voicemails. In his messages, he sounded truly concerned. Before he even picked up, she felt a rush of blood to her cheeks. Her behavior was, at best, embarrassing, and, at worst, psychotic. As the phone rang in her ear, Claire fixated her gaze on a brownstone that had been converted into law offices across the street. A large second-floor window afforded an end-to-end view of a conference room. A woman, who looked to be about Claire’s age, was wearing a stylish white blouse and tight black A-line skirt and making a presentation to several suited men around a large, lacquered taupe-colored table. She looked poised and confident, pacing in front

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of an easel, to which she occasionally pointed. Her audience nodded in collective agreement, laughing at what Claire imagined was the cleverness of the presenter’s delivery. The woman looked happy and in control. “Claire, what is going on? I have been worried sick about you,” said Sam, dispensing with any sort of greeting. “I almost drove home early I was so worried, but I called Stephanie and she said she’d check in on you and call me back. She just called me a few minutes ago and said she saw you getting into a taxi this morning? Where are you?” Claire turned her back on the office scene and looked instead at her reflection in the glass patio doors, which were cloudy with road dirt. “I’m at Jess’s in DC. I just needed to clear my head, Sam. The battery on my phone died. I didn’t mean to hang up on you. Then I got in the car-” “Why did Stephanie say you took a cab?” “It was so strange. The Rover wouldn’t start in town, but I didn’t want to wait for triple A, it was getting dark, so I cabbed home and then back again. When I got back to the car, it started fine. Weird, right?” Sam was silent. “I know, it was probably stupid, driving it to DC, Sam. But, I was lonely, I guess, and I needed to see Jessica and, well, here I am. I was thinking that, um, maybe we could grab some dinner in the city tonight. You and me. Where do they have you staying? I could come to you. What do you think?” He was silent again. “Sam? Are you still there?” “Babe, I have some bad news.” Claire turned again to stare at the office building again. The business woman was now clicking through a PowerPoint. A chart with an ascending axis line caused three of the men to stand and clap. “They sent me to an undisclosed location, way outside of the city.” “For how long,” Claire said, grabbing the handrail of the balcony to steady her through a sudden sense of vertigo. Her own voice sounded distant and unfamiliar. “Two weeks,” he said. “There is a chance I could come back sooner, but-”

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“Sam, you’re supposed to be on medical leave. Last time I saw you, you were crying. You said you were having problems remembering things. I don’t even think you should be working right now and-” “Claire, I am checking in with a military doctor here and they prescribed me some medication that’s been helping my focus. Try not to worry about me. I’m more worried about you. Is everything okay at home?” After the discussion with Jessica she made the decision not to indulge in what she was now convinced was paranoia brought on by too much wine and way too many pills and her difficulty in being left to adjust to the Village’s suburban quirkiness without Sam. Tell him everything is fine, Claire, because it is! “No, you’re not there,” she said glumly. “Claire…” “Sam, everything is fine. I just miss you and I can’t wait for the day when your work is done and we can focus on what’s next and enjoy the time we have, you know, the time we have left, without all this secrecy and undisclosed location bullshit. I want us to be together. No more secrets.” “Me, too, babe. And we will…soon enough.” She looked down at her ratty blue tennis shoes and followed a single tear as it disappeared into a jumble of dirty, knotted laces. She didn’t respond because she knew if she opened her mouth at this moment, there would be no stopping the geyser of raw emotion trapped in her throat. “I love you, babe,” he said. “I love you, too,” she managed before the connection dropped. Dammit, you didn’t ask him about why he wrote that note on your arm! No, no. Not on the phone, Claire, do it in person. She turned to look at the window across the street, but the conference room was now empty and dark. She saw only the reflection of a disheveled woman, alone and crying on a balcony.

*** After she told Jessica of Sam’s extended absence, Jessica was determined they “hit the town” and “fuck all the negative juju” Claire was “dragging around with her.” Despite Claire’s

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protests – I’d really rather just Netflix a movie – she endured an hour and a half of dress-up, during which Jessica had her try on various outfits until she found “the hottest” one for her house guest. The fourth look won the vote: a little black lace dress, with sheer sleeves and a leather belt that lent a naughty degree of toughness to the ensemble. Claire silently thanked God she hadn’t given up running when she saw the garment’s hemline, which stopped far too north of Claire’s knees to even come close to age-appropriate. “Jess, I can’t pull this off,” she complained, finishing a third glass of “get-ready wine.” “I look like a middle-aged hooker! Jesus!” Jessica was leaning over the vanity in the master bathroom, off her bedroom, peering into the mirror and applying purple, sparkly eye shadow to her left eye lid. “The point is to make other people want to pull it off! And with those legs, damn lady, mission accomplished. Chica caliente!” “Um, I’m married, remember?” Claire said, trying on a pair of black high heels with satin ribbons attached to them. “What do you do with these ribbons?” Jessica adjusted the bath towel wrapped around her breasts and scampered playfully into the bedroom. “Oh, this is so cute,” she squealed, kneeling in front of Claire. “Allow me.” With a quick motion of her hands, Jessica wound the black ribbons around Claire’s porcelain white ankles before tying them into perfectly symmetrical bows. “Dear God, I look like I’ve been gift-wrapped for some Japanese businessman with a foot fetish,” said Claire, despite acknowledging they were genuinely sexy and adorable. “Where are we going, by the way?” “I’m not telling you,” said Jess coyly. “For now, just embrace the unknown.”

CHAPTER 12

“Claire!” Jessica implored. “Get in, you space cadet!” Claire was still holding a white wine glass full of South African sauvignon blanc. Her high heels had sunk into a gooey patch of tar serving as a semi-adequate pothole patch in front of Jessica’s brownstone. The ride to the restaurant left her a bit light-headed and woozy, like when she and Jessica got really stoned their senior year of high school at Rocky Shoals amusement park. Jessica insisted she get high before they rode the Thundercat rollercoaster, a whitewashed,

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rickety structure eventually torn down to make way for far-less thrilling mixed-use condominiums. For a moment, she wondered if her dizziness now had something to do with her alleged pregnancy. She cast the thought aside as quickly as it came. Not tonight. Tomorrow. Not tonight. Tomorrow. From the backseat window, DC’s streets all shared a blurry sameness. And, as a city without any discernable skyscrapers – no buildings could be taller than the 555-foot high Washington Monument – the nation’s capital lacked a visual compass. Jessica must have been thinking the exact same thing, because she suddenly declared, “Nothing can be taller than the monument. It’s such bullshit,” she said, heartily shaking the Uber driver’s shoulder. “You can’t even see the monument from anywhere in the city, so that rule is horseshit.” “Total shit of horses,” Malik, the Uber driver said, giving Jessica a wink in the rearview mirror. Claire felt her phone vibrate in the matching black-sequined clutch Jessica had lent her for the evening. It was Stephanie calling. She thought about hitting ignore, but then thought differently. Stop, Claire, there is a logical explanation for all that has happened, even the conversation you overheard between Stephanie and Marc. She accepted the call. “Hey,” said Claire, trying to sound relaxed and aloof. “Claire, Sam called looking for you. Are you okay?” “I’m fine, Case. I’m in DC with my friend Jessica and she’s taking me to some hot new restaurant.” She was loosely aware of the fact she was slurring her words. “What’s the name of the place we are going, Jess?” “Manifest,” said Jessica, rolling her window halfway down and holding a cigarette up for Malik to approve of through the rearview mirror. He nodded, held up his own pack, and grinned in amused acquiescence. “We’re going to a hot new hot spot called Manifest,” Claire sputtered, rolling down her window halfway and taking the lit cigarette from Jessica and then a long and satisfying drag. If you are pregnant, Claire, you are going to hell. Straight. To. Hell. “Well,” said Stephanie. “That sounds pretty…‘hot.’ You sound like you’re having a blast. I’ll let you go. Come find me when you get back.” “I will,” said Claire.

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“Claire, as soon as you get back,” Stephanie said, slowly, with a hinting emphasis that cut through Claire’s buzz. Before Claire could respond, the call dropped.

Jessica spent most of the 20-minute Uber ride talking on her cell phone to someone back at the law firm where she worked. There was apparently something “going south” on some big environmental case and Jessica was speaking nearly indecipherable legalese with a hapless paralegal named Trish. And because most of what Jess was saying made little sense, it was easy to ignore. Instead, Claire rested her forehead on her window and took in the city. It was a weeknight but that didn’t stop people from going out in the District. The sidewalks bustled with buzz and blur, a colorful, electric panorama of people. K Street millennials were loosening their ties and ducking into bars with names like Filibusters and Cloture. Hardened congressional chiefs of staff dropped into the Republican and Democratic clubs, downing scotch and sodas before heading home to the tony suburbs or northern Virginia, or Montgomery County, Maryland. Bike couriers flipped off limo drivers. Meter maids argued with parking scofflaws. Gay men walked purposely to yoga, mats in hand. Tourist families searched the skyline in vain for the Washington Monument, attempting to orientate themselves while their children assisted with Google Maps. Claire missed it all: the politics, the potholes and every pushy, smelly asshole on the Metro. Shit, how did I ever let him convince me that we should leave all of this? Malik drove down H Street into the NE quadrant, behind Union Station. For years, the neighborhood had struggled economically, and much of it still did. But as NW DC real estate prices super-heated, young, risk-taking urbanites with decent jobs and dual incomes had started scooping up flimsy new condos and old row homes along H Street. Everyone, except the neighborhood’s displaced lower-income renters, saw it as a positive development. Claire thought of the boys being thrown out of the Village. The memory was a disturbing flash and she consciously banned it from her mind. “Here we are,” said Malik. “There is something like this where I am from. In Jordan.”

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Jessica was still on the phone and, without responding to Malik’s observation, whispered a “thank you” to him and got out of the car, leaving the door open for Claire. “What is this place Malik?” Claire asked, looking up at the structure through the Nissan’s windshield. “It is a restaurant of the cars on a train,” said Malik, with a laugh. “Good idea, no?” “Weird, but cool,” said Claire, as she handed the driver cash. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Malik, and sorry for my friend. She just thinks she’s important.” “She is a nice lady compared to what I see driving this car, this you should trust me about,” he said, laughing good-naturedly. “Have a nice time tonight, miss. Cheers to you.”

As they exited the Uber, the front of Manifest was frenetic and showy. The restaurant boasted five-foot long gas lanterns on either side of the main door, spewing blue fire into the night sky. Women in audacious and indisputably expensive cocktail dresses smoked flavored European cigarettes on the sidewalk with their pushy and well-heeled lovers. These were presumably powerful men and women of great means. More pedestrians walked by with $7 salted caramel gelatos or café Americanos from the nearby coffee shop. And, directly across the street from the restaurant, a man sat in a black sedan, intently reading a magazine. As Malik had said, the two-story building was built around actual train cars. The face of the structure revealed four of them, two box and two passenger. The box cars, one bright orange and the other a navy blue, were at the ground level, and their large sliding doors were open, revealing a cluster of small, candlelit tables and a bar running almost the entire length of the car. The tables closest to the open doors were level to the sidewalk and the couples who had reserved them enjoyed what must have felt like an al fresco dining experience. Jessica was finally off the phone and had turned to motion with a waving hand for Claire to catch up. “You like it? Isn’t it fun?” “Are we sitting in the open-air box cars?” Claire asked eagerly, as a well-dressed couple in their forties valeted a white Porsche Cayenne with Virginia plates. “No, no,” said Jessica, as if Claire asked if they had reservations at Arby’s. “I have something way more special planned. Follow me, Alice, the rabbit hole is this way!” She had heard that before.

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They entered the restaurant’s black steel front doors and found themselves facing an iron hostess station, in front of a wall of polished coal. “Welcome to Manifest,” said a young, exceptionally tall, twenty-something woman who, Claire mentally noted, could easily be a runway model. “Do you have a reservation?” “Collins. Jessica Collins. I called Bruce.” “Ah, yes, Miss. Collins,” the hostess said. “Of course. Welcome. Your table is ready upstairs in the Pullman car. Follow me.” The hostess, dressed in a black baby-doll fringe dress and shin-high black Doc Martens, walked into a hallway behind the coal wall and into a gray freight elevator. The lift had a single red lightbulb on the ceiling. The hostess pulled a rope near the gap in the floor and the two halves of the steel door, top and bottom, came together simultaneously, like a closing mouth. She then pulled a wire mesh gate from the left and, when she latched it in place, pushed a green button on the wall, near which someone had written “Up” in black sharpie. The floor vibrated beneath Claire’s heels and, growling like a tired, prodded circus animal, the contraption begrudgingly ascended. As they exited the elevator, they entered a dimly lit hallway, the walls of which were covered by steel railroad spikes, wrapped in a cat’s cradle of red string lights. In the center of the design was black spray-painted graffiti: below the word “Queen” an arrow pointed to the right and below the word “Pullman” an arrow pointed to the left. “As I said, you ladies will be dining in the Pullman car this evening. Please follow me.” Claire’s eyes adjusted to the hallway’s dim lighting and she could now see the passageway dead-ended into the metallic side of an actual dining car. A young woman stared at her through a curtained window, the candle on her table illuminating her bare shoulders. A man leaned across the flame and kissed her. “Please watch your step,” the hostess advised, as they cautiously navigated their high heels onto the car’s retractable metal staircase. She turned left and they followed. Clair’s eyes widened when she rounded the corner. The interior of the car was enchanting! Small dining booths, upholstered in red leather tacked with brass, lined each side of the cabin. Waiters dressed as conductors glided past them with trays of food and cocktails, depositing steaming game hens or a fussy, splashy pair of martinis onto crisp white linen tablecloths. Ambient “chill-out” music

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floated down from the upholstered ceiling, each note just grazing Claire’s ears, like tiny auditory snowflakes. The hostess brought them to two generously stuffed red leather wingback chairs, facing each other across a large coffee table made of a spoked locomotive wheel topped with thick, frosted glass. “I’m Zara. Please say goodbye when you leave and let me know if everything was to your liking. In the meantime, Dylan will take great care of you up here. Enjoy the Pullman.” She floated away, quickly disappearing into the glittery dimness. “Did she say her name was Sarah?” Claire asked, gliding in to one of the chairs. “I think she said her name is Zara.” “Like with a ‘Z’?” “Yes,” Jessica replied. “That makes perfect sense, actually,” Claire said, running her hand along the table between them. “Um, this place is incredible. Is it hard to get reservations?” “Impossible, but I’m screwing one of my clients, and he knows the chef,” Jessica said matter-of-factly. “I know, I know, some things never change.” “I find that rather comforting right now, honestly,” said Claire. “What? That I’m still a slut maintains some sort of world order for you?” Claire laughed. “No, but the fact you and I can pick up like this, you know, and it still feels the same. I have had my fair share of change lately and anything familiar is very welcome right now.” The waiter didn’t so much approach as appear. He was under six feet, but not by much. His gold and blue conductor’s cap made him look tall enough to tip over. His thick, wavy hair could have been blond, but gelled back in the soft lighting, it read brown to Claire. His face was dusted in copper stubble, with flecks of silver, despite probably being only in his early thirties. If “Sara with a Z” and him were a couple, Claire thought, their entrance into any room would turn heads. “Good evening ladies,” he purred. “I’m Dylan and I’ll be your server this evening. Can I start either one of you off with a beverage?” “I’ll have a Manhattan,” Jessica purred back, rounding her shoulder toward her chest so her shoulder strap threatened to fall. Now there is the Jessica I know and love.

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“And for you, miss?” “A gin gimlet, straight up with a twist,” said Claire. “Very good,” Dylan said, and lifting his heels once in cheery acknowledgement, he backed away, maintaining eye contact before spinning around and getting in lockstep with another passing server. “You’re feeling better, I can tell,” said Jessica, pulling out an electronic cigarette from her purse. She took a drag and the tip of it glowed blue. “I am, thanks to you.” Jessica was exhaling the vapor toward the curtained window to her left when Dylan materialized with their drinks. He placed them on the table with a graceful, wordless choreography and was then efficiently gone. Jessica raised her glass. “No, thank you. Your friendship means a lot to me, Claire-” Claire held her drink up to meet Jessica’s toast. “Me too, I-” “Let me finish,” Jessica said with a smile. “When Ben and I divorced, you were there for me. The last few years have really sucked. Burying myself in work has helped, but talking some of that shit through with you was the best therapy for me. You, well, you understand what I was going through. You, more than anyone I know, knows what it’s like to…lose someone.” Claire retracted her glass and put it on the table. “Any guess on where the restrooms are?” “Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you by saying that.” Claire waved her away with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “It’s fine. Really. I just have to pee. I’ll be right back.” In the restroom, Claire sat in one of the stalls and succumbed to the emotional aftershock of Jessica’s words. Hot tears hit her bare knees as she picked at the seam of a new roll of toilet paper, anxious to dry her eyes before her makeup began to run. She thought about something her therapist, Dr. “Call-Me-Miranda” Roth, had said, right after Sam was diagnosed. “Claire, it is one thing to merely cope with grief and loss, and another thing to survive it.” “I don’t understand,” Claire had said at the time. “Grief is like cancer. If treated properly it can go into remission, like cancer. But, like cancer, grief can come back. Just because you get through it once doesn’t mean it’s through with

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you. It may come again. You have to be ready to say to it: I know you and I am braver from that. I refuse to merely cope with this. I am going to become better because of this.” Easier said than done, Claire thought, before flushing a wad of tear-soaked toilet paper. At the sink, she splashed her face with water, took a deep breath and then headed back to the table. Jessica was on her phone and, as soon as she saw Claire, mouthed the words: “I’m sorry.” “Barry, listen to me, the brief needs to cover a lot of ground in as little time as possible….yes….no….I don’t think that is going to hold water with this judge…Barry, Barry, one second…” Jessica put the call on mute and stood just as Claire sat back down. “Sweetheart, I’m going to take this outside. Don’t want to be rude. Order me whatever. I’ll be back in a few minutes. I swear.” “No worries,” Claire whispered, shooing her friend away. “Go, go!” Dylan reappeared. “Another drink?” “You read my mind,” Claire said. “Certainly,” he replied and vanished again. Two more drinks came and went and finally she did exactly what Jessica had asked her to do and ordered for the two of them. By the time Jessica came back to the table, her leg of lamb with Cajun-inspired spicy salsa was stone cold and Claire’s blackened grouper was half gone. “Jesus,” Claire whisper-shouted. “I thought maybe you went back to your office.” Jessica wasn’t sitting back down, but instead reaching for her purse on the floor alongside her chair. “You’re kidding me?” said Claire, loudly enough, and with enough unedited disappointment in her voice, a sixty-something silver-haired woman at the table directly across from them turned and stared. “This thing is such a cluster, one of the senior partners is heading into the office and leaving his wife dateless at a restaurant, too. I have to go. I promise I will make it up to you. Finish your dinner – and mine if you want. Here is the house key. Don’t wait up for me. I think I’m in for a long-ass night.” Claire sat silently as Jessica kissed her on the forehead, turned and left.

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Claire fell into boozy sulking. She ordered another cocktail from Dylan. All dressed up with nowhere to go! You might as well be in your kitchen at the Village. She fished in her purse for a Xanax, which she shamefully kept in an empty Bayer aspirin bottle. Some sort of haunting Gregorian chant, backed by synthesizers, modestly pulsed from the speakers overhead. She imagined how wonderful it would be if they were on an actual train right now, the locomotive’s steam engine carrying these people into the dark night, across a great flat expanse, closer to whatever was inevitable. Claire’s heart was beating hard. Suddenly she had to get off the train. The walls felt like they were inching inward. She could now see the lines on the silver-haired lady’s face, could smell her husband’s bloody filet mignon, could feel the collective body heat of the other passengers. You’re panicking Claire. Why are you panicking, Claire? Don’t scream. Ask for the check and leave. Don’t scream. She relied on routine and muscle memory to pay for the bill. At one point, she thought Dylan asked her if she was feeling all right. “Are you sure?” he had asked. “Exit,” she managed. “Where’s the exit?” The cool night air hit her hot face like ocean waves onto a lava flow. The sudden change in temperature and oxygen levels made her nearly faint with relief. On wobbly heels, she stumbled to the street, holding a glass bus stop enclosure for support while willing herself not to puke. It started to rain. She went to the front of the structure and sat down on the metal bench inside. She hadn’t had a panic attack in a while, and this one was a doozy. It was very much like the one she’d had at the quarry in Vermont, and then shortly after that, in the car, on her way to CVS. Long ago she had given up trying to figure out what triggered them. It was as impossible and pointless as trying to make sense of a fever dream. Claire fished around in her purse for her phone but it wasn’t there. She had left it on the table in the restaurant. Shit! They must think I’m a nut and an alcoholic. I don’t want to go back in there. Dammit, Jessica. If you only knew how fragile I am right now, you would have told your boss to shove it up his ass. I am desperately fighting to hold my shit together. Claire stood up and pulled at the hem of her dress, inhaled deeply and walked back into Manifest. A different hostess, a twenty-something Asian woman, greeted her.

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“Welcome to Manifest? I’m Twee. Do you have a reservation?” she asked, her raspberry- colored hair sprouting into two glittered pigtails. “Um, no, no. I just ate here a little while ago and I think I left my cell phone on the table. I-” “Yes, oh, sorry to interrupt you. If they find anything like that, they bring it to the bar in Boxcar One, which is just down this hall to my right. Claire thanked the woman, who nodded as she answered the ringing phone behind the reservations desk. The dim lighting and the Gregorian chanting and electronica fusion were back and she felt a bead of sweat roll down her spine. An entrance had been cut into the back of the railcar and, as Claire walked through the threshold, she noticed the exterior sliding doors were now closed. On the interior side of the doors were six large high-definition televisions. On the flat screens were a mosaic of videos simulating what it would be like if the door of the boxcar was open and they were riding on the train, on a starry night through mountain-encircled, moonlit plains. Young, impeccably dressed couples filled the little café tables throughout the car, the back wall of which was blown out to allow for more room. The lounge area spilled back into the building itself. The actual bar was the entire nose of a locomotive, its massive round face crowned by a black smokestack behind an ornate, lit gas lantern. The whole impression was as if the front of a locomotive were about to plow into you while you gingerly sipped your cocktail. Claire willed her heart to slow down. Deep breath in, deep breath out. “Hi, I left my cell phone upstairs,” is all you have to say, Claire. Then just call it a night. The bar was busy, but not crazy. Claire edged in between two barstools and waited until a college-aged black bartender turned his attention toward her expectant gaze. “Hi, I’m Jay. What can I get you?” “Oh, um, thanks, no, I, um, I left my phone upstairs. My cell phone. I was just wondering if maybe someone turned it in. Maybe?” The bartender was nodding his head. “Are you Claire?” Okay, how does he know that? Sweat was forming on her hairline and eyebrows. She told herself she was just imagining that her tongue was starting to swell. As if responding to the confused look on her face, Jay clarified, “Your husband said to tell you he has it and he is back at the table where you dined.”

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“My husband?” Sam is here? Wait, had Sam and Jessica planned this? Was Sam coming back to DC early as a surprise and that whole story about having to go to a nondisclosed location was all bullshit? It had sounded like bullshit. “Yes, ma’am. He went up there like 10 minutes ago.” Sweet relief slowly rolled over Claire like maple syrup over pancakes. Finally, Sam was here. She could talk about everything that had been happening and, more importantly, she could present the facts calmly and offer a rationale and reasonable explanations, like the ones Jessica and she had discussed the night before. Sam would agree with Jessica’s assessment of everything and the rest of the evening would be full of them cracking up at the image of her scaling the neighborhood’s walls like some sort of prison escapee. Claire was already chuckling to herself in the freight elevator as it ascended. Her husband was going to have a field day with the stories she had for him. Just raw comedic material there for the taking. With a new spring in her step, shoulders back, hair fluffed, she caught sight of him through the dimness. He was sitting in the leatherback chair she had sat in. His back was to her. As she passed in front of his chair on the way to her own, she nearly screamed. The man in the chair wasn’t Sam. “Oh my God, I’m sorry, there must be some mistake. The bartender told me my husband would be waiting for me at this table. I’m, excuse me, I’m terribly sorry.” She started to walk away from the table. “Claire, please sit down,” the man said. He was maybe 40 and built like a quarterback. He was dressed in a brown tweed sport coat, gray cotton slacks, a silver dress shirt and cowboy boots. His chest hair, which poked out from the crew neck tee beneath his shirt, was darker than the light brown hair on his head. When he leaned back to stretch, Claire could make out the strap of a leather gun holster beneath his jacket. Stunned, Claire turned and returned to the table, choosing to remain standing. “Who are you and how do you know my name?” She was sweating again and wondered if the thumping she heard was the techno music overhead or the syncopation of her own heart. “Just sit down, I can explain,” he said, imploring her with an unfurling of his right hand in the direction of the empty chair. She remained standing.

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“I have your phone. Just give me five minutes and then I’ll give it back to you and we can part ways.” “I should call the cops, how about that?” “My name is Martin,” the man said. “I was in the car that followed you and Sam from dinner that night. Outside of Grover. Actually, I was behind another car that was also following you. That couple from the restaurant. It was like a goddamn motorcade.” Claire slowly moved into the empty seat. She felt faint again and slightly nauseous. “Martin what?” “It’s just Martin,” he said, sipping on a bottle of Amstel Lite. “Of course it is,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Look, give me my phone and we can call Sam right now. We don’t have to do this Jason Bourne bullshit.” “You see, that’s a problem.” “Why’s that?” Claire asked, careful to not let the pitch in her voice climb. “We have reason to believe the person you keep talking to on the phone either isn’t your husband or is your husband, but under duress, Mrs. Sturgis,” he said calmly, before taking another sip of his beer. Claire was having trouble concentrating on what he was saying. She felt like she was on a listing ship, and even though she knew it was vertigo -- and maybe even related to her possible pregnancy, which she still wasn’t even convinced was real -- she was still surprised when the candle on the table between them didn’t roll to the floor. She willed herself not to faint, or worse, puke. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. “I know when I am talking to my own husband. Wait, what are you saying – are you listening to my phone calls?” she said. “Do you have a warrant for that?” “Yes. Several, in fact,” he said matter-of-factly. “Is, is Sam in trouble? Why would he be under duress? Why are you trying to scare me like this?” Dylan, the waiter, stopped at the table and, if he heard the tension in Claire’s voice, he didn’t show it. “Nice to see you again, ma’am. A cocktail? A gimlet was it?” “Water, please.”

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“Claire, I will be as plain as I can be, but you have to realize I can’t tell you a lot, at least not here,” Martin said. “As you have guessed, I work for an intelligence branch of the federal government. Your husband had some encrypted data we think was on his home computer, on a secured server, that is of extreme value to enemies of the United States.” “You mean, like the Russians?” “There is a password, Claire. That we will need even if we find the original encrypted data. Did your husband ever mention the existence of such a password?” Her head was spinning again. The music was warbling and vibrating like the blade of a shaken handsaw. The smells of other people’s food sent a geyser of acid up her esophagus. She didn’t trust this guy. Didn’t even believe his name was Martin. “He never discussed his work with me,” she said. “You’re lying, but we can table this point for now. We’ll revisit it under…different circumstances. More pressing to us is the location of the source files. When we searched your house-” “You searched my house?” “The files in question were removed from Sam’s home server,” he said. “And not by us. We were too late.” Dylan returned to the table, ice water in hand. Claire smiled faintly and waited until he walked away. “He, he told me he is at an undisclosed NASA facility. Is that not true? You need to tell me where my husband is. And who broke into our house, besides you. And what do they want? What is so important about this data? What the hell are you even talking about?” Martin laid his palm flat and pushed it toward the floor repeatedly, signaling her to lower her voice. “We think he’s safe but we aren’t certain of that.” “What, what do you mean?” “I can tell you with 100 percent certainty he is not at a government facility of any sort, at least not a facility run by our government,” Martin said, scanning the room with a methodology that revealed a certain level of training. “We want to help you find him. We need you to help us find him.”

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Claire’s mind was racing. She contemplated telling Martin about the guards and the dog and the boys and the conversation she’d overhead between Stephanie and Marc. She considered telling him about why she had hung up on Sam. See where this goes, Claire. Don’t show him all your cards. Not yet. Let him show you some more of his. “Well, now, based on what you’ve told me, I have no goddamn idea where my husband is,” said Claire, grateful for the emotional clarity anger brought. “So, unless you’re tracking his cell phone, I don’t know what to tell you.” “We are,” Martin said. “Are what? Tracking his cell phone?” “Yes.” “Well, where the hell is he?” “We can’t pinpoint his exact location, but he’s somewhere in your neighborhood, Claire. He’s in the Village.”

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CHAPTER 13

Claire’s head felt like a helium balloon, feather light, floating upward, making its way to the ceiling. She tried to respond to Martin, but it was as if she was watching herself and Martin from above. She giggled a bit at how silly it was she couldn’t speak. The waiter came over and stared at her for what seemed like a long time. He was blurry, a mirage of a train conductor. Am I on a train? Where are we going? She tried to ask Dylan these questions, but nothing came out of her mouth. If she focused very hard, she could hear them talking, the discussion as clear as one heard through a glass jar pressed to a wall.

“Damn, she is out of it,” said Dylan. “Is she going to puke? Did I give her too much?”

“No, she won’t puke,” said Martin. Then, more loudly for others to hear. “My wife has just had too much to drink. Wondering if you could help me with her out to my car?”

Dylan put his arm around Claire’s back, and Martin did the same on the other side. “One, two, three, upsy-daisy, sweetheart,” Martin said, and the two men hoisted her to her feet, as her right heel buckled sideways under her wobbly ankle. “Okay, Claire, I’m going to take you home. One foot in front of the other, dear.”

Her mother. Crying at the funeral. The sickening smell of lilies. Grees AstroTurf ringing the grave. “I held on as long as I could, mother. As long as I could.”

“Okay, Mommy isn’t here, sweetheart,” Martin was saying, as he and Dylan hoisted Claire into the back of a black SUV. “Just lie down, Claire, and take a nap. We’ll explain everything when you wake up.”

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” said Claire.

“I know you are,” Martin said. “I forgive you. Now go to sleep.”

***

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The first thing Claire saw when she opened her eyes was a simple blue bedside lamp on a cheap IKEA nightstand. She was lying in bed, still in her black dress. The satin ribbons of her high heeled shoes jutted out from under the bed, which was covered by a thin salmon-colored quilt. The room had nothing hanging on the walls, which were painted baby blue. Through the room’s open doorway, she saw a small green couch and a television. Martin was sitting on the sofa, watching CNN. When he noticed she was awake, he sighed, pushed off from his knees into a standing position and walked slowly toward her, holding the small of his back.

“How do you feel?” he asked, resting one shoulder on the door frame.

“Like someone drugged me, asshole,” she said. “Did you drug me?”

“’Fraid so, Claire. If we hadn’t you would have made a scene last night, maybe called the DC police, and I couldn’t allow that to happen.”

“So you kidnapped me?”

“It’s not kidnapping when we do it, Claire.”

“Oh really, then what do you call it?” she asked, sitting up in bed.

“Claire, we need your help,” he said, walking into the room now. He grabbed a small metal desk chair from the corner of the room, spun it around, and straddled it with his arms folded on its back.

“You know, Jessica, I am sure, is worried sick about me,” she said, scanning the room for her purse or cell phone. “She has probably called the police by now.”

“We texted her, well, you texted her, technically. We used your phone. Anyway, she thinks you heard from Sam and you headed back to West Virginia last night to meet him.”

“And my car?”

“We’ve taken care of that already.”

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“Where am I?” she asked, swinging both her feet over the edge of the bed and attempting to stand. The entire room tilted to the left and she felt a pang of pronounced nausea. “Is this some secret bunker?”

Martin laughed. “No, it’s a semi-furnished apartment in Georgetown. Secret bunker? You’re funny.”

“Well, I’m glad I amuse you,” said Claire. “Can I have some water?” Martin just stared at her, evaluating the authenticity of the request.

“Sure,” he said, walking slowly to the open kitchen just behind the television. His back to her, he shouted, “Claire…”

“Yes,” she said.

“Full disclosure. I’m armed, okay?”

She sat in silence, except for the sound of water filling a glass. He walked back to her and handed her the drink, which she took a sip of before shakily placing it on the nightstand.

“So, how am I helping you,” she said, trying her best to not sound scared. She squeezed the fingers of her left hand with those of her right to stop them from shaking. Her wedding band pushed painfully into her pinky and middle fingers.

“Okay, I’m going to leave out some details, partly because some of them are classified and partly because there are some things we don’t know.”

“Okay,” she said.

“All right. Your husband made an unprecedented discovery at work,” he said.

“What exactly did he discover?” she asked.

“Do you know what the AX9 satellite is? Did he ever mention that to you?”

“No,” she said. “He really tried not to discuss his work, as I said.”

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“Okay, well, it’s a classified mission anyway, so that’s good that he didn’t mention it.” He smiled at Claire, who did not smile back. “Okay, so, I have clearance to share some details of this with you, so here goes. The AX9 was a satellite sent into space by the United States government some fifty years ago. It was done in absolute secrecy. And it had a very specific mission and destination. To explore a part of the solar system from which a series of very fuzzy radio transmissions had originated several years earlier.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with Sam. He wasn’t even alive 50 years ago,” Claire said, contemplating escape as her head began to finally clear.

“Claire, please, let me explain. So, like I said, listening devices on Earth had picked up radio transmissions from – okay, forgive the Star Wars reference here – a galaxy far, far away.”

Claire groaned. “Is this a joke? I am beginning to think I am on some bad reality TV show.”

“Claire, please. For a decade, these transmissions-”

“Transmissions? Like from little green men?”

“-these transmissions were just indecipherable static. In response, NASA built and launched the AX9. But as time passed, the project was labeled a boondoggle. Administrations came and went and eventually, AX9 was entirely scrapped. Space noise. Nothing more. That was the determination. It was such garbled crap nobody was even listening to what it was sending back….except Sam.”

“What?”

Martin moved from the chair to the foot of the bed. Claire pushed herself away from him, positioning her back against the worn pressed-wood headboard. “When Sam found out about AX9, he reestablished communication with the satellite. The big shots at NASA figured it couldn’t hurt. If Sam wanted a side project, fine. And nobody seemed all that interested in what he was doing. Until-”

“Until what?”

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“Until one day your husband emails his boss-”

“Ethan?”

“Yes,” Martin replied. “Ethan Fromholzer. So, Fromholzer gets an email recently from a very excited Sam. Now, I don’t mean for this to upset you Claire, but at this point, Sam’s behavior had become a little erratic, so Fromholzer took all of this with a grain of salt.”

“Okay, but what did the email say?”

“The email said that he had made a ‘major discovery’ related to the AX9 project and he needed to meet with him immediately.”

“So did they meet?”

“No, Sam never showed up to the meeting. When Fromholzer called Sam, Sam said he talked to the director of his department, Gunderson, but he couldn’t remember the conversation. He was distraught and was heading back to West Virginia. Couldn’t recall what he had discovered.”

The limo ride. “Jeopardy.” Sam told me this, too. Claire said nothing. Martin stared at her intently, but she quickly filled the silence by asking, “But Ethan didn’t believe him?”

“He believed Sam genuinely couldn’t remember. He knew about Sam’s dementia, but was surprised it was already so debilitating. Anyway, when Fromholzer had the computer folks at the agency pull all of the data flow on AX9, it had all been deleted from NASA’s servers, the day before. On the day he was supposed to meet with Fromholzer, but instead allegedly met with Gunderson, Sam localized all the data to his laptop and walked out the door with it.”

“Why would he do that?” Claire asked.

“We don’t know.”

“What does Director Gunderson say?”

“I wish I could tell you that. We can’t find him, either.”

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“You can’t find the director of Sam’s division?” said Claire, astonished.

“No, but we have a hunch as to where he might be.”

“So you don’t even know what he discovered?”

“No,” Martin said. “And the link to AX9 has been disabled and none of the engineers at NASA have the slightest idea how to get it back online.”

“I’m so confused,” Claire said. “None of this is making any sense.”

“Claire, we think your husband has come under the influence of foreign agents and they are either planning to purchase or steal the data he took from NASA,” he said. “Something or someone changed his mind from sharing this with the top brass, above Gunderson, who we also suspect is involved. Or his dementia led him to spill the beans, and, when his reasoning returned, he tried to dismiss that email to Fromholzer. Either way, we intend to find out.”

“Foreign agents?”

“Russians, we think,” said Martin, with a shrug, as if he doubted what he was saying.

“And, and, wait a minute, so, you think someone in my neighborhood is, like, a Russian spy?”

“Essentially, yes,” Martin said. “I know it’s hard to believe.”

“And they are holding Sam hostage?”

“Or, and I know this is also not a comforting proposition, he is colluding with a foreign power. Look, at this point, we know he has been calling you and the calls are originating from somewhere within your neighborhood.”

“And, so what the hell am I supposed to do? Ask him to surrender? This sounds like a big misunderstanding. He has early-onset dementia for Christ sakes. He’s not a Russian spy.”

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Martin leaned into Claire, balancing himself on his arms, his hands palm-down on the flimsy mattress. “Mrs. Sturgis, we need you to go home, to West Virginia, and help us find your husband. He is not safe right now, and neither are his secrets.”

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CHAPTER 14

The plan was explained to her on the windowless ride back to West Virginia in the back of a black-paneled van. Martin drove and she sat next to two of his “colleagues,” Bill and Summer. She had been around DC long enough to know Bill was some sort of special ops guy. He was maybe 40, but with a 27-year-old’s body. His massive biceps and broad shoulders made his head look too small for his frame. He wore mirrored sport sunglasses, a blue blazer over an Oxford shirt, and jeans. He looked like a cool high school vice principle, only Claire was 100 percent convinced he was a trained killer who assuredly had a gun strapped somewhere to his athletic physique. Summer was a younger black woman with her hair pulled back and up into a severe bun. She was petite and of average height but with limbs too lanky and out of proportion in relation to her tiny build. She wore no makeup, but her youthfulness didn’t require any. She was, by any interpretation, a beautiful woman, but beneath that beauty Claire detected a deep sense of purpose and loyalty to her mission. It was Summer who sat alongside Claire on the bench seat, while Bill sat silently behind them, his knee bouncing up and down while he occasionally snapped his gum. Despite Martin and Bill’s reluctance to explain what was next, Summer seemed much more empathetic to how Claire was processing the situation. As they were leaving Georgetown, Claire was reluctant to get in the van – she had thought about running down the street screaming for help, but Summer had assured her “everything will be all right,” and “things will make more sense” after they were explained, which she had offered to do once they were on the road. This is such an obvious case of good cop, bad cop, Claire thought. But Summer was good. It felt authentic, and Claire was so tired and distrusting of everything and everyone at this point, even her own husband, she welcomed even the facsimile of trust. “So, Claire, it’s my role to get you up to speed as to what’s next,” she said, slapping her palms decisively in her lap, as chirpy and playful as a kindergarten teacher kicking off a sing- along. “I want to go over what the objective is and what your role will be.”

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“My role?” As badly as she wanted to find Sam and be done with all of this, she also didn’t want to go deeper than she already was. This felt deep enough. What’s next? Are they going to want you to wear a wire? “Yes, you’ll have a role to play in what happens next. For starters, Claire, we want you to wear a listening device,” said Summer, pulling a brown leather briefcase from the floor and unlocking its brass latches with an efficient flick of both her thumbs. She retrieved a small, clear plastic box from inside and opened it, as if proposing to Claire. “It’s a crown. You know, for your tooth.” “My tooth?” Claire said, reflexively touching her cheek. “I don’t think I understand.” “Oh, don’t worry,” said Summer. “We used your dental records to ensure it will fit. It should click into place right above your back left molar. I have a special adhesive. It picks up anything within 10 feet, even if your mouth is closed. Don’t worry, you won’t swallow it.” “I-I-” Claire stammered. “Why, exactly, do I have to wear that? You want me to record Sam?” Summer put the bug back in the briefcase and sighed, as if she were about to say something very important. She folded her long hands on top of the briefcase, as if to pray. “Claire, we are pretty convinced you may not see Sam right away. And it’s extremely important for this mission-” “This is a mission?” “-extremely important for this mission you not show up back in the Village hysterical and screaming out for Sam in the streets. You need to be calm.” “Calm? And what does calm look like when my teeth are wired for sound and I have FBI agents-” “We don’t work for the FBI.” “Okay, CIA, whatever! I’ll have you three down the street listening to me grind my teeth while I drink chardonnay by the gallon, because that’s all you’ll hear, I promise you.” Snap. Chew, chew, chew. Snap. Chew, chew, chew. Snap. “Bill, if you snap that gum one more time, I am going to break your neck with my inner thighs, so help me God, and you know I’m trained to do it,” Summer said, without turning around.

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“Mmmm, that sounds fun,” he laughed, giving Martin a chummy wink in the rearview mirror. “Asshole,” growled Summer, before turning back to Claire. “Claire, we want you to approach Stephanie and Marc.” Initially Claire was shocked to hear their names come out of Summer’s mouth, but the more she thought about it, the more their involvement in whatever was happening made sense. She hadn’t mentioned the conversation she overheard. Were Stephanie and Marc Russian spies? Claire decided to play completely dumb with Summer and see how far she could get. “What do Marc and Stephanie Hall have to do with Sam’s…what are we calling it, a disappearance? A kidnapping? That’s how screwed up this all is. You want me to help you, Summer, but I don’t even know what the hell is happening. If I’m going to be effective on this, this, mission, then you need to start leveling with me as to what you think is actually happening here.” “Do you remember anything from the night of the party? At the Murrays’?” Claire had mentioned she had seen Sam off to bed before heading over to the Murray’s party, but she found the non-sequitur jarring, nonetheless. “From early in the night, yes, before the party, but then later, my memory of being at the party is very cloudy. Just bits and pieces. Why?” “Only if you’re willing, I’d like to give you a mild sedative and use hypnotherapy to ask you a few questions about that night, about the parts of the night you don’t remember.” “Shit,” said Claire. “Okay, let’s do it. If you think it will help us find Sam, I’ll do it.” “Okay, Claire, I want you to put on these sound-canceling headphones and I am going to put on this headset and speak to you through the microphone. It will help you focus if you can’t hear the road noise.” Claire put the headphones on and instantly she could hear nothing except for her own breathing and then, when she turned on the power to her headset, Summer’s breathing. “Okay, Clarie, can you hear me? That sound level okay?” Claire nodded yes as she noticed Summer take a syringe out of a small green vanity bag. “Of course it’s a shot, not a pill. Are you guys ever not creepy spy people?”

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This elicited a hearty laugh from Bill. Without being asked, Claire rolled up her right sleeve and turned slightly to give Summer the most ideal access to her exposed upper arm. She turned her head just as the needle penetrated her skin. Summer depressed the plunger, pushing the stinging drug into her vein. Instantly every muscle in her body went limp. Claire’s head rolled from her right shoulder to her left, as if her neck had been snapped. Summer pushed Claire’s shoulders down in the seat and positioned her head against the headrest. “Jesus, you really knocked her out,” said Bill. “She’s full-on Weekend at Bernie’s. I can’t wait to hear this chat.” “How many cc’s did you give her?” asked Martin. “Remember, that shit is strong.” “Will you both shut the hell up and let me do my job?” Summer snapped. “She’ll be right where I need her in about 10 minutes. With this stuff, you get the best results if you go deep and get them talking as they start surfacing from it. Too little and they just act silly and become too distracted by their own thoughts.” After several minutes, Claire moaned. “Okay, both of you, not a word. I’m going in,” said Summer, positioning the microphone in front of her lips. “Claire, it’s me, Summer. Can you hear me? Just whisper ‘yes’ if you can hear me.” “Yes,” Claire managed, without opening her eyes. “Claire, I want you to listen to my voice very carefully. We are in a dark forest right now Claire. But we are together. And if you trust me and follow my voice, I will show you the path out, to the light, Claire. Do you want to find that path with me?” “Yes.” “Good girl. Put one foot in front of the other and follow me. You are behind me, now. You can see I am wearing a blue dress and a red hat. I know it’s dark Claire, but keep your eye on my hat. Follow it Claire. Follow me. Can you see glimpses of sunshine in the distance? Through the trees.” “Yes.” “The meadow is just ahead now. And there is a house there. It’s the big house on the hill. In the Village.” “The Murrays,” Claire said flatly.

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“Yes, the Murrays’ house. Let’s walk in together. Follow me in. Are you with me?” “Yes, right behind you.” “If you could go anywhere in the house, where would you go? What is the most interesting room you were in? Can you take me there?” “Yes.” “Take me there, Claire,” said Summer, soothingly. “I’ll follow you now.” “It’s down this hallway, the long beige hallway with no artwork. Nothing on the walls. It’s ugly. It’s hard to forget ugly things.” “I agree Claire. I’m still behind you. What do you see now?” “The wallpapered elevator door.” “Okay, Claire, is there a button to push? Can you call the elevator to this floor?” “No.” “Why not?” “Because I need a card.” “But you have the card, Claire. It’s in your pocket. You’ll see. Take it out.” “Oh. Yes. Good. I forgot. It’s coming now.” “Good, Claire. Tell me when the doors are open.” “Step on in.” “What floor are we going to Claire?” “Down.” “Don’t you have to push a button to get there?” “No. There is only one place this elevator goes. Do you want to come?” “Yes, Claire, please take me there.” “My friends are here,” Claire said flatly. “Claire, I’ll be quiet in the corner. I still want you to tell me what’s happening. Okay?” “I can see them in the mirror. Above me,” Claire offered, sounding excited and eager, a child’s attempt at endearment. “Who, Claire?” “Stephanie and Marc.” “Good, Claire. Tell me when the doors open again.”

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“We’re here.” “Where is here, Claire? Can you describe what you see when you get off the elevator?” “There are people from the party. But they aren’t in their costumes.” “What do you mean, Claire?” “They are all dressed the same. In different costumes. All in white.” “The same? Like how, Claire?” “Are you following us still?” “Yes, Claire, I want you to describe for me what you see.” “We are laughing and Marc apologizes to me.” “For what?” “For lying.” “Ask him what he lied about?” “Marc, what did you lie about?” Claire gasped so deeply, Bill and Martin exchanged worried glances. Summer reflexively held Claire’s hand. “He lied about Sam. He knows where Sam is. They all know where he is. Sam is here. He’s here.”

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CHAPTER 14

It was late afternoon by the time they arrived at the Mountain View Motel, a dilapidated L-shaped brick building on the outskirts of town. Martin pulled up directly in front of room six and turned off the engine. He threw a soda can over Claire and Summer and it hit a snoring Bill squarely in the forehead. He woke up with a start and reflexively reached for his sidearm. “That’s a good way to get shot, shithead,” he growled. “Yeah, well, we’re here and we have just a couple of hours to be fully briefed and mission ready.” “Dude, I’m ready and steady. As frosty as a witch’s tit.” The surrealism of being in the back of a nondescript black-paneled van with three CIA agents a few miles from her house hit Claire like a bucket of ice water dumped on her head. The realization manifested itself as a surge of adrenaline through her body. Her muscles tensed and, for a fraction of a second, she eyed the door handle. Summer noticed and grabbed her shoulders, turning them so Claire was facing her. “Claire, you won’t get far, and any attempts not to help us at this point are only going to hurt Sam. Do you understand?” Claire could only nod in acquiescence. Summer had a point. Where would Claire go anyway? To the local police? The incident at the guard shack made that idea out of the question. Would she maybe run back to the Broken Spoke yelling and screaming about CIA agents and Russian spies? They’d think she was a lunatic and call the police, or, worse, they’d pour her a drink and ignore her. Shitty bars were fairly tolerant of people and their crazy theories. No, these people were her last hope at getting to the bottom of whatever was happening. She never saw them check in, but Martin produced a key and the four of them entered the room in single file, with both Martin and Bill carrying large duffle bags. Room six was paneled in cheap pressed wood made to look like walnut. A small microwave, its door speckled with spaghetti sauce (or blood, Claire thought) sat atop a rattling mini-fridge. Two lumpy double beds

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were covered in shiny polyester duvets. An archway led to an alcove containing a cigarette- stained vanity. The carpet smelled like mildew and dried sweat. “Jesus, Martin, this place makes me miss Afghanistan,” Bill said, as he tossed a duffel bag on the bed closest to the door. Martin ignored him and pulled a cell phone from his pocket. He dialed a number, waited a few seconds, and hung up. “We’re good. He’s bringing her SUV. He’s about an hour out.” Summer pulled out the chair from under the room’s small desk and spun it to face Claire. She motioned for Claire to sit, while she took a seat on the end of the bed. The two women sat knee-to-knee while Martin and Bill methodically removed a variety of cases and equipment from the two duffel bags. She had never seen one, but, due to its length, Claire surmised that one of the cases most likely contained a long gun. Claire noticed with an increasing sense of alarm various boxes of ammunition still in the open bag. “Claire,” said Summer. “Claire, look at me.” She was relieved to find a calculating and confident professionalism in Summer’s face. It was a countenance that did not reflect her own inner panic. Summer could handle herself. Summer was here to ensure the “hysterical wife” didn’t totally screw up “the mission.” Although she hadn’t a clue as to what their objective was. She inhaled and looked directly into Summer’s eyes. Are we rescuing Sam, or capturing him? “I need to ask you a few questions,” Summer continued. “About Sam. And it’s very important that you answer truthfully, because eventually you will be asked these same questions during a polygraph test and under oath.” “Am I, is he, are we in some kind of, of trouble?” Are you in some kind of trouble, Claire? Why would you ask such a silly question? You’re only preparing for a CIA-led operation to free your husband from his potential captors who may or may not be holding him hostage for classified information he may or may not have stolen from the federal government. No, no trouble at all. “It’s not productive right now to calculate culpability. That’s not my job here. My job is to find Sam. Plain and simple. But, to do that, I need to ask you a few more questions. Okay?” “Sure, yes. Okay.”

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“Did Sam ever mention a woman he worked with by the name of Jennifer Stevens?” She felt Summer studying her face, undoubtedly looking for any physical recognition in her expression. “I don’t think so, no. Sam and I really made it a point to not talk about his work. That name isn’t familiar to me at all.” “How did Sam come up with Frontier Village as the place he wanted to move to? How did you first hear about it?” “He said a friend at work tipped him off to it,” Claire said. “Didn’t it seem odd that it was priced so low?” Claire’s arms felt weak and jittery. The conversation had veered into cross examination. This was the moment on television cop shows when she would demand access to her attorney. “No. I, we just thought we had stumbled across a steal. The seller was extremely motivated, we were told. Why? What is this all about?” Summer reached into her purse on the side of the bed and pulled out a brown folder marked “Classified” in black letters across its face. She crossed her legs and placed it on her lap. She opened to a tabbed page and pulled out a black and white photo of a tall, middle-aged woman with short-cropped hair. Her face was partially obscured by large designer sunglasses. Claire’s eyes widened and her temples began to throb. “You know this woman?” The shades provided little obfuscation. It was Luanne Murray. “She’s one of my neighbors,” said Claire. “She owns the house on the hill. Lu Murray.” “That’s another one of her aliases. Sam knows her as Jennifer Stevens. Her actual name is Karina Kuznetsov. She is a Russian operative, Claire, who infiltrated NASA. She worked secretly for Sam’s big boss, Gunderson.” “A spy?” “Yes, a spy. An engineer who worked with Sam for several years.” “No, that can’t be right,” Claire said, emphatically shaking her head in disagreement. “Sam never mentioned her and, and Luanne never said she knew Sam.” Bill and Martin had stopped what they were doing and were now sitting on the side of the other bed, providing a small audience for Claire’s interrogation.

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“I need some water,” she said. Summer looked at Bill and tilted her head toward the sink. But before he could move Claire ran over to it and vomited. Summer came behind her with the chair and sat her in it before handing her a frayed hand towel, which smelled like bleach and fabric softener. Claire wiped her mouth and began to cry. No one said anything for several minutes, until Summer finally broke the silence. “Claire, we believe that Kuznetzov, Lu, convinced Sam to move to Frontier Village, perhaps at the urging of Gunderson.” “But why? For what reason?” said Claire. “If Kuz – if Lu used Sam to steal information about the satellite program, wouldn’t she, wouldn’t she just disappear, just, go back to Russia? Why entice us to move out to goddamn West Virginia?” “This is the part we don’t understand, either, Claire,” Martin interjected. “And this is why there is serious doubt that Sam is an unwilling participant in all of this. This is what we are here to find out. This is why we need your help. We are prepared to offer you full immunity from prosecution if you help us, Claire.” “Wait, but, I haven’t done anything. I didn’t know anything-” “Claire, people way above my paygrade have not determined that yet,” Summer interrupted. “So, you want me to help you build a, some sort of espionage case against Sam? Against my own husband?” “Our primary focus right now is Kuznetzov. And Gunderson. But more importantly than that, we need to know what Sam discovered. We need to know why the Russians are so interested in the data he took. And why did he take it in the first place? And if they have gotten him to provide them with the decryption key. Help us find that, and we can negotiate a deal for you and Sam. A reduced sentence. A chance for you both to be together again.” Claire’s lower lip trembled and she looked down at her belly, gently running a shaking hand over it. “I have two conditions,” said Claire, a sob collecting in her throat. “Name it,” said Martin. Claire looked at Summer instead. “I need a change of clothes.”

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“Already have one for you,” Summer replied, pointing to a pair of jeans and a shirt hanging in the room’s closet. “What else?” “I need to know just how high the stakes are,” said Claire. “It’s a matter of national security,” Summer replied neatly. “No. Not for the country. How high they are for me. For my family,” Claire said, laying a hand on her belly. “I need to take a pregnancy test. Today.”

Later that day, as they stood in the hotel’s parking lot alongside her car, Martin briefed Claire on the plan, which was apparently no more involved than Claire returning from DC as if nothing had ever happened. Their belief was either Sam, or possibly even Lu, would make contact with her. Maybe even Gunderson, although they suspected that was a remote possibility. They were hoping for Sam to materialize, believing that, if pressed, he would confide in his wife and reveal the project’s secret. The dental implant would transmit everything back to them at the motel and they would communicate with her via text, which she should check regularly. At that point, when Sam finally revealed everything to her, they would move in to take Sam and Lu into custody. “Why not just do it now?” Claire had asked, as Martin handed her the keys to her Range Rover, which was now parked out front. “We don’t want to spook either of them. This may be our only chance to uncover whatever Sam discovered. If we move too quickly, hard drives might be erased, and those they are working with could go to ground. We also don’t know Sam’s mental state right now. His dementia may be impairing his judgement, or his memory,” Martin said. Summer came up from behind him, shielding her eyes against the setting sun. “Under direct questioning by us, Sam is liable to have more difficulty remembering specific facts we need, especially if the data we want has been deleted or is now off-shore, with, say, Gunderson. The likelihood his recall will be better with you is much higher. We don’t want to squander that opportunity.” “You mean, the opportunity for him to incriminate himself, right? Isn’t that what you are saying?”

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“Claire,” Martin said, his hand closing the car door behind her as she climbed into the driver’s seat. “Do this for him. If we do this without you, I don’t think you’ll like the outcome.” She looked up at his face and the message had been received, loud and clear. They thought her husband was a traitor and they were prepared to go in guns blazing and throw the proverbial book at him. Her cooperation was all that stood between Sam and a treason conviction. She had been in DC long enough to know exactly what Martin was saying. She wanted to say something brave and defiant. But all she could muster was an agreeing nod as she put the car in reverse and slowly drove away, the three agents turning into dark silhouettes in her rearview mirror.

She didn’t know why, but she never told them about the guards, or the dog. She also didn’t tell them about her conversations with the school teacher at the bar. Or about the conversation she overheard between Marc and Stephanie. Part of her didn’t want to make any of this easier for them, and part of her felt like they didn’t have it all figured out. Somehow, deep down, Claire suspected there was a layer to what was happening they weren’t considering. She thought about the crow on her window sill – possibly the same bird she saw in Marie’s bedroom – and shuddered. She hoped somewhere within that ambiguity there was an out for Sam. That maybe their suspicions were flawed. That a different fact pattern would exonerate her husband and make this nightmare go away. Her mind was whirring with these thoughts as she approached the guard shack. She said “fuck” aloud when she turned the car onto the road leading to the checkpoint. Instead of the usual two guards, there were five. Three of them looked out at her approaching headlights from within the building and one picked up a phone receiver, while two others stood like sentries in front of the gate. The taller of the two raised his hand, palm flattened in her direction. Her right knee was shaking so badly she briefly worried she would accelerate right through them. Get your shit together, Claire. It’s a normal day. Just another normal return home from DC. Polite chit chat. Light and breezy. She rolled her window down. The tall guard backed up a step and leaned down to face her, his eyes sweeping the inside of the vehicle. “Mrs. Sturgis, you’re back.”

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“Yep. And happy to be. I’m getting too old for that damn DC traffic,” she said, gripping the wheel so tightly her wedding band felt as if it might puncture skin. “How are you tonight, officer?” “Just fine,” said the guard. “Are you expecting any guests this weekend? Should I add anyone to the list?” The question hung in the air and she could see, out of the corner of her eye, the slightest semblance of a smile on the man’s face. He was playing with her, a cat joyfully torturing a broken-winged bird. “Um, guests? No. Nope. I wish. None of my DC friends feel I am worth the drive, unfortunately.” “Well, in that case, if anyone shows up looking for you, we will make sure they know they’re not welcome here.” She didn’t know what to say to that and her entire body went rigid. A bead of sweat rolled down her back. He began laughing. Laugh, Claire, he’s just joking. Laugh. She laughed, a high-pitched nervous shriek that sounded a half a decibel away from total lunacy. He stood up and patted her hood. “Have a good evening, Mrs. Sturgis.” He gestured to the guard shack and the gate slowly parted open. It was dusk when she maneuvered the Rover into their driveway. As she got out of the car she looked around the neighborhood. As usual, there was nobody out and about. No joggers. No kids on bikes. No neighbors sharing gossip over fences. Just darkened, perfectly landscaped yards and a random constellation of window lamps and porch lights twinkling in the gloaming. Yet despite the absence of people, she felt watched. That’s when she saw it. The dog. It was sitting in the middle of the street, two houses up. It was completely motionless and staring right at her. Claire walked quickly to the door, afraid to turn around. She fumbled with the keys and dropped them. “Shit!” She grabbed the keys and jammed the right one into the deadbolt. As she pushed her way in, she took one last look at her front yard. The dog had moved even closer and was now sitting under her mailbox, motionless. She screamed and slammed the door shut.

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This time she didn’t call out for Sam. She knew he wasn’t there. Sam walking down the stairs fresh from a shower, a glass of wine in his hand, was too easy. It wasn’t going to happen. She knew this now. Nothing would be that carefree and innocent now. Maybe never again. She walked from room to room, through the cavernous house that had never been home. Had it all been a lie? If it wasn’t the dementia that prompted Sam to come here, then what was the real reason? For the first time in their marriage, she felt as if she didn’t know Sam Sturgis. She had only felt this alone once before, as a teenager throwing a single white rose onto her sister’s coffin. Her Xanax stash was right where she had left it, in the trusty coriander bottle, as was the half-drunk bottle of chardonnay in the wine fridge. She downed two of the little oval pills with a generous pour and plopped down on her sofa. She soon fell asleep and dreamt about Russian spies, and guns, and Sam running down marble hallways, with stolen secrets in his briefcase. “Because we are being followed, Claire. Someone was following us.”

The doorbell woke her and she sat upright on the couch for at least a full minute before she heard the chiming again. She stared at the front door, not sure if she was still dreaming, groggy from the pills and still shaking from the nightmare. Just be yourself, Claire, that’s what Summer had said. Act normal. Answer the flipping door and be normal. “Claire? Are you in there?” It was Stephanie. She went to the door, fixed her hair, wiped the sleep from her eyes, inhaled and opened it. Stephanie was standing under the porchlight, wearing running shorts and a tank top, a pair of white earbuds around her neck. “Hey, you’re back!” she said happily. “I was out for a jog and I saw your SUV in the driveway.” Claire stared back at her friend blankly. “Can I come in?” The trance had been broken. “Of course, I’m sorry, Stephanie, yes, yes, come in, sorry, sorry,” said Claire, opening the door all the way and stepping aside to make way for Stephanie’s entrance. “How, how are you?” “I’m good.” Stephanie said, noticing the empty glass of wine on the end table near the sofa. “Are we drinking?”

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“Oh, I was just having a nightcap,” Claire said. “I just got back from DC a little while ago. Do you, um, want a glass?” “Yes, please,” she said. “I just jogged off at least a glass of wine.” Stephanie followed Claire into the kitchen and Claire retrieved a glass and poured the rest of the chardonnay into it. Stephanie took the glass from Claire and hoisted herself onto one of the barstools running alongside the kitchen’s island. “So, how was DC?” “Oh, fine, it was, you know, DC. I just visited my friend Jess. Caught up. You know.” “Well, you were missed here. By me anyway. Marc and I were just binge watching that show Nighthawks. Have you seen it? It’s amazing. There is this one character, the lead character…” As she was talking, Stephanie reached into her fanny pack and retrieved a pad and a pen. She kept talking, going into great detail about the television show. Claire had no idea where the conversation was going or what the pad and pen were for, but in between talking Stephanie held her index finger to her lips and gave Claire a very serious look. “And by episode two, well, that’s when it really takes off and you really begin to know the characters…” Stephanie wrote on the pad. We implanted a tracking and listening device in your inner ear. At the party. I need to remove the microphone they put in your mouth. She went to say something but Stephanie put her hand over Claire’s mouth and shook her head violently. “I think Marc has a crush on the lead character. I have to admit she is pretty hot…” She continued writing. I can take you to Sam. You have to trust me. Nod if you agree. Claire nodded. The grogginess of the pills and the wine were replaced by raw adrenaline. As it had in the car, her knee began to shake and she felt as if she could crawl right out of her skin. “And I was like, what? Marc, you already ate an entire pint of ice cream! Can you believe it?” Point to the device. Claire pointed to the cap on her molar. Say you have to go to the bathroom. Bring back some tweezers.

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“Well, it does sound like an incredible show. Maybe I can get Sam hooked on it. Hey, Case, I have to go to the little girl’s room. Be right back.” If you alert them, you will never see Sam again. Be sure to actually pee. Claire came back a minute later with the tweezers. Stephanie started talking again, this time about travel and a trip her and Marc were planning to Ireland. She motioned for Claire to open her mouth and, using the tweezers, gingerly removed the bug. She carefully placed it on the counter. Still talking, she pulled out a small round metal disk from her fanny pack. She put the object on the counter, concluded what she was saying, and then waved her flattened palm twice over the device. The object lit up with a blue light and immediately began playing a conversation between Claire and Stephanie – a chat that Claire had never even had with her. Yet, there it was. The recording sounded just like her, carrying on the discussion about Ireland and their shared enthusiasm for world travel. Don’t say a word. We have to go. Follow me. Claire grabbed the pen. Where?!! Stephanie grabbed the pen back from her and wrote: To see Sam.

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CHAPTER 15

They left out the back door. Stephanie walked briskly in front of her and Claire struggled to keep up. “Wait up, Stephanie, Jesus! Can you tell me what the hell is going on? Where are we going?”

Stephanie kept up her rapid pace and didn’t look back at her. “To the Murrays’ house. But we don’t have a lot of time, Claire. That digitized conversation will run for two hours and then start to repeat. Your friends will then come looking for you.”

“They’re not my friends, Stephanie, they’re goddamn CIA agents. And what was that conversation? It was me, but we never had that discussion.”

“We sampled your voice the night of the party. I doubt you remember much of it.”

“Yes, because you freaking drugged me,” growled Claire.

“We had to. We needed your voice, a blood sample and we needed to implant a tracking and listening device.”

“A blood sample? Tracking? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Claire, Sam will explain it all. Pick up the pace. I am taking you to him.”

“I don’t know if I believe you.”

They were making their way up the hill now. The steep incline made her legs ache and she was breathing hard. Her trust in Stephanie felt like a classic case of the devil you know. Maybe she was a Russian spy. So, what now? Were they going to reunite her with her husband and then shoot them both? That didn’t make a whole lot of sense. If they wanted her dead, Stephanie could have pulled a gun out of her fanny pack. There was no need to reunite them, unless…Sam was, in fact, working with them. But what did that mean? Would they have to go into hiding now? Or was Sam going to suggest they seek asylum in Russia? Her dream came to her then in a flash. She and Sam wandering aimlessly through the snow-covered streets of 144 | Page

Moscow. What the hell did he discover that was worth throwing their lives away? Why was he cooperating with the Russians?

The only answer Claire could come up with was the dementia. She thought back to the night she’d found him crying and vulnerable. She remembered his panicked eyes in the car that night when he drove them off the road on the way home from the restaurant. The disease was regressing him back toward childhood. He was an easy target and they had capitalized on his weakness. As she climbed the long staircase leading to the Murrays’ front door, she thought of all of this and her anger swelled. If she’d had a hammer in her hand, she might have lifted it high above her head and knocked Stephanie right off her feet. Stephanie? Is that even her real name? It’s probably Svetlana or Anastasiya or Valentina.

Her cell phone was vibrating in her pocket. She pulled it out and looked at the text from Martin. “Enough with the small talk. Tell her you’re worried about Sam. Play on her sympathies. She likes you.” She slipped it back in her jeans before Stephanie turned around to let her in the house. Here we go.

The house seemed familiar and yet very different. It was still full of the Murrays’ things, but it felt different, empty — staged, like a furniture showroom. A grandfather clock that had chimed loudly the night of the dinner party stood quiet, its pendulum perfectly vertical and still. The door leading to the once busy, bustling kitchen, was open. The room’s interior was immaculate and abandoned. Dust floated like snow in the sunlight, refracting off the hanging copper pots. As Stephanie shut the outer door behind them, Claire noticed the Hershel’s dog at the top of the staircase.

“What the hell is that dog doing here?” she said, frozen in her place with fear.

Stephanie looked at her the way a parent would look at a child declaring their fear of a thunderclap. “You don’t need to be afraid of it,” Stephanie said.

It? WTF?

Stephanie looked at Claire, eyebrows raised as if she had read her mind, then turned to the animal and said, “Report. Target location.”

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The animal walked slowly down the stairs, its movements more like a cat than a dog. It heeled before Stephanie and opened its mouth. It held it open and a human voice emitted from it.

“Acquired targets, CIA group, motel, no movement since 13:40. Acquired target, Sturgis, Claire, immediate proximity.”

Claire stood motionless, not sure what to do. She looked at Stephanie, her face clearly asking for explanation. “It’s a drone, Claire. Under all that fur and synthetic skin, a machine. Made primarily for reconnaissance. It’s not a combat unit, although it’s combat capable. It won’t hurt you.”

Claire backed up a few steps and reached for a leather armchair behind her. She fell backwards into it and just stared at Stephanie. So, it was true. Stephanie was a spy…with a robot dog. Sure, because that makes so much sense. Just a Russian robot dog that has been watching me for weeks. The crow! Of course, the crow, too. It all made sense now, and yet it made no sense at all.

“And, the, the crow? I saw a crow-”

“Yes, an aerial drone. We have a variety-”

“Stop, just stop!” Claire screamed, burying her face in her hands. We? Who was we? “What in the hell is going on? Are you Russian spies? That’s what they think you are. And they’re planning on coming in here with guns, Stephanie, if that’s even your real name. And those, those guards, are they with you? Because they kidnapped these kids and, and, they vanished.”

“Claire, I know you’re frightened and confused. Those kids are fine. We just scared them away and gave them something to make them forget the encounter, like the drug we gave you. We couldn’t risk them telling others about the canine drone. I really like you, Claire, but I had a job to do here and we were trained not to get too close. Do you understand? And I would just prefer for Sam to explain some of this to you. Let me take you to him, okay? We don’t have a lot of time.”

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She held out her hand and Claire stared at it for thirty seconds before taking it and pulling herself upright. Stephanie gave her a satisfied look and turned to walk down a long, white hallway leading away from the living room. The memory of it flickered like a broken fluorescent light, twitching into focus in her mind’s eye. There will be an elevator behind a wallpapered panel. A nauseating déjà vu crested over her, a wave of dread, a palpable feeling her life was about to change forever.

Stephanie removed a key card from her fanny pack and waved it over the wallpapered surface at the end of the hall. The wood paneling slid to the right, revealing a set of elevator doors that opened almost simultaneously. The interior was bathed in a soft, blue light, its walls and floor made of some sort of industrial strength material. At first, Claire did not recognize. It was smooth and opaque, something stronger than glass, but harder than plastic. But when she looked closer, she realized it was the exact same type of surface that covered her kitchen counters.

Every fiber of her being was telling her not to get on the elevator. In that instant, she felt right out of central casting in a mob movie. The snitch is taken on a drive out into the country. Everyone knows what’s about to happen. They ride in silence. The woods approach. The informant knows what’s coming. It’s not about survival at that point, but rather the retention of dignity and a resigning to one’s fate. She stepped in, and as she turned around, the doors shut automatically. They rode downward in silence for several minutes. Her ears popped.

The doors opened to a corridor constructed of the same foreign material, frosted and durable. Like the elevator, it was lit by soft blue lighting coming from behind the walls and ceiling. There were people walking around in white uniforms. Both men and women were dressed the same: white shirts with a gold crest above the heart, white pants and blue shoes. They walked to-and-fro with purpose, some carrying transparent computer tablets, some with briefcases made, again, with the ubiquitous glass-like substance.

She followed Stephanie down the hall to a doorway. Once again, Stephanie waved her card and the door opened.

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The room inside was spare. Blue-lit like the hallway, it had no furnishings in it, save for a white sofa and a white chair facing it. A man sat in it, his back to her. Her eyes flooded with tears and she gasped.

Sam!

As if hearing her mental scream, he turned around and got to his feet. His broad smile and outstretched arms pulled her to him. She fell into his open arms like a baby tossed from a burning building. The tears came now, hot and furious. She sobbed into the white fabric shirt of his uniform. It was the most delicate fabric she had ever felt, softer than the finest silk. He smelled clean and the heat of his body enveloped her as he cradled the back of her head with his hand.

“Baby, don’t cry,” he cooed into her hair. “We’re together now. This must be quite a shock. I’m so very sorry.”

“I’ll leave you two alone to talk,” Stephanie said from the doorway. “But Sam, dust-off is in 30 minutes, okay? And we need to prep you both. The work up on her blood indicated she can travel with the right amount of medical preparation. If it’s what you decide. And, of course, we’ll need the code, while we’re still in range.”

Sam just nodded at Stephanie. The door whooshed open and closed behind her with another whoosh and a click.

Claire broke her embrace and wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand. She looked up at him with eyes that pleaded for the truth.

“Prep us for what, Sam? Why, Sam? Why are you working for the Russians? I’m not defecting to Moscow!” The tears started again but she was determined to get answers and struggled to regain her composure and keep talking. “I was abducted by CIA agents, Sam. Drugged – once by the Russians and then the CIA -- and then goddam kidnapped! And they are preparing to arrest you, and, and, Lu. And they’re looking for Gunderson. They’re at a motel not far from here and they are coming for you. With guns, Sam! Why, baby? Why are you working with them? Why did you steal those files?”

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“Claire, sit down, okay,” he said, his own eyes filling with tears. “First, I localized those files because I thought Gunderson was maybe a foreign agent, and it turns out I was right. But it’s more complicated than that and you deserve to know the truth. About the project.”

She broke eye contact with him and looked at the couch, hesitating, as if she had forgotten how to sit. I think I’m in shock. Real shock. Pay attention, Claire. Pay attention to what he’s about to say. Focus on the words. No more pills. No more booze. You must face this sober and clear-headed. This is not a dream. She sat on the couch and he took a seat on the chair.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to guess our CIA friends told you a little bit about the project.”

“Some,” she said. “A satellite project you revived. And you discovered something and then you stole the data and sold it to the Russians. That’s what they think, Sam: you sold secrets to the fucking Russians.”

“Okay, right, so, it’s so simple, it’s almost silly. But what I discovered was an encrypted transmission hidden in the binary data beamed back to Earth about 30 years ago. It sat on a server for decades and nobody had ever reviewed it or even accessed the data, for that matter.”

“English, Sam. English! I don’t understand. What was this, this transmission? Was it something important to the space program? Something the Russians wanted?”

Sam laughed and she stared at him as if he truly was losing his mind. He kept laughing until he realized she was not going to join in. The anguish on her face sobered him into continuing.

“I’m laughing because what the satellite intercepted was a television show,” he paused, gauging her face for reaction. “A game show, actually.”

Now it was her turn to laugh. She stood up and started pacing the room, laughing so hard she had to hold her side. He began laughing with her until she pivoted on one foot and pointed her finger at him, her mood swinging into fury.

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“This is not at all funny, Sam! You don’t get to laugh at this! Is your dementia so advanced right now that you are already completely crazy or are you just an asshole who is messing with me? Yucking it up with your comrades. How much did they pay you to sell your wife and your country down the river!? Was it for money? That’s not you, Sam, so it must be your mind. You’re losing your mind, babe, and they are manipulating you. Clearly they are taking advantage of you, Sam. We have to get the hell out of here. There, there is still time for you to cooperate-”

“Claire-”

“And they said that if you cooperate they could reduce your sentence, our sentence-”

“Claire-”

“And I am sure if we got a good lawyer, someone who specializes in these types of espionage cases, that maybe-”

“Claire, the game show wasn’t broadcast from Earth.”

He might as well have broadsided her head with a shovel. It would have had the same effect. She stopped talking and just stared at him, half-expecting for him to start laughing again. He sat silently, his face serious and convincing, as if he just told her something irrefutable, like the temperature outside, or his birth date.

She retreated to the sofa and sat down across from him again. “What are you saying? Sam, what are you talking about?”

“The broadcast was not from here.”

“And by here you mean…this planet?”

“That’s correct.”

“Sam, you’re not making any sense, babe.” She started to cry again. His dementia has gotten much worse. He’s not just demented, he’s delusional. How am I going to get us out of this nightmare? She pulled her cellphone out of the pocket of her jeans but there was no signal. She

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imagined Martin and Bill and Summer listening to the second hour of their, inane pre-recorded chit-chat until, after the conversation looped back to the beginning, they’d realize they’d been duped. How quickly would they come looking for her? Did the guards at the shack have more than just Tasers? How was she and her clearly psychotic husband going to escape from a bunch of Russians, hunkered down in some militarized bunker beneath the Murrays’ otherwise lovely five-bedroom neoclassical suburban manse?

The door to the room slid open and in walked Marcus and Luanne Murray. And, behind them, Director Gunderson. Claire’s mood swung again at the sight of them. She lunged toward Lu, her eyes wide and her arms outstretched. Sam grabbed her arm and stopped her advance. “You asshole! This is all your fault. You convinced him to come here. He trusted you and you, you were lying. You preyed on a weakened, sick man and now there are CIA agents five miles from here waiting to arrest all of you.”

Lu very matter-of-factly offered, “They’re actually six-point-two miles from here, my dear.”

Claire laughed at this. A pitchy peel that revealed her tenuous embrace of reality. “Really, bitch? Is that all you’re going to say for yourself? You won’t be so smug when they throw you and all your friends in jail. And for what? For some decades-old space noise that a demented NASA engineer convinced you is a – let me get this straight – is an episode of The Price is Right from Mars!? I was impressed with your little robot animals, but your intel is pretty screwed up and I, for one—”

Claire’s face flushed and her head throbbed. Her breathing became shallow and the room started to tilt to the right. “I think I’m fainting,” she said before falling to the floor.

When she came to she was lying on a simple bed, made of the same mystery material. Something resembling a blood pressure cuff was wrapped around her arm. Several clear tubes led from the sleeve around her right bicep to what looked like a transparent computer terminal standing by her bedside. A blond woman dressed in one of the white uniforms waved her hand

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over the terminal’s screen and it glowed and flickered. A light within the wall near the door was flashing red.

“How are you feeling, Claire?”

“Where’s Sam?”

“I’m right here, babe.” She turned her head and saw Sam, lying beside her on a similar bed, connected to another terminal operated by a tall, brown-haired man.

She sat up quickly, but the woman put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Almost done, Claire. Just a few more minutes and you’ll be good to go.”

“Good to go where?” Claire asked the woman, before directing her stare and her question toward her husband. Sam sat up then and turned to the man and the woman, “Can you give us a minute?”

“Sure,” said the man. “Just don’t take the cuffs off until we get back, okay?” The man and the woman left the room and Sam stared at Claire, a strange mix of exasperation and relief on his face.

“Claire, you need to trust me, now. Blindly trust me. We’re out of time. I’ll explain on the way.”

The door to the room opened and Stephanie walked in. Over her shoulder she could see Marc standing in the hallway, the blue lighting now replaced with red.

“Sam, you can remove the cuffs now. We have 15 minutes. Meet us where we showed you.” Stephanie looked at Claire and an offered an apologetic smile, tilting her head slightly to the side before turning and leaving the room.

They both stood to face one another. “I’ll explain on the way, Claire. Please trust me, we have to go. Now. Can you trust me?”

Claire put her hand defensively over her stomach. It felt like the moment before judgement was passed. She awaited her sentence.

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“They’re leaving, Claire, and they have graciously invited us to go with them.”

She was weeping now. Her tears fell on both their hands. She was exhausted and confused. He wiped her cheeks, pushed her hair away from her face and kissed her. “Claire, they can cure my dementia. They have the medical technology, where they’re from. And, even if they couldn’t, I have to do this, Claire. The scientist in me can’t say no. Not to this.”

“No they don’t Sam. Their lying to you. Sam, I can’t. Please don’t make me. Please don’t make me go.”

“Why can’t you, sweetheart? Are you afraid?”

Jenny’s hair whipped in the wind as they stood on the railing. Her eyes sparkled with life. Fearless. Young. Free.

“You were right, Sam. Somehow you knew. I’m pregnant, baby,” she blurted, sobbing. “And I kept drinking and popping pills because none of it made any sense. I am so sorry. I don’t know how I know, but I know it’s a girl. I want to name her Jenny.”

Sam stood up and hugged her. “I love you so much, Claire. Jenny it is.”

The door opened and Stephanie entered the room, looking anxious and purposeful. “Time’s up. They’re coming…with soldiers.”

Sam grabbed Claire’s hand and pulled her out of the room. The three of them ran down a long hallway that opened to a large underground hangar. Ten of the largest helicopters she had ever seen, all made of that strange material, were powering up, their gigantic blades whirling. Sam got on the one closest to them, climbing in after Stephanie, and then extended his hand to Claire. She looked at it, paralyzed. “Claire, grab my hand!”

Stephanie yelled over the roar, “Sam, we have to go right now!”

The craft raised several feet off the floor, as the entire ceiling of the room opened to reveal a long, illuminated vertical shaft. A hatch at the top of the shaft slowly opened revealing the night sky. The helicopter was now several more feet in the air, the landing gear well above

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Claire’s head now. Sam let out a panicked wail. “Claire, I can’t do this without you. Please trust me! Get a running start and jump!”

The wind was whipping through Jenny’s hair and she turned to Claire, “On the count of three...”

Three, two, one. Claire sprinted forward, arms swinging and leapt. Sam’s hand grabbed on to hers and, for a desperate moment, she felt the familiar heartbreaking slip, the connection about to sever, the exact measure of a lifetime’s worth of heartbreak.

And then Sam pulled her with all the strength he had and hoisted her into the helicopter. The door slid shut behind her, as the craft ascended up the shaft and through the open roof, hurtling into the night.

Unlike other helicopters Claire had flown on previously, she could not hear the roar of the rotors or the engine. There was no need for headsets. She could hear Sam and the crew perfectly, as if they were sitting in a library.

“Remember a long time ago, you asked me what my dream was, what I hoped from my life’s work,” Sam asked. “Yes,” she said, as the choppers buzzed low, in formation, over the rolling hills below. “You told me you dreamed of one day discovering a habitable planet.”

He smiled at her, his eyes filling with tears. The fact that she remembered was just one example of how much she loved him and the love on his face now flushed her face with emotion, too.

“I did better than that, babe,” he said, his voice hitching, a sob sticking in his throat. “I found an inhabited planet.”

“Sam, what are you saying?” she was crying now, too, her heart torn, half believing she was losing her husband to his disease and the other half exalting in the joy of what he believed he had done.

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“These people – and they are people – they aren’t Russians, Claire. They’ve been here for decades, living among us. The Russian stuff is a cover, in the event their U.S.-based mission here was ever discovered.”

He took hold of her trembling hands. She was afraid to know the truth. But the shock had worn away, replaced by an apprehensive determination to understand exactly what was happening. “What’s their mission, Sam? Why are they here?”

“They were here to prevent us from ever finding their planet. When their moles at NASA realized that I had, they got me interested in the house; pushed me to leave. Gunderson is one of them, as you saw. They wanted us close. The Village was their base, Claire. When Stephanie mentioned the riff between her and Marie, it wasn’t about the actual wall around the neighborhood, but the figurative wall between our planets. The two of them represented two factions. Stephanie’s group wanted to stay, to break down the proverbial barrier between our two worlds and allow me to take the project public, or at least back to NASA command. And-”

Stephanie interrupted. “Claire, I really shouldn’t have told you about the tension between Marie and me. And that business about the wall was a sloppy metaphor for what we were really arguing about. I really like you, Claire, and I lobbied the Council hard to not wipe your memories, but instead invite you to come with us. Lu even decided to release you after the party while we deliberated whether to invite you off world.”

“And it was Stephanie who wrote that on your arm, not me. They needed to test your blood to be sure you could handle space travel and that’s when they found out you were pregnant.”

Claire looked down at her lap and began sobbing. “I kept drinking and I should have stopped. I knew and I kept doing it.”

Sam knelt before her. “Listen to me. You were under an incredible amount of stress. We’ll deal with it now. Together.”

Claire sniffled and regained her composure. Stephanie was now sitting beside her. In her hand was a tablet.

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“Sam, we need the code, before we leave the atmosphere.”

“Wait, wait,” objected Claire. “So Marie’s side won? And, did you say ‘off world’?”

“Okay, one thing at a time,” said Sam. “Babe, remember I told you a password. The night we had dinner in Grover. Well, I can’t remember it. Not even under hypnosis. I thought I took all the files about the project with me when I left NASA, but my memory being what it now is, there was a backup of all my work that I forgot to delete. We need that code now. Right now.”

“Jeopardy?” Claire said, looking at Sam and then to Stephanie. Stephanie looked at Sam and he gave her an affirmative nod. She typed the word into the tablet and, after thirty seconds had passed, looked up at Sam, her face awash with relief. “It’s done. No trace.” Stephanie then picked up what looked like a phone receiver on the wall near their seats. “We’re good here. Data deleted. Initiate bunker detonation and launch sequence.”

Claire, teary-eyed, turned to Stephanie, who was still typing on the keyboard. “So, if you leave, aren’t you afraid we’ll find you again?”

“We’re not leaving entirely. We’re just redeploying assets. Moving around minimizes are chances of being detected. However, we have several hundred outposts on Earth,” Stephanie said with a coldness that felt both efficient and official.

Claire was crying again as the copters broke through the cloud cover and the blades of the crafts retracted into the ships. A bluish blackness appeared above them.

“Ever been to outer space?” Sam asked her, placing his hand on her stomach.

“I’m spacey. Does that count?” she said, a half-laugh, half-sob hitching in her throat.

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“And little Jenny, is she afraid?”

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