Chapter 3
Chapter Three
California
Janie was on her knees in the walk-in closet of the house in Malibu, shoving pants and skirts and silk scarves into her suitcase as tears sent stripes down her cheeks.
Outside, a siren screamed down the nearest highway, what sounded like both a cop car and an ambulance, off to tend to another emergency.
The sound of it matched her inner turmoil.
She kept shoving her things (how many things had she purchased over the years?
Had she been so bored with her old stuff?
Had they just had too much money?). She was unsure if she wanted to bring everything.
Maybe it was better to leave it all here in the house and start over.
She imagined people moving in, changing into her pants, putting on her makeup, living the life she’d thought would forever be hers.
Maybe she could change her name, get a new haircut, and reinvent herself.
But what would her teenagers think? Despite her broken heart, she laughed at herself and leaned against the cool, air-conditioned wall.
It was one hundred degrees outside. Nothing would ever be the same again.
Janie got up and went downstairs, passing by the kids’ rooms. It sounded like they were together, playing video games and cackling and goading one another. It lit her up inside that her children got along. At least they had that.
What would they say when they learned what was happening? She decided not to think about that right now—one thing at a time.
Janie found her cell phone on the kitchen counter next to a bowl of uneaten popcorn.
Had she popped it? It sounded like her—deciding to stress eat and then forgetting to stress eat because she was so dang stressed.
She checked her messages and calls and found several.
The one that stood out was from Chloe, her longtime best friend.
Every woman in the world needed a best friend. She called her back right away.
“Janie! Hey!” Chloe sounded breathless, as though she were running up the stairs. “Are you okay? I’ve been worried about you!”
Janie almost melted on the spot. Just the sound of her best friend’s voice made everything less sharp, less dramatic. She pictured them somewhere, laughing about this later, with a glass of wine.
“Hey. Sorry, I didn’t answer.” Janie sat on the kitchen floor with the bowl of popcorn, praying that one of her children wouldn’t come in and find her like that. It wasn’t like her to sit on the floor, snacking.
“It’s okay. It sounds like you have a lot on your plate.”
Janie sighed and let her head drop against the Scandinavian-type cabinets that she’d had installed just two years ago, back when she’d thought she’d live and retire and maybe even die in this house (a long time from now). That had been the plan. It had been the plan since she’d said, “I do.”
Of course, things in her marriage hadn’t exactly been perfect through the years. But she’d been more than willing to ignore so much until now.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so cryptic,” Janie said.
“I don’t know what’s real and what’s not.
But I think I’ve decided…” She knew that if she told Chloe the truth, she probably couldn’t go back on it.
She couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening.
“I can’t be here when he gets back. I’m going to take the kids and go somewhere. Anywhere else.”
Chloe was quiet for a moment, processing. Finally, she said, “It’s that bad, huh?”
Janie let out a sob, then stifled the rest of them behind her hand.
“Oh, honey. You know that you can cry in front of me,” Chloe whispered. “I’m the last person you have to pretend in front of. Especially when it comes to these people.”
These people. The words cut through Janie like a knife. She wanted to protest, to remind Chloe that “these people” were in fact her people, her family. But she wasn’t so sure what she believed these days.
Suddenly, there was a wild knock on the door, one that made her think of the police sirens screaming outside. “I have to go,” Janie said.
“Why?” Chloe sensed something was wrong. “Janie, what’s going on?”
“I need to keep packing,” Janie said. “I love you. I’ll call you soon.”
Janie hung up and hurried to the foyer, where she pulled open the door and found not one but five people dressed in black.
They were waving microphones, yelling questions, or addressing the cameras mounted on both of them and on the house behind them as they outlined the story—the story of the day.
They’d do anything to get the best angle.
Janie almost slammed the door in their faces. But a woman with mousy hair burst up, pressed her hand on the door, and wedged it open as she asked, “Mrs. Whitmore, do you mind answering a series of questions about your husband?”
Janie’s stomach felt tremulous and strange. She considered what it would be like to vomit up the popcorn she’d just eaten in front of one of those video cameras. So frozen with fear was she that she didn’t manage to close the door before the journalists hollered more questions.
“What can you tell us about the fire at the White Oak Lodge?” one of them cried.
“What can you tell us about the night of the Fourth of July 1998?”
“Mrs. Whitmore, is it true that the airline has let your husband go? In light of what has recently come out about your husband’s past, was it necessary? Do you think they’ll take legal action?”
“Mrs. Whitmore, where is your husband right now? Can you fetch him and bring him downstairs for us? We’d really like to get the true story straight from him. He’s the witness, isn’t he? He was really there?”
“Mrs. Whitmore, what can you tell us about Jack and Benjamin Whitmore? When was the last time you saw them? Is there any chance they’re still alive?”
And on and on. The questions swirled around her, suffocating her.
Suddenly, a tremendous rage burned through Janie’s heart and shot up through her throat.
“Get away from my house!” she cried. “Get away, or I’ll call the police!
” She knew they’d captured that on camera, but she couldn’t care.
She bucked back, managed to heave the door closed, and locked it.
The journalists continued to pound on the door and ring the doorbell, but Janie refused to acknowledge them.
Instead, she ran to her cell, called the cops, and had them over to the house in ten minutes flat.
With their help, she was able to clear out the driveway, the street in front of the house, and the front stoop.
But she imagined it would only be a matter of time before they returned, barking questions, trying to order her around.
She had to do what she’d said she would: get out of here, hide.
She couldn’t be here when Alexander got back from wherever he was.
He’d tried to call every night for the past week, but as things had become more frantic here, as the journalists had come and gone, as the phone calls had come from all over, she’d refused to answer Alexander.
He’d stopped texting, maybe because he’d felt too pathetic.
He was an airline pilot, and his opinion of himself could only drop so far before he stopped doing whatever made him feel ashamed.
That was Janie’s feeling about it, anyway.
But Alexander was fast becoming a mystery to her.
It was odd that the man she’d known for decades, the man she’d had children with, contained within him so many mysteries and secrets.
Had she done something wrong in not figuring him out better over the years?
Or were all wives and husbands mysteries to one another, puzzles that remained impossible to solve?
Janie shot up the stairs and pounded on Xander’s bedroom door.
The video game was cut off a second later, and she could hear Xander, Gwen, and Conor talking to one another, perhaps weighing up who would answer the door and who would remain in the game.
Janie didn’t have time for this. She sighed and rapped her knuckles again, crying out, “Come on, guys. Please. Give me a break.” As the mother of teenagers, she never felt on even ground.
Soon enough, Conor appeared. He was the youngest, just fourteen, but the spitting image of Alexander. His eyes were the same penetrating ones of Francesca Whitmore, a woman Janie hadn’t seen in years. The way Conor looked at her made her freeze, if only for a moment. He had a quiet power.
“What’s up?” he asked, his voice alternating between high and low pitches, even in the span of two words. Puberty had him in its grip.
“I need to talk to all of you.” Janie tried to appear confident. But she knew that children could always see through you. They always sensed who you were, beyond the false-adult facade you’d built.
“Now,” Janie added, as though that did anything.
But apparently, it was what Xander needed to turn off the television and walk over to the door.
The eldest was seventeen and slender, with hair that needed cutting and a California tan he maintained through multiple surfing stints each week.
It was often funny to Janie that they’d had children in California, considering where they’d come from.
Gwen appeared soon after, fifteen and smiling nervously at their mother. Gwen looked exactly like Janie had at that age, so much so that sometimes, it gave Janie pause. Was she looking in the mirror? Had any time passed?
Xander beckoned for Janie to enter his “lair,” and she did, sitting at the edge of his unmade bed and looking up at her three teenage children. Her heart swelled with love for them. The television glowed with purple and blue light.
“I don’t know if you’re aware of what’s been happening, of what’s been said about your father.” Janie dove straight into the topic at hand.
Gwen, Conor, and Xander exchanged glances that told her they’d been trying to avoid mention of this. It was clear they knew all about it —or at least everything that was being said.
“We don’t think Dad did anything wrong,” Gwen said, her tone steely.
Janie’s mouth went dry. All she wanted was to believe her daughter's story about Alexander. All she wanted was to believe Alexander himself, her strong, proud, handsome pilot husband. But they couldn’t stay in this house any longer, not until they knew for sure what was going on and who Alexander Whitmore truly was.
It was awful to have to carry his last name around. It felt like it weighed them down.
“Let’s not talk about that right now.” Janie stood off the bed so she towered over Gwen and Conor and met Xander’s gaze.
“What I want from you is your cooperation. You all need to pack a suitcase. Enough clothes, toiletries, and so on for at least two weeks away. Remember, we can wash your clothes wherever we go.”
Xander and Conor gaped at her. Gwen’s face scrunched, and she let out a sob.
But Janie was resolute. They couldn’t be home; they couldn’t continue to let journalists accost their door, demanding answers they couldn’t possibly give; they couldn’t let this sinister story keep going.
As it stood, they didn’t have any control.
For the next five minutes, her children tried to reason with her.
They talked about all the amenities in their home, all the things they’d be leaving behind if they really went along with Janie’s plan.
They spoke of the video game they were in the midst of as though it were more essential than water, or food, or sunlight.
But Janie had made up her mind. It was time to go.
Of Xander’s summer job, she said, “You can’t go back. Not now. Call your manager and say there’s a family emergency.”
Xander was flustered, squeezing and pulling the curls on either side of his head. “You’re the one who made me get the job in the first place,” he reminded her.
“And now I’m telling you it’s over.” She spun on her heel in the doorway, eager to get away from her children’s prying eyes. They’d never seen their mother like this. “You have one hour to pack. Let’s get this show on the road.”