Chapter 1 #7
“You okay?” Jesse asked, looking at his screen. “Your pulse is a little . . . fast.”
He tried, and failed, to smother a grin. “White coat syndrome,” I said, lifting my chin. “You can’t hook me up to a monitor and not expect me to get nervous.”
“Nervousness is normal. I’m just learning your baseline.” Jesse glanced at me over the edge of the laptop. “We’re going to start the acquaintance test now.”
“We’re already acquaintances.”
He smiled. “That’s what we call the pretest for a polygraph—-it’s meant to measure your response levels. Please keep your eyes fixed straight ahead and stay still. Remember what I said: this is the only time I’m going to ask you to lie to me during this interview. Understand?”
I nodded.
“No nodding—-please verbalize your answers,” Jesse said. “Is your number two?”
I stared at the wall opposite. “No.”
“Is your number three?”
Evenly, I said, “No.”
“Is your number four?”
“No.”
And so on, until Jesse told me that the test was finished. “Well,” he said, “the number you picked is three.”
“Nice magic trick,” I said, slipping the note out from under my hand and showing it to him.
“Magic?” He pivoted his screen so that I could see the dancing lines for my breathing, my pulse, my sweat glands—-and where they shot up off the chart. “See how that line inches up just before I asked you if your number was three . . . and then how it skyrocketed?”
I shrugged, trying to act unimpressed.
He grinned widely. “So you want a legit polygraph. The kind I’d do if you came in here to prove your innocence?”
Tilting my chin up, I met his gaze. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“That’s what they all say,” Jesse joked.
“But sure.” He folded his arms. “There are four kinds of questions I ask during a polygraph. Neutral questions are completely unrelated to the reason we’re here, and they’re just to establish a baseline of physiological response.
Sacrifice questions are about whether you trust me, or if I can trust you.
Comparison questions are about things most people consider to be morally wrong, and they’re meant to make even an innocent person anxious.
And then relevant questions are the ones that relate to the crime. ”
“Pretty sure I didn’t commit a crime,” I huffed out.
“Pretty sure refusing to give a relationship with me a chance before it even gets started is criminal,” Jesse murmured. He looked directly at me. “Are you wearing a red sweater?”
I looked down at my scarlet cardigan. “Yes.”
“Are you single?”
“Yes,” I replied, narrowing my eyes.
“Do you trust me?”
I kept my eyes opposite, on the wall, but felt something soften inside me. I did trust Jesse, and I didn’t know why. “Yes.”
“Are you a natural blonde?”
My eyes flew to his. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Actually,” Jesse said, “I would.”
“Yes, I am,” I ground out.
He laughed, and then I felt the heat of his gaze on me. “Have you ever lied to someone you consider a friend?”
I thought of Tabs, of how before the pandemic hit she had invited me to spend a weekend in the city just hanging out, and how I’d made up an excuse. I had just felt weird forging a bond with her outside of our shared tragedy.
“Yes,” I admitted.
Jesse moved behind me, his words falling onto the nape of my neck. “Are you attracted to me, Molly?”
I swallowed. “No,” I said.
His lips skated over my temple. “Do you dream about me at night, like I dream about you?”
Everything inside me liquefied. “No,” I whispered.
Jesse reached an arm around either side of me and flipped the laptop so that it was facing us.
The screen showed lines in red, yellow, and green, snaking horizontally.
At each of the questions, there was a small hill of response.
For the last two, the spikes broke through the confines of the metric.
“You know what I think?” Jesse knelt beside me and grasped my chin, running his thumb over my bottom lip.
“I think half of what comes out of that gorgeous mouth is a lie.”
My heart started to race. On the screen, I watched the red line zoom high.
“But only half,” I said, and I kissed him.
When I was two years old, my father, my stepmother, Evie, and I moved to Barrington, Rhode Island.
I guess being in New York City felt too much like being surrounded by ghosts, and they decided it was time to leave.
They still live in the Victorian where I grew up, with its postage--stamp--size back lawn and stained glass door and the newel post that comes off in your hand if you turn the corner of the stairs too fast.
A couple days after my trip to New York, I stop by to meet Evie for lunch.
I let myself in through the back door, which leads to the kitchen.
My father sits at the kitchen table, holding an iPad, engrossed in his reading.
When he sees me, he slides his glasses off.
“Hey, you,” he says, a smile lighting his features gradually, the sun at dawn.
“Hey, you,” I reply. It’s our secret handshake, our standard greeting, our confirmation that everything is okay. He stands up and pulls me into an embrace so tight it’s hard for me to breathe.
I know why, and so does he, and neither of us will say it out loud.
He is well aware that I went to the commemoration in the city.
My dad still avoids Manhattan like it is the epicenter of a plague, and, really, who could blame him?
He turns down every trial gig that requires a trip to New York City.
Although most people assume it’s simply too hard for him to revisit the site where his wife was killed, it’s more than that.
Like chatter on 4chan, when we get close to the anniversary, his obsession starts to peek out the way a slip does under the hem of a dress.
He’ll bury himself in podcasts and readings from conspiracy theorists, trying to connect threads that simply do not exist.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, looking him in the eye. “The ceremony was fine.”
He scoffs. “Of course it was. When you have something that big to cover up, you have to create a good distraction.” He nods down at his tablet. “NORAD was in on it, you know.”
I sigh. “Dad. It wasn’t till after 9/11 that a system was set up for the FAA to contact NORAD automatically. It’s true of most emergency management systems. It was tragic beyond belief, but it was also a learning experience.”
For a moment, the zeal in his eyes flickers. “God, you’re smart. Your mom would be so proud of you.”
“What would I be proud of?”
We both turn as Evie walks into the kitchen asking this question.
My father and I exchange a glance—-a silent agreement to not correct her.
In our own ways, I think we have both been protecting Evie for years.
My dad loves her and doesn’t want her to feel like a replacement for his first wife.
Likewise, she has blanketed me with so much warmth and love.
She soothed me when I fell on the playground, slept beside me during my nightmares, held my ponytail back from the toilet when I had the stomach bug.
She was who I whispered the name of my first crush to, and she was the one who consoled me when he broke my fifth--grade heart by giving a pack of candy hearts to another girl.
She taught me how to drive, how to do an eyeliner flick, and how to make pancakes.
She proudly posts links to papers I co--author on her Facebook page, although most of the material is so esoteric it is practically unreadable to a layperson.
She did everything to make me who I am today—-except give birth to me.
The least I can do is have the grace to not grieve the loss of my other mother in front of her.
I’ve only met one person who understood this complicated dance—-a girl in my cohort in grad school who had been adopted.
She’d secretly found her birth mother on 23andMe, but she didn’t want to contact the woman while her adoptive mother was still alive.
How could I, she had said, when it might make my mom feel like she hasn’t been good enough?
Evie gives me a hug and then slips an arm around my father’s waist. “Adam,” she says, “if you’re still talking about NORAD, I’m going full Lysistrata.”
He leans down and kisses her. “That’s not what you said last night . . .”
“Oh my God.” I cringe. “Act your age.”
“I’m fifty--one, not dead,” my father says, and then he turns to Evie. “Abject embarrassment of child: new parenting level unlocked.” He high--fives her.
I roll my eyes. “Goodbye,” I announce, as Evie laughs and falls into step beside me.
We leave my father waving at the door. “You want to walk? It’s beautiful out,” Evie says.
She’s right. This is my favorite time of year in Rhode Island.
The trees are crowned in jewels—-ruby and citrine, garnet and emerald, inset with gold.
The ocean is a cobalt velvet cloak. It is not cold enough to need a coat, but the air is so crisp it stings the back of your throat.
Fall in New England is an embarrassment of riches.
“Oh, wait a sec,” I say, grabbing the sixty--pound backpack I travel with whenever I leave home.
In it I have two different MiFis—-one that’s Verizon and one that’s FirstNet.
I have a power pack the size of a newborn that I can plug everything into, in case electricity cuts out.
I don’t have the satellite phone, but that’s only because I’m not the member of my team on call today. I haul the pack onto my shoulders.
Evie narrows her eyes. “That can’t be good for your back.”
“But it’s necessary for my mental health,” I say cheerfully. Not only is it literally my job to be prepared; but also, I have a superstitious streak: I’m sure the one time I leave my pack behind is when something will go terribly wrong.