Sliver Of Truth

I took a quick walk through the house, through the empty rooms of my childhood. The family room where we’d gathered for television or games was much the same, though the furniture had been updated recently and my parents had replaced the old television with a new big-screen. My parents’ bedroom on the ground floor looked out over my mother’s garden. In the spring, she’d leave the French doors open and let the room fill with the smell of roses. I remembered watching her sit at her vanity, doing her hair and makeup, and thinking she was the most beautiful woman in the world. The room, decorated in a sort of Martha Stewart/ Victorian theme with heavy brocades and floral prints, was typically tidy with stacks of books on each of the nightstands. Upstairs, I sat on my old bed for a minute, looked at my framed diplomas, my debate trophies, and the first article I’d had published in my school paper. My bed was still made with my old Laura Ashley sheets. A place that once had seemed the happiest and safest in all the world now seemed cold and dark; the heat was down and I pulled my jacket tight around myself. I felt those fingers of despair tugging at me again, but I brushed them off as I hurriedly left the room and moved down the stairs. I left my parents’ house, locked the door behind me, and headed back into the city.

I HAVE A TREMENDOUS ability to compartmentalize my emotions. Some people call it denial, but I think it’s a skill to be able to put unpleasant things out of your head for a little while in order to accomplish something else. For the next few hours I didn’t think about Agent Grace or Myra Lyall or about my truly devastating encounter with Esme Gray. I didn’t think about Max or if those ashes I scattered off the Brooklyn Bridge were really his. I just wrote my article about Elena Jansen, proofread it carefully, and e-mailed it in to my editor at O Magazine. I had already had most of it written in my head-it was just a matter of getting it down on paper. For me the actual writing is only about ten percent of the process; ninety percent is the thinking about it. Much of that is unconscious. I guess for me all action is like that.

I felt better after writing the article. Elena Jansen’s tragedy made the drama in my life seem silly and inconsequential…for a second or two, anyway. Maybe that was why I was writing these kinds of pieces, why I was drawn to these survivors. They reminded me that my own story wasn’t so bad. That other people had endured less survivable events. They made me feel as if one day I’d find my way back to a normal, happy life. Is that selfish?

Once I’d sent in the article, though, all the other stuff started nagging at me. I took the strange website address from my pocket and plugged it into my own browser. The same red screen popped up; I stared at it, transfixed for a minute. I dragged the cursor over the whole page, clicking randomly, like I had done at my parents’ house. Nothing. It started driving me a little crazy. I knew there was something there; if the website was down, the screen would show an error message. My father had been visiting this site every day. There must be a way in.

The phone rang then.

“Hey,” said Jake when I answered. “What are you doing?”

“Just working on an article due tomorrow.”

“Want me to come over?”

“Not tonight. I’m feeling pretty wrecked. And I don’t want to blast this deadline.”

“Anything wrong?” he asked after a pause.

“No,” I lied. “Nothing.”

“How are you feeling about everything? Max and all that.”

“Honestly,” I said, “I haven’t even thought about it today.”

The long silence on the other end told me he didn’t believe me. “Okay,” he said finally. “Talk to you in the morning?”

“Definitely.”

“Well, good night, Ridley.”

“Good night, Jake.”

8

After a terrible night’s sleep, I got up in the morning and made a few phone calls. Esme’s words and the things Agent Grace had told me about Myra and Allen Lyall were smoldering in my center. I’d seen a poster of their faces on the way back into the city the night before. There was an update on the morning news, which basically consisted of a downcast detective saying that there were no new leads and asking anyone who might have seen anything to come forward.

I felt connected to Myra Lyall now. I started to wish I’d returned her phone calls when I’d had the chance. And there was something else. I wondered if she’d found something out-something about Project Rescue or about Max-that had gotten her killed. It was a terrible itch. Of course, I had to scratch it.

I knew a couple people over at the Times: an Arts & Leisure editor named Jenna Rich and a sportswriter I dated briefly, a guy named Dennis Leach (unfortunate name, I know). I didn’t reach either of them, so I left messages. I made a few more visits to the mystery website, had the same experience I’d had the night before, and hopped in the shower. As I was finishing up and pulling on some clothes, my phone rang.