Catch up on the previous chapters here
Part Two: The Loneliest Number
He mostly used his laptop for work. It was a write-off that way. Plus he only had the one laptop, unlike his phones. He had his work phone, his personal phone—which was a joke as far as the phone part actually went, because who called him now that Ma was dead?—and a couple more burner phones in case he needed to call someone and it wasn’t business, but he only had the one laptop.
And he was careful with the laptop. He didn’t type anything in it that he didn’t want other people to see, just in case. All his daily thoughts—he didn’t do anything so structured as journaling—were longhand, and he’d written three drafts of the manuscript that way before ever typing it up, going over and over it with a critical eye to make sure he didn’t put anything into the digital realm that he didn’t want other people knowing.
He was a careful and exacting man, and it showed. His agent even pointed it out—This is one of the cleanest manuscripts that’s ever hit my inbox! Thanks, Thom. It was always nice to be appreciated.
He was meticulous, but he couldn’t honestly say he was a patient man. He would wait, if necessary, but he didn’t like waiting. Every minute stood out clearly. Maybe he simply had a better sense of time than most people. He’d tried meditating, multiple times—he was also persistent—but it never seemed to click. Focusing on his breath was just another way of recognizing the way time was passing. It had to pass, since there was simply no other option, but breaths and heartbeats and guided meditation simply filled it instead of removing him from it.
Maybe he didn’t understand meditation, but that wasn’t for a lack of trying. YouTube, online forums, in-person private sessions … none of them broke through. He did all the so-called homework—which was assigned in units of time, by the way—and honestly wanted to succeed, but no dice. He managed to clear his mind of everything but the passing seconds.
It could be worse. At least that was the only thing he couldn’t get rid of when he wanted to. There were times it was good to put thoughts in a box on a shelf and come back to them later, because they’d be too distracting otherwise. And even though his business charged by the job instead of the hour, it was nice to have that comparison ticking away: ahead of schedule, on track, or taking a loss.
A business loss was one he could handle. He could recover from that, especially because he lived frugally and had a nice cushion in the bank. Even nicer since the advance and the book delivery. The bank knew he had the money, but there wasn’t an obvious trail of where it came from. Clearly if he’d deposited a check saying something like for writing the novel Since You Went Away, it would defeat the point of using a pseudonym. They were checks from an agency, but they didn’t even say what kind of agency.
And yes, he’d be showing his face. He hadn’t particularly wanted to, but they’d talked him around, because publicity practically required it. They could hold back the photo for now—he’d said something about how a man in his position didn’t exactly like to be seen as the literary type, especially when words like heart-wrenching and tender got thrown around too—but he’d be out there, doing the readings. Big cities, sure, but he’d also requested small Midwest towns.
He couldn’t be completely positive that she was in witness protection, especially after all this time, but the trail of hits for Lida-Rose Elizabeth Dawson was still cold. As far as he could tell, the last record of her existence—the last time anyone, anywhere, admitted to seeing her—was June 2, 2019. That was another police interview, and then … absolutely nothing.
It had to be witness protection. At the very least, it was a closed-court name change, and that was a bitch. He didn’t have the skills to try to hack it—he’d barely been able to confirm that Lida-Rose Elizabeth Dawson hadn’t changed her name the regular way, with a paper trail—and that wasn’t something he could casually ask someone to do. Mostly because he didn’t have any friends.
Even then it would be too big of a risk. That would leave a trail, in someone’s mind if not on the Internet itself, and he couldn’t have that. Especially not now when his ultimate plan, the Hail Mary long shot, was working.
He’d done a bunch of reading about witness protection, or at least as much as he could access as a normal citizen who wasn’t part of the program itself, and he didn’t think they would’ve put her in a big city. She probably wasn’t in Michigan anymore, but he couldn’t see the FBI footing the bill for New York or Los Angeles. He’d toyed with the idea all the same, since she’d be able to disappear into the masses there—well, as much as someone like her could disappear when she always stood out—but he didn’t think she’d want to go to a city. There was a comfort level involved, and she was Midwest to the core. She’d be somewhere in the Midwest, saying she came from somewhere else in the Midwest, but probably not Michigan, and …
And. He didn’t have much to come after that and.
She wouldn’t be going by her birth name, and she’d avoid anything else that was recognizable about her habits and hobbies, but that was it. And it didn’t help, because how many young women of approximately the correct age in the Midwest didn’t have a deep interest in classical studies? Her height would be the same, and likely her build, because he couldn’t see the FBI starving her or forcing her to gorge, but her hair? It could be any length and any shade. She might even be wearing colored contacts, which was a shame, because her eyes were so gorgeous. You lost a lot of depth with colored contacts, what with eyes being windows to the soul and all, but he did rather like that thought. Wherever she was, she wasn’t sharing her soul, because he wasn’t there to appreciate it.
Would they give her a fake diploma along with her fake name? He doubted it, but again, looking for a woman in the Midwest without a college degree still left a wide swath of the population. There were numerous jobs she could have, especially by now, when she might have worked her way up. Gotten a certification or training or whatever to get out of her entry-level starting place that they forced her into because they’d convinced her they were the good guys.
She didn’t have to be in the Midwest. He knew that in his head, but his gut told him otherwise. She wouldn’t want to go far. Italy had been more than enough, and she hadn’t signed on for the whole year there, either. It was too far from home, from everything she knew and loved.
He’d kept an eye on her grandmother, in case she decided to move or take some strange vacation—strange because that woman hardly ever left her house, much less the city limits—but no joy. He hadn’t even been able to catch any gossip about it, either, and he’d spent so much time bugging hair salons and the yarn store. God, those files were the most boring things to listen to. He could pick out her grandmother’s voice when she came to the knitting group, but nobody even asked her about her granddaughter. They all bragged about their own kids and grandkids and great-grandkids, but nobody even mentioned the only one he cared about.
If she was in witness protection, then her grandmother wouldn’t know where she was. If they did phone calls—he hadn’t figured out how to bug those, so it wasn’t worth the risk of breaking into her house to install anything—those would be secure and probably monitored in real time. He could plant his usual bug, sure, and get her half of the conversation, but that wouldn’t be enough. It would be more of the knit night conversations, and annoying questions he’d love to have the answers to, but unless she talked on speaker phone … and even then …
The book was a long shot, but it had always been a long shot. First he wasn’t sure he could even write one, and then revisions looked like another Everest, and follow that up with the freaking query letter and synopsis … and the rejections … and the whole process of revising once he did get a yes, which didn’t feel like it was worth celebrating because it wasn’t over yet. More revisions, but this time it was suggestions Thom made, which was even better because it skewed reality, and then it went out on sub, and then … finally … there was a contract and a publication date.
A signing tour.
It was a risk, not putting his face out there until the first event, but that was a big city night. New York. It would make the papers, the Internet … and she’d see him. All the buzz meant they were all dying to see him, to learn who, exactly, had written something so tender and insightful, and he’d be inescapable.
That was all she needed, really: to know where and when she could find him that wasn’t Kalamazoo. If it was in her current state, all the better. He wasn’t sure if she’d have to report interstate travel to her handler or whatever you called the guy who dictated the new face she showed the world, but it would be better if she could show up somewhere a short drive away, and see him, and he’d know. Their eyes would meet, and he wouldn’t even have to say a word to her where anyone else could hear. They’d nod, and he’d know she was there, and he’d wait for the sign. The one that said she knew why he’d done it all, that she knew he’d come for her, and the only answer to that was yes.
To: MathyMart
From: LidaRoseElizabeth
Sent: September 8, 2018 8:32PM
Mart—
I’m not saying I’m never moving again, because of course I’m moving after graduation, but at that point I think you’d better really really like your apartment. I hate packing, I hate carrying, and I hate trying to pretend like I’m all neat and organized and the sort of person who unpacks right away.
I’m just glad you helped me load up the dang car. I know you wanted to come down and help with the rest, but you’ve already got so much to grade and even more to plan, and you’re totally rocking it, by the way. Those middle schoolers are going to know more math than I do.
Heidi helped me carry stuff in, but she’s got that bad back. I swear she was going for all the heaviest boxes, anyway, because she hates not being able to help, but the last thing I need is to worry about her making it worse and messing with the first week of classes. She wasn’t even wearing her brace today. She’s just so blasé about it. I don’t want to be Gran here, but the Lord only gives you one spine.
It’s not as bad as she made it out to be. (Heidi in a nutshell.) We’ve got the common living room and kitchen, which has this absolutely teeny table and chair set, and the shared bathroom, and we each have our own room. They’re exactly the same size. The furniture isn’t stuck to the walls like it is in Crissey, but I swear the carpet dents have been there a million years. We’ve got all those strict rules about hanging stuff on the walls, so I haven’t done any of that yet. Mostly I’ve got the boxes in here and my laptop set up on my desk. It took way too long to connect to the Wi-Fi because they’ve got all these security layers in place (who’s going to be sharing national secrets here???) but clearly I’ve got it figured out. Finally.
I don’t know how this is going to go with Heidi tbh. So many people were like oh, sure, room with a mostly-stranger anyway so you don’t ruin a friendship, but it’s still weird that Sierra left right before senior year. Found herself in Belize and all the rest, I guess, but man. I can’t imagine that, you know? Finding something that means packing up and leaving everything you’ve ever known, for a language and culture you don’t know … you know me and my inability to learn proper Italian. Travel, yes, fine, but she’s out there totally alone.
And I’m exhausted. I’m glad I picked Saturday so I have tomorrow to try to … I don’t even know. Stock up my half of the fridge and try to shift back into school mode, I guess. Buckle down and complete this freaking degree and just check the next box to get to the next step. (You, by the way. In case you forgot. The next step is you.)
Love and hugs and lots of kisses, Ellie
Rebecca Frost 