The Dark Room(22)

“You’re talking, what, 1996?”

“Closer to ’ninety-seven.”

“So he was an executive,” Cain said. “What were you doing?”

“I was in college—I was his intern.”

“College where?”

“Stanford.”

“Undergrad?”

“A freshman,” she said.

“You finished in 2001?”

“I didn’t finish.”

She gave the pitcher a stir and then refilled her glass. There was no way to tell how much was left in the pitcher. For that matter, there was no way to guess how full it had been when he’d arrived, or how many she’d gone through earlier in the day.

“Why not?” he said.

“Why do you think? I was an eighteen-year-old intern. He was—Whatever. It doesn’t matter what I thought back then.”

“What do you think now?”

“You know the story,” she said. She used her glass to gesture at the Pacific where it crashed against the cliff beneath her house. “And now here we are. Here I am. I won the lottery, right?”

“It looks like it.”

“Then why are you here, Mr. Cain?” she asked. “Why do the police have the street blocked off?”

“Someone’s threatening him,” Cain said. “Trying to get at him with a letter. We don’t understand it—maybe it’s something from his past?”

“Is that a question?”

“Is there anything we need to know?”

“Know about what?” she asked. “He’s an open book. The most boring man you’ll ever meet. If you want to know something about him, you can Google it.”

She drained another glass. Christ, Cain thought. These Castellis. He hadn’t come here looking for much more than a sense of who they were. How they behaved on their own ground, how they worked as a family. He was getting about as much as he could stand.

“What about Melissa Montgomery?” he asked. “What’s her story?”

“She’s his chief of staff,” Mona said. “She started as his intern. She was in college, and he was in Congress. And then she worked her way up.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?” she asked. “I thought you were asking questions.”

“Do you trust her?”

“She’s my husband’s chief of staff.”

“She called you and set this up,” Cain said. “She didn’t tell him. So that makes me wonder about her loyalties.”

“I don’t know what she tells him. I don’t know her thoughts on loyalty. I don’t know anything. I’m here, and she’s over there, with him, and that’s all I’ve got.”

“So then, you don’t trust her.”

“I didn’t say that,” she said. “She’s doing what anyone would do. What I did.”

He watched while she refilled her glass. When she was done she straightened up and put her hair back behind her shoulders again. She must have practiced in a mirror, the way she moved her hands through her hair and looked up. There was probably enough gin in her blood that she’d go up in flames if she lit a match. But when she moved, she was as steady as a surgeon. There was no natural talent for that. She’d been training.

“Are we done?” she asked.

“For now.”

“You really have to talk to Alexa?”

“Yes.”

“If Harry’s done something—”

“I won’t tell her anything I didn’t tell you,” he said. “I’m not here to upset her.”

“Thank you.”

He watched her gin-wet eyes. Shouldn’t she have tried, just a little, to find out what he was holding back? What he might say that would upset Alexa?

“I’ll talk to her in the kitchen,” Cain said. “You’ll sit in the den, so you’re out of sight, but you’ll still be able to hear. Sound good?”

She nodded, then stood up.

“I’ll make sure she’s got clothes on—I know that’s what you’re worried about.”

It wasn’t the only thing on his mind, but he was happy to let Mona Castelli think it. Assuming it was what she actually thought.



Alexa came to the kitchen wearing a checked gingham dress. She pulled out a stool and sat with her elbows on the marble center island. The window behind her looked across a garden in the side yard. A bronze birdbath, wrapped in ivy, caught the rain. He watched the water and thought about where to begin with Alexa. It always made sense to start with something he knew. The more he seemed to know, the less likely she’d be to tell him a lie.

“You’re an artist. Your mom and I were just talking.”

“Yeah.”

“Painting? Sculpture?”

“Both,” she said. “Mostly painting.”

“You must not live here all the time, if you’re going to the Academy.”

“I’ve got an apartment South of Market. A studio. It’s close to school.”

“How come you’re here?” Cain asked.

“Melissa asked me.”

“You know her pretty well?”