The Collective(66)

“Move around to the back of the car.”

“Officer, I’m sorry. There must be some—”

“Not going to ask you again.”

I start to move.

“Not so fast.”

I do as she says. Must have seen me speeding. Must have been following me for a while. Or else . . . Oh God . . .

“Do exactly as I say. Place your hands on the left rear bumper. Wide stance. Legs three feet apart.”

They found Kimball. They must have. I feel her gloved hands at my neck, my shoulders, down the length of my back, around my waist. She pulls at my hair, jams her hands in the pockets of my coat. She tells me to take off my shoes.

“What?”

“Kick off your shoes. Do not move your hands.”

Does she think I keep a stiletto in my heel like some James Bond villain? But I say nothing. I do as I’m told, my head bowed, my stockinged feet on the icy road, the cold burning into my bones.

She stands behind me for a long time, saying nothing. I start to shiver uncontrollably. Do something. Arrest me. Read me my fucking rights. I want to say it. To scream it. Flag down a car. Run into traffic.

I feel her moving closer, her boots scuffing the macadam.

Then I hear another sound. The snap of a holster. The release of a safety.

“Please,” I whisper.

She says, “Why did you go to Olivia Weiss’s house?”

“What?”

“Stay still or I shoot.”

My teeth chatter. I can’t form words.

“Why did you go to Olivia Weiss’s house?”

“I . . . I was . . . Her brother . . . I was a wit—”

“We know what you were,” she says. “We know what you are.” And it all comes together, the pieces arranging themselves in my head. We.

“Did you tell Olivia Weiss about the collective?”

I close my eyes. “No.”

“We’ll find out if you’re lying.”

“I swear I didn’t.”

“Then why did you go to her house?”

“I . . . I wanted to . . . I was just . . .”

“What?”

“Curious.”

“Curious?”

A car whooshes by, the sound of it lingering in my ears. Then another whoosh, and another. The roar of silence. My breathing is shallow. Panic attack. Stop. Calm down. Think. “Yes.”

“What the hell were you curious about?”

“Her brother.” My voice quavers. “He lost a child. Like I did. Like we did.”

The trooper doesn’t speak. I keep my eyes shut, holding my breath, until finally I hear the safety clicking back on.

“If you don’t do what you’re told to do,” she says, “it ruins things. Not just for us. But for the memories of our children. All of our children. Do you get that?” I hear her take a step back. “Look at me.”

I do. I turn around and look straight at her, my face stretched and distorted in her fun house–mirror glasses, her hand resting on the holstered gun at her hip. “Do you?”

“Yes. Yes, I get it.”

She watches me for a while, then places my license and registration on the trunk of my car and gives me a sweet, pearly smile. “We’re letting you off with a warning, ma’am.” She thwacks a finger against the broad brim of her hat as I stare at her, frozen. “Please try to be more careful next time.”

After she leaves, the panic attack revs up. I spend several minutes doubled over on the macadam, my veins throbbing, threatening to explode.





Nineteen


We’re everywhere, Camille, Wendy had said to me when we were leaving the Wild Rose, just after we got the send-off from the bartender, that virgin-serving sister in the sparkly dress, our alibis achieved. At the time, it thrilled me, the idea of being part of something so big and effective and strong. But now I find it terrifying, like an impenetrable dome over my head that I’m only just discovering.

When I reach Exit 19, which is my exit, I’m still shivering from my encounter with the cop. My hands have been gripping the wheel so hard, they ache, and I haven’t been able to think of anything but those mirrored glasses, the sound of her gun’s safety, the dry calm of her voice.

We’ll find out if you’re lying.

As I pull off at the exit, I catch a glimpse of a shadow in the tollbooth, and I could swear the woman in the Prius is standing there in her enormous sunglasses, grinning at me through her painted red lips. We’re everywhere. . . .

My breath sticks in my throat, and I tell myself to calm down, keep it together. It’s not her. It’s an elderly man. . . . I think about skipping the park and ride, driving home, barring the doors to my house, and never leaving. But then I remind myself: They’re not everywhere. How can they be? They just want me to believe they are so they can scare me into submission.

Not they. We.

Past the tollbooth is a traffic circle, the park and ride just off the second exit. Once I reach the park and ride, I head in slowly, my gaze darting from space to space, checking for stationary drivers who might be staking me out the way the woman in the Prius did, the way I staked out Edward Duval for a solid week at the Croton-on-Hudson train station.

I complete a full sweep of the lot, passing every empty car and satisfying myself that no one is waiting here for me. Then I find a space close to the entrance, with an empty one next to it, and wait. It’s six p.m., and this park and ride is about an hour away from Wendy’s town of Jefferville. I’ll give her an hour, and if she doesn’t show by then, I can assume she isn’t going to. Probably best for her if she doesn’t. If I allow myself to need certain people in my life, bad things happen to them. My mother died too young, of cancer. And then of course there was Emily. Matt changed so much as a person, he no longer became necessary, and thus got out of “us” alive. What’s saved Luke, I’m convinced, is the distance between us—the fact that we live more than two hours apart, and his life is too busy and full for me to rely on him the way I’d like to. . . .