An Absolutely Remarkable Thing (An Absolutely Remarkable Thing #1)(76)

“Do you know what happened to your attacker?”

I was talking softly, unusual for me, but taking deep breaths felt like being stabbed all over again. “Something very odd. I know Andy didn’t kill him, though I think he would have been happy to. Whatever happened to that guy was not normal.”

“Your friend Andy. His camera was missing its memory card.”

“Oh god!” I said. “That’s awful news!” And now I’m lying to the police. To my ear, it sounded not at all convincing. “It must have been in there when he was filming, he’s not an amateur.”

“You don’t think it’s possible that there was never a card in the camera?”

I felt like I was on treacherous ground here. I decided to keep all the doors open.

“It doesn’t seem like the kind of mistake Andy would make, but maybe. Sometimes when a DSLR gets jolted, the card slot can open and the card can fall out.” And then, for good measure, I added, “We need to find that card! It’s not like we can reshoot that video! That was a once-in-a-lifetime chance!” I’m talking louder now, the pain suppressed by the adrenaline of lying. It was absolutely terrifying.

“Ms. May, given the circumstances, aren’t there more pressing concerns than your video?”

“You have your jobs, I have mine.”

They went over the whole thing with me again and told me that I was going to have to write a witness statement as soon as I was feeling up to it.

“Considering the circumstances, we’re posting a uniformed officer at your door.”

That gave me something to think about—two murder attempts in less than twenty-four hours, and the police only knew about one of them. I got to think about that, and how Carl had saved me, and how he hadn’t saved a bunch of other people. I got to think about those things all by myself and for maybe just a little too long.



* * *



—

I haven’t told you a ton about my parents. It’s not that I don’t like them. The opposite, actually, they are just massively supportive, sweet people. It was almost a cliché at the School of Visual Arts (where Andy and Maya and I went) that no one’s parents wanted them to be there. It’s a ridiculously expensive school, so a lot of the students are children of doctors and lawyers and investment bankers, and not many of those parents see art school as the best path to long-term success. But when my classmates swapped horror stories about the battles they had to fight to get their parents to shell out for school, or just simply allow them to pay their own way, I really didn’t have much to contribute.

My parents saw I was passionate about something and did what they could to help me get it. I mentioned before that my parents own a company that manufactures and sells machines that milk cows. They fell into this after spending a summer interning on a small dairy farm after they graduated from school with degrees in political science. They thought the systems the farms used looked impractical and inefficient, and five years later, their company was supplying half of Northern California’s small-scale dairy farms with upgraded systems. By the time I went to college they were selling to most of the northwest US and had a warehouse filled with equipment tailored for small dairies that they sent all over the world. They’d hired people to do the day-to-day work and were semiretired.

I think, since they didn’t really know how they had become successful, and it certainly didn’t have a ton to do with their education, they figured I should just do whatever. It had worked for them. They still owned the business, and I guess they “ran” it or whatever, but most of their time since I went to school was spent helping to run local nonprofits and traveling around to see bands they were into. Some parents worried about their children squandering their inheritance. I worried about my parents squandering it before it got to me.

They were just very happy people. Maybe I’m so snarky because I was just bored with how pleased they always seemed to be. Though not bored enough to ever actually do anything traditionally rebellious.

Here’s an example of how supportive they were: When I called them from the hospital, they did not immediately fret or cry or ask me how I could have put myself in such danger, which would have been the normal response. We got through the initial report of what the doctors said (I was fine, though a couple of my ribs were cracked), they said their “We’re so glad you’re OKs,” and then . . .

“Robin says he got your note and everything’s being taken care of.” This was my mom.

“My note?” I was confused.

“The note you left at the hospital reception desk.”

I hadn’t left a note; I’d left a memory card. My dad picked up the conversation, not giving me a chance to figure it out.

“He also says not to call or text anyone about that stuff. You shouldn’t be stressing right now.”

“Um, OK?” Why on earth had Robin gone through my parents?

Mom started again: “He was very adamant. He says it’s being taken care of and he’ll see you soon. So you won’t call or text anyone?”

“I mean, I might.” Lying to the police was one thing; my parents were too sweet for duplicity.

My dad: “Robin said he needed you to confirm verbally that you would not call or text anyone but us.”

“This is very weird.”