Confessions on the 7:45(67)

“Take your father, for example,” he said.

“I don’t know who my father is.”

“Exactly,” said Pop. “Your father is supposed to be the person who protects you from everything dark and scary in this world. But he didn’t, did he?”

“No.”

When she was small, she used to make up stories about her father. He was a spy on a secret mission in Russia (where else?), and one day he was going to come home a hero, and take care of her and Stella, bringing money and toys. He was an astronaut on a seven-year journey to Mars. When people asked, she told them he’d died in a motorcycle crash. Or that he was in Afghanistan, which she’d heard people say. Thank you for your sacrifice, one woman had said to her, touching her cheek. And Pearl had no idea what that meant. She told her teachers so many different things, that the lies caught up and Stella was called.

“Don’t fantasize about your father,” Stella told her. “He wasn’t anything special.”

When Pearl grew older, Stella told her the truth. That she’d had an affair with a married man, and when she got pregnant, he wouldn’t leave his wife. But he paid support and promised that he’d take care of them financially until Pearl graduated college—which was more than most men would do, according to Stella. He had a family, other children. But he didn’t want contact with Pearl and Stella. He just—couldn’t handle it.

“I want to meet him,” Pearl had said.

“Why would you want to meet someone who doesn’t want to meet you?” she said. “Let it go.”

But there was money—for food, clothes, education, braces. Later, Pearl figured that was how the store stayed in business. Money from her mystery father. Who was nothing special. Who didn’t want to meet her.

“What else did he teach you?” Pearl asked Pop now.

“Never stop looking over your shoulder.”

“Nice one.”

“Don’t ever let them take you alive.”

“Wow,” said Pearl. “This conversation has gone really dark.”

Pop smiled at her, and then he laughed, some of his light coming back. He hadn’t been himself since Phoenix.

“What if I told you that I know who your father is?”

Pearl shrugged, but something tingled inside her. “What if?”

“I found some paperwork in Stella’s bedroom. I know who he is. There’s a name and an address.”

“Okay.”

“I think you should reach out to him.”

Pearl felt a notch in her throat. “He doesn’t want me.”

“That may or may not be true. But I think he owes you.”

Pearl could see where he was going with this. The con always needed a mark. Even when the wolf was at his heels. Even though there was enough money to be quiet, comfortable, lay low for a good long time. He was the shark that couldn’t stop swimming.

“And he’ll pay,” said Pop. “Because you’re his little secret.”

She nodded. She’d do what he wanted her to do. Because as much as she could love anyone, she loved him.

The car slowed and they pulled off onto a dirt drive that seemed to go on and on, tires crunching, darkness piling onto darkness. Once a pair of yellow eyes as something darted across the road. Finally, a house rose out of the distance—a low, late-century modern with a flat roof and big windows. It was dark, but there was something welcoming about it, as if it had its arms open wide to them. She felt something release, and Pop heaved a sigh.

“This is it,” he said. “We’re home.”



TWENTY-SEVEN

Hunter

If people knew the truth about investigative work, there wouldn’t be so many books and television shows about it. There was a crushing heaviness to the work, an emptiness that wasn’t apparent at first but later took its toll on a person. It could be a terrible slog—long hours sitting and waiting, watching, eating bad food, maybe with a partner who you couldn’t stand. Mountains of paperwork. Bad leads, dead ends.

The people you chased, those you caught, often they were no criminal masterminds, no born bad thugs. Sometimes they were kids. Sometimes they were intellectually impaired, just folks not smart enough to make good choices. Often, they were victims themselves. He left the job after twenty-five years, and he never told anyone—not even his wife, Claire, who he thought knew on some level—that he had wasted his life.

People were so hung up on the concept of justice, of wrongs punished, streets safe, criminals put where they belonged. But the system was broken, like so many systems. And the world was so impossibly vast, even now with technology tightening the net, that some people just stayed lost.

“Don’t take it so hard,” said Andrew from the passenger seat.

They sat in Andrew’s driveway with the sun dipping low. The search for Hunter’s runaway had yielded nothing, except a foray into the dregs that had left them both wondering what had happened to the world. The tattoos, the piercings, the blank-faced young people staring into screens. Tommy’s Cove used to be a biker bar, a wild place, lots of brawls and gang violence. That seemed tame, old-fashioned compared to what had become of the place. Permanent midnight with windows blacked out. Blaring music, weird strobes. And everyone—so blank. Hopped up on pills, or that new thing, kratom—opium’s legal cousin. Lots of lost kids looking like zombies, stumbling, dead-eyed. No Jennie.