Every Last Fear(8)

Keller returned with a coffee and small plastic bag from the store. Instead of returning to the front seat, she got into the back next to Matt. From the bag she retrieved a bottle of water and an apple and handed them to him.

“They were out of Mountain Dew,” she said, clearly lying. “Anyway, at the academy they taught us that water will wake you up more than caffeine.”

“Is that so?” Matt said, eyeing the paper cup of coffee in Keller’s hand.

She gave him a knowing smile and took a sip. The driver started the engine, but Keller stayed in the back. Matt realized that she wanted to talk about something.

“Look,” she said as the SUV merged back onto the interstate, “I know this isn’t a great time, but we need your help with something.”

Matt straightened himself. Took a big drink of the water. “Sure.”

“The Mexican authorities are being difficult about”—Keller took in a breath—“about releasing your family to come home. They say they need an immediate family member to sign some papers before the bodies can be released.”

“Fine. I’ll sign whatever they send over.”

“That’s just it. They won’t just send the papers. They need someone there in person.”

“Wait, what?”

“We’re working our diplomatic channels, but the locals are being a pain. They haven’t been particularly forthcoming with information, and they’re saying we need a family member there in person.”

“Why would they do that?” Matt asked.

“It could be they’re worried about tourism. What happened isn’t the best PR in the world. Or it could be some bureaucrat on a power trip. Or”—she looked Matt in the eyes—“or they could be hiding something.”

Matt pondered this. “If you think it’s necessary,” he said, “then, sure, yeah. When do you need me to go?”

“We’ve booked you a flight out tomorrow morning.”

Matt let out a breath. Could this fucking week get any better? He gave a noncommittal nod, then continued gazing out the window. He wasn’t particularly travel ready. He had less than one hundred dollars in his bank account. And he’d stubbornly refused any money from his parents after the fight with his father.

They sat in silence for a long time as the SUV made its way to the Henry Hudson Parkway and into Manhattan.

The rain had subsided and there was a sudden part in the clouds, the sun beaming through the gloom. The gold tinge on the buildings brought Matt back to one of their family traditions. Every July, his father’s accounting firm held its annual meeting in New York and they’d all come along. The event overlapped with “Manhattanhenge,” one of two days a year when the setting sun aligned perfectly with the New York City street grid. When the fiery ball of the sun was framed in by skyscrapers as it dipped below the horizon. Matt thought back to the last Manhattanhenge before Year Zero—the family sitting at a café on Fourteenth Street, Dad and Mom holding hands, tipsy on wine and being in the city. Danny checking out the girls strutting by in movie-starlet sunglasses and short skirts. Maggie’s nose in a guidebook, spouting out facts about the rare solar event.

Matt flashed to the same café last year: everyone in their assigned seats, Dad next to Maggie, who was across from Mom. Next to Mom, Tommy, who’d taken Danny’s old seat. And Matt on the outside, trying to squeeze in at the small table. Everyone going through the motions, pretending the ritual still had meaning. The new but not improved Pines. And now he had an ache on his insides that both versions of his family were dead. After all of the bitterness, the anger, the longing for the original Pines, he’d give anything to have his bizarro post–Year Zero family back. Give anything to tell his father he was sorry for the things he’d said. Tell his mom what she meant to him. Tell Maggie what a light she was in his life. Tell Tommy that he was their savior. But that life, whatever his grievances, was over. The devastation, the fragility of what they’d had, was almost more than he could take.

“Where would you like us to drop you?” Keller asked. “The dorm?”

“Do you think they’re gone yet?”

“Who? The reporters?”

“Yeah.”

Keller frowned. “I doubt it. Do you have a friend we can—”

“You can take me to East Seventh, if you wouldn’t mind.”

The driver looked at Keller in the rearview, and she gave him a nod. The SUV jerked around other cars until traffic was at a standstill. The driver flipped on the strobe mounted to the dash, and the vehicles ahead splayed, creating a narrow path.

Matt watched out the window again as the end-of-the-day crowd headed on foot to happy hours, commuter trains, and cramped apartments.

Finally the SUV drew to the curb on Seventh.

“Here?” Keller said, glancing at the run-down barbershop and dry cleaner next door.

“My friend lives upstairs.” Matt looked up at the four-story building in need of a paint job.

Keller nodded. “I just got a text that we have your phone,” she said. “I can bring it to you before your flight tomorrow, if that works?”

“Okay.”

“We’ll also have an agent fly to Mexico with you.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Matt said.