To make me feel bad?
No. Obviously, no. That would be stupid.
Then what? What am I supposed to learn? “See what they did to her?” “See how she was used?” Is this supposed to show me how I had it all wrong? She wasn’t a coward for refusing to leave . . . she was what? Brave for staying? That doesn’t feel right either. There’s nothing brave about letting your husband terrorize your kids.
And who’s doing the interviews anyway? My instinct says Carson. It’s not his voice though—no matter how many times I try to convince myself it is. So that leaves . . . the Hart guy?
Hell if I know. I don’t think I heard him in the video. Then again, we only spoke for what? A minute? Would I recognize him without seeing his face? Not likely.
How did he send the new DVD anyway? How’s he know where I live? I grab the ripped-open box from my bed and study the postmark. Anyone could have mailed this. Maybe Hart was just a onetime messenger.
But if that’s the case, who’s he working for?
I rub both hands over my face and notice the time. Jesus, it’s late. I’m going to look like death warmed over tomorrow and I have a chemistry test I need to study for.
Frustrated, I open my desk drawer, pull out the homework I should be doing . . . and my eye catches the sniffer.
As long as I’m on the subject of people I don’t know shit about, I might as well take care of Milo too.
I open another browser window, spend a few minutes wiring money to the builder’s account. Thank God my clients paid me well. I’ve saved everything I’ve earned from the past few years in an offshore account, making it easy to move funds around. After I get the wire transfer confirmation, I email it to the address Milo gave me. Then I open Google and type in his name. It doesn’t take much time to find out the builder went to Westminster, an überpricey private school on the north side of Atlanta, and based on the graduation date from the Facebook alumni page, he can’t be older than twenty.
Other than that? There’s nothing else—not exactly unusual for someone like him, and it’d be disappointing if his father weren’t a completely different story.
According to two online newspapers, Simon Gray used to work for the NSA. Then, following a total nervous breakdown, bounced between mental institutions and jail. The arrest reports are pretty much all the same: loitering, resisting arrest, drunk in public.
Rinse. Repeat. End up living with Milo.
Interesting. I can’t quite reconcile the swaggering techie with someone who has this kind of backstory and I’m not sure if that says something about him . . . or something about me.
I look at the time again. Three a.m. No point in going to sleep. Might as well stay up and watch the rest of the interviews.
The thought makes my stomach tilt.
Maybe Griff was right. This is bad stuff and I should never have looked, but now I did and I don’t know what to do. All I can think about is my dad’s addicts, how I never understood why you would return again and again to something that would make you bleed.
I guess I have my answer now: How can you not? I push play again, watch my mother’s face come to life. For the first time, there’s a case number at the bottom of the screen. Coincidence?
See how she was used.
My mom stares into the camera and recites her week with my dad. He’s brought home some druggie. The girl is sleeping on our couch. He’s doing something in the garage. She’s not sure what because he locks the door every time he leaves.
My mom catalogs everything in a flat voice, like this is all no big deal, and I catch my mind wandering, trying to figure out which week she’s referencing. This was important enough to tell them and yet I don’t remember it. How much was she hiding from us?
They get to the end of the interview and the officer tells her she can leave. The camera leans to the left, presumably as someone gropes for the off button.
“One last thing,” she says, and the camera stops rocking. They’re waiting on her and she milks the moment, stretching the silence. “There’s someone following me. It’s not my imagination. I think someone knows and if that’s true and he finds out . . . he’ll have me killed.”
The screen goes black.
There are no more interviews.
9
I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I finally wake up, it’s early afternoon. I check the DVDs (still hidden) and pad downstairs, fixing myself a sandwich while Bren watches me from around her magazine.
“Wick? Are you okay?”
“Migraine,” I whisper. It’s not that far from the truth anyway. My head is thumping. All I can think about is how that can’t be everything. There have to be more interviews.