I turn the page. Infidelity Report: Subject 4880. My hands begin to sweat.
Clipped to the page is a grainy photograph of a man walking up the stairs of my house, carrying a guitar. Even though his back is to the camera, I know exactly who it is.
Witnessed non–Pact member, identified as Eric Wilson (see attachment 2a), visit home of Subjects 4879 and 4880 while Subject 4879 was at Fernley. Wilson arrived at 10:47 P.M. on Saturday night and departed at 4:13 A.M. on Sunday morning. Music was heard from within the house during the entire night.
There was music throughout the night. Five to six hours is Alice’s ideal span of time for a serious rehearsal. Any less, she insists, and it’s impossible to get deep into the music; any more and it stops being productive.
I look up to realize that Orla has silently returned. She’s sitting in the chair across from me, drinking her wine, staring.
“I have to know,” I say. “The charge against Alice, Adultery in the First Degree. Was it based solely on this report?”
Orla nods.
The truth hits me: Alice wasn’t sleeping with Eric. Yes, Eric was in my house. Yes, it looked as though Alice was unfaithful. But simple facts, taken out of context, do not always point to the truth. He wasn’t screwing my wife—they were rehearsing. How stupid I’ve been. How wrong I was to doubt my wife.
I shake my head, disbelieving. “Why would JoAnne do this?”
“The Pact has become unexpectedly wealthy, incredibly strong. There are those who desperately want to lead. When Neil and JoAnne learned of my illness, they saw an opening. They envisioned themselves at the very head of The Pact. But those who strive to lead rarely make good leaders.”
Orla hesitates. “Now I have to decide what to do with them.” A sly smile crosses her face. “What would you do?”
As I mentioned earlier, there is always a shadow that hovers between the person we want to be and the person we are. In our minds, we carry a vision of ourselves, na?vely certain of our own moral boundaries. I want to be that person who embodies the ideal of doing something good, rather than doing nothing at all. But good and evil are complicated, aren’t they? And doing something, anything, is so much more difficult than doing nothing at all.
I respond without hesitation, without even a shred of doubt. When I am finished, Orla takes a sip of her wine and nods.
94
At the airport in Belfast, I plug my phone into the wall and wait. Staring out at the wet runway, I consider my next step. The phone finally beeps, the power comes on, and there, in the corner, is the blinking blue P.
There are emails and texts whizzing past. I’ve only been gone for seven days, yet my old life seems impossibly distant. I scroll through the texts and emails, searching for one from Alice. I’m surprised to discover that my old life is still there, waiting for me. There are texts from Huang, Ian, and Evelyn. Dylan has started a new play—he’ll be Hook in Peter Pan—and wants me to save the date for opening night. Isobel writes, Conrad took me to this new Buddhist bakery that makes the most amazing bread. We made French toast. Here’s the secret to life: It’s all in the bread.
Finally, buried among the others, several screens down, is Alice’s name. The feeling of relief is physical, as if a tight band around my chest has snapped, allowing me for the first time in so long to really breathe. I click on the message, hoping for news, something to go on. It is from two days ago, when I was still at Altshire. When are you coming home? That is all. I can almost hear her voice.
I text back, On my way, are you OK? but there is no response. I call. Her phone rings and rings.
The flight from Belfast to Dublin is bumpy, from Dublin to London crowded, and the night spent at Gatwick cold and uncomfortable. Finally, the plane touches down at SFO. Walking through the clean, gleaming terminal, I’m exhausted. My pants hang so loose on my waist, I must have lost ten pounds since I was last here. I move resolutely through the airport, hoping not to run into anyone I know. At the bottom of the escalator, I pull my hood up over my head and push my way through the crowd.
I think I hear my name being called, but when I glance back I don’t see anyone I know. I keep moving. Outside, as I’m walking toward the taxi stand, I hear my name again.
“Friend,” says a familiar voice.
I turn, startled. “What are you doing here?”
“The car is this way.” Vivian tugs gently at my arm.
“I’d rather take a cab,” I insist.
“Orla called me.” Vivian is smiling. “She wanted me to make sure you’re completely comfortable.”
Vivian leads me to a gold Tesla parked at the curb. It’s not a model I’ve seen before—probably a prototype. The driver is up and out of the car, placing my bag in the trunk. His tailored suit barely disguises the fact that he’s excessively large and muscular. He is behind me now, the rear door to the car open. I glance longingly at the line of people up ahead stepping into an endless stream of yellow taxis. Vivian motions me into the car. “Relax. You’ve had a long journey.”
There on the seat beside us is a basket filled with bottled water and pastries. She leans forward between the seats to say to the driver, “We’re all set.”
Vivian reaches into the console and hands me a cup of hot chocolate. Then she settles back into her seat. As the driver negotiates the airport gridlock, I take a sip. It’s rich and minty. I take another sip. Then I notice that Vivian is leaning toward me, her hands outstretched, ready to take the cup.
Suddenly, I am profoundly sleepy. The flights were so long, the trip and these past few months so draining. I struggle to keep my eyes open—where are we going? I need to know that I am headed home.
“Go to sleep,” Vivian says soothingly.
“You’re taking me to Alice, right?” I say to Vivian, but she’s fiddling with her phone. Her face blurs.
The driver angles toward 101 North. There’s a metallic taste in my mouth, and I feel dizzy. I try to stay alert until the 80 split, where one route leads toward our house by the beach and the other leads over the bridge and eastward into the mountains, but the sweep of the road beneath us is hypnotizing.
95
In my dream, I go up the front stairs, fish the key out of my bag, let myself in.
“Alice?” I call, but there is no response.