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His mind drifts to Ali. She wouldn’t be moping, taking selfies, or making TikToks. She’d be drinking this all in. She’d have her sketch pad out, shushing him as she drew the scene. He feels the familiar sting at the thought of Ali studying art at Bard, pursuing her dream. He’s tempted to pull out his wallet, unfold the sketch he keeps folded of her grandparents’ place in a small town in southwest France. A town on a hill in the middle of a valley that fills with mist so the area appears to be floating on clouds. He’s trained himself over the past five years not to think of Ali because the memories lead to nowhere good. But the note—I know who you are—drags him to the past. To the girl who hated the limelight but always glowed in it. The girl who hated social media but could spend hours watching those videos that give you faith in humanity: military parents on deployment surprising their kids at school assemblies, babies getting glasses and seeing their moms for the first time, parents reacting to college admissions letters. The girl who hated to dance but made him an elaborate prom-posal. The girl who loved anything French but—he needs to stop.
Later, at a long table covered in white linen topped with several empty bottles, Ryan is still lost in his head, ignoring the chatter of his friends until Marci’s voice pulls him out of it.
“No, you did not just say that,” Marci scolds Eddie for something he said, Ryan didn’t hear what it was.
Eddie says, “Shit. Nora, I didn’t mean—”
“Lighten up, dumb-ass,” Nora says. “Unlike some people, I understand that dumb-asses say dumb things without menace in their hearts.”
Ryan likes this about Nora, her practical, there-are-bigger-things-to-get-upset-about attitude. She understands that good people sometimes say stupid shit, unintentionally offend because they don’t know any better or act or text or post in the heat of the moment. She has three things seemingly lost in this world of social-media outrage: perspective, nuance, and empathy.
“So what are we going to do before the balloon ride?” Divya asks. “We’ve got a few hours. I found us the only balloon company in Tuscany that does sunset, rather than early-ass sunrise tours.”
Aiden and Jake start pounding on the table, chanting, “Darty… Darty… Darty.”
Clayton says, “I don’t get why they call daytime parties a ‘darty’? It’s not like they call nighttime parties ‘nartys.’”
Ryan starts to tune them out again when his phone buzzes, another call from his father. Too distracted by the note slipped under his door, he never returned his dad’s call from last night, so he’d better take it. He steps away from the table.
“Hi, Dad,” he says, looking out at the beautiful countryside. Down a hill, there’s a gravel lot. There’s a line of about ten Vespas, probably for tours, and an old pickup truck. Near the truck, a man stands next to one of those tiny Fiat two-seaters smoking a cigarette.
“Hey, kid. I hope the trip is going well. Your mom and I are so glad you went. Um, so, I wanted to let you know, I got a call from Marty Salinger.”
It’s foreboding, hearing his defense lawyer’s name.
“Um, I’m so sorry to bother you while you’re out having fun, but I didn’t want you to see it on your news feed.”
Ryan listens as his heart beats in his ears.
“It’s about Alison.”
8
LEAVENWORTH, KANSAS
On the morning of Day Two of her new job, Poppy slows her car, watches the bevy of reporters camped around the station house. Local news vans are parked in the lot across the street. TV reporters primp in makeshift press stations that pepper the sidewalks.
Poppy pulls into the underground garage. It’s not like in the movies where the press rushes your vehicle. She drew only a few curious glances. Finding the car in Suncatcher Lake is big local news, but it hasn’t captured the attention of national news desks. Probably because they already caught Alison Lane’s killer: the late MRK.
In the station, Poppy passes Sheriff Walton’s office. It has glass walls, which don’t lend to privacy. The sheriff is talking to two other people. A tall man in a dark suit and a woman with severe bangs and prominent frown lines on either side of her mouth.
“Good morning,” Poppy says to Margaret, who is shuffling down the hallway. Poppy is quickly learning that Margaret isn’t merely the desk receptionist, she’s the sheriff’s right hand and the office’s Yoda.
“Morning, dear.” She shakes her head. “It’s going to be one of those days.”
“What’s up?”
“Press conference at nine. The mayor’s chief of staff and his public relations lady are here. They always put the sheriff in a mood.”
Poppy nods. She checks the time on her phone. The press conference is in fifteen minutes. She wasn’t invited, but she assumes there’s no harm in her watching from the back of the room.
Inside her office, she notices the red light on her phone is flashing. In the age of texts and email, voicemails aren’t the norm. But she’s new to the office, so maybe it’s the culture. As she boots up the computer she listens to the message. The automated voice says it came in at 6:37 that morning.
“Poppy, it’s Ken. Sorry to call you so early, but I’m going to be tied up most of the day and not sure we’ll have a chance to talk…” The sheriff pauses, there’s the sound of the phone being cupped and the sheriff’s muffled voice talking to someone. “A couple quick things. Since you’re not plugged into patrol or other duties yet, I think it makes sense for you to focus on the Alison Lane stuff. If you can wade through the tips that come in, I’d appreciate it. Last time, it was a mass of crap, but we need to at least review them. Also, I gave your name to the point person at KBI. She’ll reach out to you if they have any luck identifying the bodies in the car or find anything helpful.”
The Kansas Bureau of Investigation’s forensics lab provides support for other state law enforcement agencies. Poppy knows this only because she applied, and was summarily rejected, for a job at KBI.
“Finally… there was an FBI agent on the Lane case five years ago, a woman named Jane Fincher. If she approaches you, you are not to speak with her. It’s a long story that I’ll fill you in on once things calm down.” More voices clatter in the background. “Anyway, thanks for your help. One hell of a first week,” the sheriff says before hanging up.