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She’s in bed and is sobbing.
“Taylor, honey, what’s the matter?”
She sits up, pushes her back against the headboard. Tears stream down her face, her breath jittering.
“What is it, sweetie?” She’s probably heard about the fire, about Pendleton. Although that’s probably upsetting, he thinks it’s something more.
“It’s Dylan,” she says.
This takes him aback. Dylan, one of the kids from her friend group. The attorney general’s son. Then his heart smashes to the floor: one of the kids in the video.
“What about him?”
“He, like, overdosed.”
Michael’s head is spinning. Overdosed? He’s fourteen years old. Taylor and her friends aren’t into drugs.
“Overdosed?”
Taylor gasps for air as she tries to talk. “Lana’s parents are friends with Dylan’s parents. She said they found him unconscious last night. They say he overdosed on something.”
“Is he going to be okay?” The sad truth is that Michael isn’t so much worried about Dylan but instead that his daughter’s close friend is taking drugs. That maybe all the kids are. That maybe Taylor has been too. That maybe Michael’s been an oblivious parent. But then a more terrifying thought slams into him: What if this wasn’t an accidental overdose?
“Lana doesn’t know.” Taylor starts crying again.
“I’m so sorry.” Michael sits on the bed and opens his arm for a hug.
“Do you think he’s going to be okay?” she asks, burying her head in his chest.
Michael doesn’t answer. All he can think about is the video. Dylan unzipping his pants and urinating on the immobilized Anthony O’Leary.
36
LACKFORD, ENGLAND
Ryan pulls the rental car off the A11. Driving in London was terrifying—even more so than a van in Tuscany—mostly because they drive on the opposite side of the road. Fitting in the Mini Cooper doesn’t help. But it was the only car available at the discount rental car place near the airport.
It took nearly two hours, but he’s finally here. The village of Lackford is as promised: a cluster of modest homes in an ordinary town—at least by European standards. England’s equivalent to Leavenworth, Kansas.
He follows his phone’s navigation to the pub called Black Ditches. What did people do before GPS?
He walks into the pub aware that a stranger—especially a six-four, American stranger—will not go unnoticed.
Inside is what you’d expect in the middle of the afternoon. A smattering of men hunched on stools. Eyes glued to the television behind the bar. Weathered faces. Calloused hands and work boots.
Surprisingly, they don’t give Ryan a second look. It’s one of those kinds of places. Mind your own business, like the joints near his dad’s factory in Leavenworth.
Ryan takes a stool, and the barman hobbles over. He must be in his seventies. Ryan orders a pint. When in Rome. With that thought, his mind jumps to Nora. She’s sent him several texts from Rome, each more agitated than the last, about him ditching that leg of the trip. The professor who supervises the law journal is pissed that he skipped the meeting with the alumnus donor. He’s sent her a quick text saying very little, but at least providing proof of life.
The old-timer says nothing as he pours the beer from the tap, sets the tall glass on the bar. Ryan takes a sip. It’s lukewarm. He smiles, thinking of one of Eddie’s rants: What’s the aversion to ice-cold beer, ice-cold anything?
There’s surprisingly little chatter in the place. No opening for him to ask a question.
He considers how to play this. Should he pretend Pinky Man is a relative? He’s there to surprise him? Plausible. But these blokes aren’t going to buy it. Maybe say he found Pinky Man’s wallet? No, they might ask Ryan to leave it for him at the pub.
“Can I ask you a question?” Ryan says.
“You can ask,” the barman says in a thick regional accent.