“Well, good talking to you,” I say.
Riona doesn’t respond. She’s already fully immersed in her work again.
I grab one more strip of bacon for the road.
As I’m picking up my backpack, my mother comes into the kitchen. Her blonde bob is brushed so smooth that it almost looks like a wig, though I know it isn’t. She’s wearing a Chanel suit, my grandmother’s diamond ring, and the Patek Philippe watch my father bought her for her last birthday. Which means she’s probably going to a charity board meeting, or accompanying Dad on some business lunch.
My father follows closely after her, dressed in a perfectly-tailored three-piece suit, his horn-rimmed glasses giving him a professorial air. His graying hair is still thick and wavy. He’s handsome and trim. My parents married young—they don’t look fifty, though that was the birthday that earned my mother’s watch.
My mother kisses the air next to my cheek, careful not to smudge her lipstick.
“Off to school?” she says.
“Yeah. Statistics, then Russian Lit.”
“Don’t forget we’re going to dinner with the Fosters tonight.”
I stifle a groan. The Fosters have twin daughters my age, and they’re both equally awful.
“Do I have to come?” I say.
“Of course,” my father says. “You want to see Emma and Olivia, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
No.
“Make sure you’re home by six, then,” my mother says.
I shuffle out to my car, trying to think of something to be cheerful about today. Statistics? No. Dinner? Definitely not. Ugh, I miss driving to school with Aida. She finished the last of her classes over the summer, while I’ve still got three years left. I don’t even know what I’m majoring in. I’m taking a bit of business, a bit of psychology. It’s all interesting enough, but none of it sets my heart on fire.
The truth is I want to do something in the arts. I loved, loved, loved choreographing those dances. I thought they were good! Then Jackson took all my hopes and crumpled them up like day-old newspaper.
Maybe he’s right. How can I make great art when I’ve barely experienced anything at all? I’ve been sheltered and babied my whole life. Art comes from suffering—or, at the very least, adventure. Jack London had to go to the Klondike and lose all his front teeth to scurvy before he could write The Call of the Wild.
Instead of going to the Klondike, I drive over to Loyola, a lovely red-brick campus right on the water. I park my Jeep and head to class. I sit through Statistics, which is about as interesting as Riona’s legal work, and then Russian Literature, which is a little better because we’re currently reading Doctor Zhivago. I’ve watched the movie with my mother nine times over. We both had a crush on Omar Sharif.
It helps me follow along much better than I did with Fathers and Sons. I might even get an A, though it’ll be my first one this semester.
After a break for lunch, I sit through one more class, Behavioral Psychology, and then I’m free. At least until dinner time.
I retrieve the Jeep and head off of campus, wondering if I’ve got time to sneak in a quick conditioning class at Lake City Ballet before I’ve got to go home and shower. I’d rather be late. Whatever it takes to cut a little time off of dinner with the Fosters . . .
I’ve barely pulled out on the main road before my steering wheel begins to judder and shake. The engine makes an awful grinding sound and smoke pours out from under the hood.
I pull over to the curb as quickly as I can, putting the car into park.
I switch off the engine, hoping the whole thing doesn’t burst into flames. I’ve only had this car for three years, and it was brand new when I got it. It hasn’t had so much as a flat tire before.
I fumble for my phone, thinking I better call my brother, or one of the house staff, or AAA.
Before I’ve dialed anybody, a black Land Rover pulls up behind me. A man climbs out of the driver’s side. He’s got black hair, stubble, and a broad build. He looks intimidating, but his tone is friendly as he says, “Something wrong with the engine?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, opening my car door and climbing out as well. “I don’t know anything about cars. I was just about to call someone.”
“Let me take a look,” he says. “I might be able to save you a tow, if it’s an easy fix.”
I’m about to tell him not to go to any trouble. The smoke and the smell are so bad that I can’t imagine I’ll be driving away from this. No point in him getting his hands all greasy for nothing. But he’s already popping the hood, careful not to singe his fingers on the overheated metal.
He leans back so the smoke doesn’t billow right into his face, then peers in at the engine once it clears.
“Oh, there’s the problem,” he says. “Your engine seized up. Here, take a look.”
I have no idea what I’m looking at, but obediently I walk over and peek inside, like I’m going to suddenly understand car mechanics.
“See?” He pulls the dipstick out to show me. I recognize that at least, because I’ve seen Jack Du Pont changing the oil on all the cars in our garage.
“How can it be out of oil?” I ask.
Jack does all the maintenance. Does oil get used up if you drive around too much?
“Someone must have drained it,” the man says. “It’s bone dry.”
“Like a prank?” I say, mystified.
“More like a ruse,” the man replies.
That’s a strange answer.
I realize that I’m standing quite close to this stranger, who appeared the instant my car broke down. Almost like he’d been driving right behind me, just waiting for it to happen . . .
I feel a sharp stab in my arm.
I look down and see a syringe embedded in my flesh, the plunger pushed all the way down. Then I look up into the man’s eyes, so dark they appear almost black, no separation between pupil and iris. He’s staring at me with anticipation.
“Why did you do that?” I hear myself say.
The sound of the cars rushing by becomes dull and slow. The man’s eyes are dark smears in a peach blur. I feel like all the bones dissolve in my body. I get floppy as a fish, tumbling sideways. If the man wasn’t closing his arms tightly around me, I’d fall right into the road.
7
Miko
Six months ago, anonymously and through a discreet broker, I bought one of the biggest Gilded Age mansions in Chicago. It’s located on the north end of the city in a densely wooded lot. You’d hardly know you were in Chicago at all. The trees are so thick and the stone walls around the property are so high, that barely any sunlight filters in through the windows. Even the walled garden is full of shade-loving plants that can stand the dim light and the silence.
It’s called the Baron’s House, because it was built for beer baron Karl Schulte, in the German Baroque style. It’s all weathered gray stone, black iron railings, and ornate sculptural reliefs in the shape of scrolls, medallions, and two hulking male figures that hold up the portico on their shoulders.
I bought it thinking it would be a refuge. A place to go when I want solitude.