Some twelve years ago. Some twelve years ago.
“But in a close competition like this one...” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
He opens his hand. “People naturally look for tiebreakers, for a slight edge to one side. They dig more deeply. They look into the candidate’s entire history. Even things that the candidate forgot to mention back when he first applied to the school.”
My jaw clenching so tight it hurts. My teeth grinding together. Black spots clouding my vision.
“I was under no obligation to disclose that,” I whisper.
“Understood, Simon, understood,” he says. “And the presumption of innocence, as well. Nothing was ever proven, obviously. I just wonder... how things will go for you if that were to be publicly disclosed? The whole court fight and everything.”
Yes, the whole court fight and everything.
“Which is why I say again, I have only your best interests in mind when I suggest that now might not be the best time to apply for the position.”
My eyes slowly rise to his. To his credit, he doesn’t look away. He holds that smarmy smirk, but he doesn’t look away.
“And if I withdraw my application?” I say.
“Well, then, there’s no need for anyone to be concerned with ancient history,” he says. “Which, as far as I’m concerned, is exactly what it is.”
19
Vicky
I get back from the day shift at the shelter—buying groceries, a group counseling session, trying to fix the broken A/C window unit in the dorm upstairs—near six o’clock. I pull into the alley behind the house and park in the alley garage. I walk through the backyard, the tall shrubbery and its privacy, and through the rear door of the house to the alarm’sding-dongand sultry electronic female voice,Back door.
I don’t hear Simon banging around. Not downstairs in the den or upstairs.
“Hello?” I call out.
I put down my bag and wander toward the stairs. “Simon?”
Nothing. The shower isn’t running. I’d hear the water.
“Simon Peter Dobias!”
Maybe he’s not home. He said he would be. Maybe he decided to go for a run. That boy and his running.
I walk up the stairs. “Hello-o,” I sing.
I hear something. Something above. I go into the hallway. The stairs have been pulled down from the ceiling. He’s on the rooftop deck.
I take the stairs up, open the storm door, and step onto the wooden deck. Simon is sitting on one of the lawn chairs he’s put up here, gripping a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
“Hey,” I call out.
He turns, waves me over. “Didn’t hear you,” he says, but he’s slurring his words.
“You okay?”
I sit in the other lawn chair but turn to face him. Yep, glassy eyes. He’s thrown a few back, all right.
I take the bottle from his hand. “What happened?”
“‘What happened?’” He pushes himself out of the chair, opens his arms as if preaching to the masses. “What happened? What happened is he knows, that’s what happened.”
“Who knows what?”