Parker didn’t add that she not only believed in nuclear power but she found the science particularly comforting, because of its certainty. You could rely on the immutable words of Einstein: energy and mass are interchangeable, E=MC2. All else in life might be in shambles but the formulas and equations she spent time with daily never betrayed, never lied.
“Hannah, come on in here.” She didn’t add: Be social.
Again, no response.
“I’ll go get her.”
Frank said in a soft voice, “This must’ve been hell for her. She can stay there if she wants.”
“No. She should sit down with us.” Parker rose and walked into the girl’s room. She found her sitting on the bed with her computer. But her eyes were out the immaculate windows.
The fields were autumn sparse and dun colored, but the trees beyond were spectacular in their radiant spectrum, interspersed with rich green pine.
It would be nearly impossible for someone at the forest line to look into the rooms, but the exposure troubled Parker and she walked to the window and lowered the blinds. She wondered if Hannah would object. She didn’t.
Parker leaned back against the dresser, crossed her arms. “Okay, Han. I was mad about your selfie. You were mad I got mad. And I was wrong not to tell you the risk. I should’ve done that. Let’s put it behind us.”
No answer.
Trying to keep a parental edge from her voice, she borrowed Frank’s word. “I know this’s hell, honey. But it’s not going to last forever.” Then tried a hapless cliché: “And it’s only going to get worse if we don’t pull together.”
The girl didn’t even roll her eyes at the trite words.
Parker tried again. “Please. What’s all this about?”
“Nothing.”
Which was the hardest single word your child could utter. It could mean the literal definition. Or it could mean the opposite: everything. Or any one of a million stops in between.
And you, the person who desperately wanted to know the answer, left wholly in the dark.
“Please. Talk to me.”
Then startling her, the girl blurted angrily: “I don’t want to stay here. In this house. I want to go.”
“Why?”
Her eyes shot defiantly toward her mother’s. She nodded toward the kitchen. “He’s the one you cheated on Daddy with, right? Go ahead. Just admit it!”
The girl slammed her computer shut and turned away.
53
Mrs. Butler’s Buick was as pristine a car as Merritt had ever seen.
Even the steering wheel had been polished. It was slick. He smelled Pledge.
He piloted the car into a shopping mall parking lot and drove to the far side, where dozens of modest vehicles rested. It was the spot where employees of the stores were told to park, freeing up spaces closer in for paying customers. Very little traffic—vehicular or foot—here.
Head back, pressing into the padded rest. Eyes on the textured ceiling.
He wanted to sleep. He was exhausted and groggy and in gobs of pain from the rubber shells, the second one of which had slammed into muscles still sore from the puking. But no time now. His anger was growing and growing, making him nearly as nauseous as he’d been earlier.
Get to it.
He sat up and opened the backpack. It was full. He’d brought all of his possessions from the River View. He’d checked in by payingcash, but there was still a chance he’d be recognized. Better to find someplace else.
He dug through the bag, set the whisky bottle beside him and some clothes, then lifted out the trove of remaining documents he’d taken from Allison’s rental home.