Not Even Past. Dave White
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nothing,” he said. “It’s … it’s just exams.”
“Oh, come on. I’ve been with you for at least three exam sessions. You’ve never been like this.”
Jackson looked at the table, strewn with envelopes, stamps, and address labels.
“Jeanne Baker? Remember?”
The name didn’t come up often, but it did come up. Kate knew who Jeanne was. The hair on her arms stood.
“I think she’s alive.” He slumped deeper into the couch.
The muscles between her shoulder blades stiffened.
“That’s not possible,” she said. “You told me—you …”
Donne blinked. He put the envelope he’d been stuffing on to the cushion next to him.
“You were gone all day,” she said. “You went to Newark, you were … You promised lunch.”
Kate got up, and the muscles in her back grew tighter, turning into sailor’s knots. She went into the kitchen and surveyed Jackson’s fridge. When she’d first met him it was a mess of leftover Chinese food or pizza and Molson. At least she’d gotten him to upgrade his beer choices. Better beer, but less of it. He thought the prices of a six pack were ridiculous.
She grabbed two Troegs Hopbacks, popped the caps and poured each into its own pint glass. That was the other thing she’d taught him: Use a glass to drink your beer. It tastes better. Might actually enjoy it.
And he did.
Small things. He started to drink less and take his time when he did. They would watch movies together, and he’d only drink three beers. Friday night alternated. Either they’d do takeout, Jackson’s choice. Or they’d go out, Kate’s choice.
Compromise.
She brought the glass to him and put it on the end table—away from the envelopes. After she sat, she took down half the pint in one gulp. Jackson didn’t touch his glass.
The first time he told her about his dead fiancée, she held him close. He told Kate how Jeanne called to see what they needed at the supermarket while he was on a case. Something about her own father needing help. Suicide watch, maybe? She couldn’t quite remember. After he finished talking, Kate and Jackson sat there for a long time. They didn’t make love. They didn’t go to sleep. They just sat, until he gave her a small kiss on the cheek.
Today, he told her about the email. About going to the FBI and how they didn’t believe him. How he went to the bar and drank, when she asked him to call her if he did that. After he finished talking, he rested his elbows on his thighs and let his head hang between his knees.
“We should do something,” she said.
“No.”
“Come on, someone can help you. We can get to the bottom of this.”
Donne shook his head. “I don’t want to involve you.” He paused. “But I didn’t want to lie to you either.”
“Senator Stern. He knew Jeanne. Remember? The night we met. I’ll get my father to put us in touch with him.”
“No.”
The buzzer to his apartment rang, and Kate jumped in her seat. The electricity that had been buzzing through her veins sent another jolt. She looked at Jackson, who bounced up out of his seat, as if the buzzer was as starter gun. He rushed to the intercom.
“Hello?” he said.
“Come on, I’m downstairs.”
“Bill?”
Who the hell was Bill?
“Yes, asshole. Turns out, I think you’re right. We have work to do.”
“Who is that?” Kate asked.
Jackson looked her, his face flushed. She couldn’t read his expression. His lips were pressed tightly together, and his nostrils flared a bit when he inhaled.
“I have to go.”
“Go where? Is this about Jeanne?”
“I—” he said. “I have to go. I don’t know where.”
After putting his hand on the doorknob, he turned back toward her. She felt the muscles in her back relax for the moment she thought he was going to stay.
“I’ll call you,” he said. “I promise.”
Jackson pulled the door open and left. It closed with a soft click behind him.
Kate looked at the piles on the table in front of her and finished her beer. Once she was sure Donne was gone, she picked up her phone and called her father.
Myron Ellison picked up on the third ring.
“You better not be calling in sick tomorrow. Opening statements are next week,” he said in a nasal whine.
“No, Dad,” she said. She took a second to try to catch her breath. Working for your father was a pain in the butt. When he hired her, it was supposed to be an easy job while she studied for the bar. Now it took up all her time.
There must have been something in her voice she didn’t realize, because the bounce went out of Dad’s. “Tell me,” he said in a hushed tone.
She did. About the way Jackson was acting. The intercom conversation. The email. He took it all in, asking for clarification here, a bit more description there. She obliged, trying to not to rush. It was like a client interview, each detail pored over until she had it right.
Clients hated the process. And now Kate knew why. It was tedious, down to the color of the intercom. At one point she asked her dad if he wanted to know how many scratches were on it.
“Not this second,” he said.
Fifteen minutes later she was done, and exhausted. She waited while Dad hummed. He was thinking. He always hummed Neil Young while he thought. Depressing.
“Can you blame him?” Dad finally asked.
Kate waited.
“Let’s just say you had a guy you really loved ten years ago.”
“I was an undergrad.”
“So’s he.” Dad chuckled. “Just listen. You’re going to get married to this guy, but you know, he dies.”
“Dad,” she said.
“Then all of a sudden he’s back. He might be alive. What are you going to do?”
“I get it.” She could feel the burn of the beer at the back of her throat.
“Good, then you’re not allowed to be mad at him.”
“That’s not why I’m calling you. I can be mad at whoever I want, whenever I want.”
“Great,” he said. She heard papers shuffling.
“I need to find him.”
There was a moment of silence. Kate stared at the door, willing it to open, willing Jackson to come in and explain everything. Instead, she heard Mrs. Mullins from upstairs shuffle past with her shih tzu.
“You think he’s coming back tonight?” Dad asked.
“No.”
“I’m sorry. You want to come stay here?”
Kate clutched the phone tighter, but didn’t respond.
“You have to let him deal with this, Kate.”
“I want him to talk to me. How can I find him?”
“You don’t want to go down this road.”
Myron’s voice was scratchy and soft now—the whine gone. It reminded her of bedtime when she was little. He used to read