AT THE DINNER TABLE, ANA asked Ian to please pass the salt, and Ian handed it to her. Sometime later, Ana asked her mother if she thought they could go this weekend to look at new bikes like she’d promised, and Bridget said, “Maybe” in a way that sounded like Ana shouldn’t keep bothering her about it, even though it was the first time, in Ian’s memory, that she’d asked. There were five solid minutes of silence after Bridget’s single word, and during that time Ian focused hard on his asparagus. It was perfectly cooked and seasoned. But saying so — saying anything at all — felt like an awful idea.
Then Ana asked to be excused to get ready for bed. She said she was tired. It was seven thirty.
After that, Ian and Bridget sat opposite each other, both eyeing the table. An opening conversational salvo rolled around inside Ian’s head, going so far as to touch the tip of his tongue. He actually opened his mouth a few times to speak but quickly closed it each time.
Bridget got up and went wordlessly into the living room. Ian cleared the table. Normally, dishes went into the sink for later, but he decided to load the dishwasher in the quiet kitchen. Why not? Ian could look out the window into the backyard — an evening-lit portal into the past, where nothing went wrong. There was no street this way, no black cars filled with watchers and danger. Ana’s swing set was out there. She didn’t play on it much these days, but it had been quite the hit once upon a time.
A voice came from behind him, his hands slick with suds, wet to the wrists.
“Who is she?”
Ian turned.
“Who?”
“The woman you were with today.”
“Bridge. You were just — ”
“I know what I was just. Who is she, Ian?”
Ian turned halfway back to the sink. He wasn’t sure what to say. The man on the phone still rang in his ears. What had happened seemed to be personal: because of Ian, directed at Bridget. He was being sent a message, but his wife — and, maybe, his daughter — were the leverage. Ian was too important to risk harming. His compliance was necessary, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Bridget’s being saved today was a Sure, that worked out nicely situation. If she’d been killed instead, it would have been “Oh well, you have to break eggs to make an omelet.”
“She’s nobody.”
“But worth skipping your morning’s work for.”
“It was a work thing, Bridget.”
“Is that why you won’t tell me who she is?”
Not Alice Frank, that’s for sure. That much, Ian wouldn’t say, and Bridget had apparently been too far off to recognize the media personality without his help. If Ian told her that’s whom he’d met, she’d have follow-up questions. And given all that man on the phone seemed to know, Ian wasn’t confident that someone wouldn’t overhear the ensuing discussion. Someone who, having already shaken them once, might not mind breaking eggs the next time.
“Is this really what you want to concentrate on? You were almost killed today.”
“Hmm. Yes, I was. And do you know what I saw on my way to the mall? I saw that black car that I mentioned yesterday. It was following me. It and a minivan big enough to … I don’t know … hold the three things they set loose.”
“And why were you following me?” Bridget was angry at him, sure, but he’d been calm and kind for too long. He couldn’t be selfless anymore. None if this was his goddamned fault, and he was tired of being painted as the undeserving bad guy.
“Did you hear what I said, Ian? Someone set those things loose on purpose.”
Ian turned fully, snatching a towel with malice, as if it had offended him. “And that doesn’t strike you as odd, given what you seem to be accusing me of? Make up your mind, Bridget. Are you saying I’m cheating, or that I’m dealing with murderers? Because I’ve got to say, that’s one hell of a fatal attraction if you’re combining them.”
“I’m saying you’re not playing straight. You’re keeping secrets,” Bridget said, her anger somewhat blunted by his rebuke, now sliding closer to hurt. Seeing it made Ian guilty. It was as if he’d hit her, and now she was flinching back.
“I have reasons.”
“What’s going on, Ian?”
“I just said I have reasons.”
“The people in the car. Who are they?”
“Dammit, Bridge. This doesn’t concern you. Leave it alone. Let me handle it.”
Ian turned away. Bridget grabbed his discarded towel and threw it hard at his back as if it were heavy enough to hurt him.
“It doesn’t concern me? I was almost killed today! You saw those things! How did they move that fast, Ian? It’s all over the Internet! People are coming out of the woodwork, saying they’ve seen others, too. Smaller outbreaks, mostly in the country or other cities. People are saying that something is happening. Like maybe the virus is changing. Or that Necrophage is weakening.”
“Who’s saying that?”
“People!”
“And you believe it?” He said it with disbelief, dripping more with condescension than curiosity.
“Why don’t you tell me something different then? Why have you been sneaking around so much? Working evenings, going out on weekends, getting calls from strange women … ”
“It doesn’t make one goddamned bit of difference that she’s a woman. She just happens to be—”
“Then who is she? Why won’t you tell me? She’s sure wanted to talk to you a lot, Ian. All those calls and emails and — ”
“Emails?” Ian said, feeling a strange sensation rising up from somewhere deep.
“Emails! Oh, she’s definitely been dying to talk to you, Ian.”
“You’ve been reading my email?”
Bridget looked caught. Ian wanted to keep prodding because as bothered as he felt, her own snooping should, if she thought for a second, unhinge her argument. She’d see what they were talking about and know it wasn’t an affair … except that most of the emails he’d exchanged with Alice had been vaguely worded requests and similarly vague rejections. Both of them seemed to know that email was insecure, that anyone might read them.
But the look was only a flinch. Bridget went on the offensive rather than backing down.
“What’s she been sending you that you’ve been deleting? If it’s not pictures of her with her tits out, then by all means please — ”
“Christ, Bridge. Really?”
“How can I know what you’re hiding? If you want to convince me it’s something else, just show me. You used to trust me.”
Ian’s temperature was up, but the last sentence popped him like a balloon. Quieter, he said, “It’s not about trust.”
“I used to trust you, too.”
“This isn’t fair. There are things I can’t tell you, but not because I don’t want to. None of this is my choice.”
Ian’s phone buzzed on the countertop. He looked toward it, but Bridget grabbed it.
“‘Alice,’” she said, reading the display, her mouth twisted.
Ian found himself wanting to tell her everything, safety be damned. Things had been good for the past few years, but their marriage had seen its troubled times, too. They’d pulled through it with honesty and love, and right now felt like neither. Maybe Hemisphere was the bad guy. Maybe they were all in danger. But right now, all Ian cared about was erasing that loathing, distrustful look from his wife’s face. He’d never loved anyone like he loved Bridget. Peril mattered little. He just wanted her back by his side, giving him a solid foundation from which he’d be able to fight whatever might be coming.
She could connect the dots. Alice Frank was well known. Bridget hadn’t been close enough to see Alice properly at the mall before Alice had been taken away and Ian had been rather coincidentally freed, but she’d seen the basics: tall, thin, blonde, more no-nonsense attractive than strictly pretty. If Bridget’s mind cobbled the puzzle together now and asked him if he’d been chumming with Alice Frank, he’d confess it all. He’d tell her everything, hold nothing back.
But Bridget’s green eyes were hard and accusing.
The phone stopped vibrating and died. Alice didn’t leave a message. Maybe she couldn’t; maybe Ian’s lack of answer had wasted her one jailhouse phone call. Did they let you call from your cell? Ian had never been arrested. He had no idea.
“She can’t be without you for a minute, can she?” Bridget slid the phone toward him.
“I’d tell you if I could.”
“Then tell me.”
“If I could.”
“Why can’t you?”
But Alice, failing to reach him, must have turned her call to the third member of their party because now Ian’s phone began to vibrate. Blocked Caller filled the screen.
When Ian didn’t answer, declining the call and staring wordlessly at his wife, the Blocked Caller sent a text.
From August Maughan. With an address and a time to meet, immediately.
Bridget’s hands moved to her hips.
“I have to go,” Ian said.
“Of course you do.”
“I don’t have a choice. I promise I’m doing this for all the right reasons.”
“Reasons you won’t explain. Involving someone whose name I can’t know. Except that it’s Alice.”
“Bridge … ”
“Go, fine.” She turned to leave.
“I’m doing this to protect you. And Ana.”
Bridget turned back. Her eyes were angry, hurt, uncomprehending, crushed.
“If you want to protect us,” she said, “then stay.”
“I can’t. I have to … ”
Bridget shook her head then left the kitchen, leaving Ian alone with his impossible choice.
The best chance for keeping his family safe seemed to be to leave them defenseless, hating him for his abandonment.