Amanda sat alone by the window, the train hurtling northward and the city growing more and more distant. Soot peppered her hair, and the stench of smoke permeated her clothing. Everything had changed so drastically and so jarringly: she existed in a numbing state of shock. She felt like she had stepped outside the present time and place and witnessed the fallout of her actions as though all of them belonged to someone else. She found it easier to pretend that she was a mere actress, and that sometime very soon, the play would end, the curtain would fall, and she would remove herself from this horror.
Was it possible that just this morning she had strolled through the beautiful autumn air, walking to St. Patrick’s, and had stood admiring the building, desiring to snap a picture of it? If only she could return to that moment. If only she could remove herself from her perdition. But she had done this, and in many ways, she had set into motion the events that snowballed into this tragedy.
She replayed that final encounter with Morgan over and over again. The train was empty, discarded soda bottles and gum wrappers the sole artifacts of travelers gone by. So she let her tears flow unchecked. She wished Morgan’s reaction had been different, but she didn’t blame him for what he did. Everything had changed. In that desperate ploy to convince Ethan not to leave her, she had given herself to him in a way that could not be undone.
One day, a few months ago, she’d rode on a crowded bus to the city to begin a new life. Now she rode away on a deserted train, away from broken hopes and dreams. Popping pills, skipping classes, emptying her bank account, ending her friendship with Morgan, sketching that horrific face on her Portrait of a Mother … she had done these things of her own choosing. No wonder Morgan wanted her out of his life. Many times he had tried to encourage and convince her to choose the better path. In return, she had insulted and rejected him. Now it seemed only fair that he would sever their friendship.
In her self-absorption, she had failed to ever gain even basic details about Morgan. Despite their connection, she had no way of reaching him. Where did he live? What was his number? Not that it mattered much now: in her frenzy, she had left her phone behind in Ethan’s apartment.
Following Morgan’s final instructions, she prepared to transfer at Poughkeepsie to the Adirondack train. She faced a long layover, however; her next train wouldn’t depart until 5:30 a.m. She passed the early-morning hours in the drafty, desolate train station, similarly cold and empty inside. Morgan had described zombies: the living dead. Had she become that? Had she chosen that life?
Daylight broke, and she began to watch commuters lining up to enter the morning train headed into the city. She joined the smaller crowd on the opposite track. The plush seats aboard the northbound train were a welcome change compared to the wooden benches in the station, and she appreciated this fleeting comfort, leaning back and curling her legs underneath her on the seat. The train departed, and she turned her painful thoughts toward Ethan.
Even here, miles outside the city, the littlest remembrance of him plunged her heart into boiling torment. He had betrayed her, destroyed her, and no matter how far she fled, she could never run far enough. She looked at the ruined painting beside her. … She couldn’t come up with a single motive for his cruel deed. Why would he hurt her so purposely and deeply? Amanda looked at the empty spot on the canvas where the lady’s face should be, and her vision blurred once again with tears. Ethan had used her, like this canvas—and then discarded them both. She had the sudden urge to drench her mouth with disinfectant, to somehow erase the feel of his corrupting kisses on her lips. He was not confident; he was self-centered and cocky. He was not brilliant; he was cunningly deceptive. He did not love her; he loved to use her.
Was any of it ever real or genuine? Did she even truly know this man she thought she loved? She couldn’t have. How could she ever fall in love with a man who orchestrated bombings and presided over murders and persecutions? Maybe the Ethan she knew never even existed. All those moments of happiness, of belonging, of feeling loved … they had been a mask, a grand ruse. Those pleasant feelings lacked any substance: they had all been manufactured, illusory sentiments that had now vanished like the ephemeral effects of the pill, leaving her even more empty and alone. It was just the shadow of love.
She couldn’t sleep, so she stared out the train window, recognizing the familiar territory of the majestic Adirondacks—home. It had changed since late summer, when she had left for the city. The grass had turned brown, burnt from the heat and dying in the cooler autumn weather, the threat of frost looming closer each night. The trees provided a stunning display in the early-morning light: bright oranges, blazing reds, and golden yellows, but she turned her eyes away. The reds and oranges reminded her of the flames that had consumed St. Patrick’s.
The train approached the station at Westport. Good old Westport: “A gateway to the Adirondacks,” as the town motto boasted. It was her gateway to home. That was her sole comforting thought. She hadn’t seen her dad and Chiara in months, and at this moment, she desperately wanted to be with them. Their unconditional acceptance would be a healing balm for her waywardness and their house an ideal refuge from the trauma of the city. She didn’t know what explanation she would provide or what details she would relay to them. But, ultimately, it didn’t matter: their love was greater than her errors.
The pull of home motivated her to hurry off the train. Unexpectedly, she found a taxi waiting outside the station and entered it, sighing with relief to be on the final leg of the arduous journey. She glanced at the driver. He wore a Yankees cap, which shadowed his thick black eyebrows.
“Where to, miss?” he called over the country song playing on the stereo.
She pulled the remaining bills from Morgan out of her pocket, counting them. It wouldn’t be enough to get her all the way home, but it would at least get her mostly there. She could walk the rest of the way.
“Fort Christopher, please.”
“The real boonies, huh?” He took a swig of coffee, placed the Styrofoam cup back in the holder, and put the car into drive. “So where you coming from?”
“South.” She looked out the window, hoping to give him the pointed hint that she didn’t wish to speak with him.
“You from around here?”
“Yeah.”
“Nice, quiet area. Great place for fishing and you can’t beat the views. I like it. … Been here about eight years now.”
The twangy song came to its close, and the DJ came back on: “It’s a pristine fall day out there, folks. Really couldn’t ask for better weather. High’s going to reach 63 by the afternoon; slight chance of rain this evening. We’ve got a short commercial break, but stay with us for another forty-minute block of today’s best country! Right here on your WP 104.7!”
The driver removed his gaze from the road and studied her in the rearview mirror. “You know, your face looks awfully familiar. What’s your name?”
“Amanda.”
“Last name Burrow?”
The little hairs on the back of her neck rose, and her glance shot upward, meeting the man’s scrutinizing stare. Her gut instinct told her to lie, and so she shook her head no. “Amanda Johnson.”
“Huh.” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “I could’ve sworn you were Kevin Burrow’s girl.”
“No … the name doesn’t ring a bell.” But her response was a little too delayed.
The taxi driver fell silent, his face now bearing a pensive frown.
Amanda’s pulse began pounding, and she commanded herself to calm down. Her dad met all kinds of people through his construction work. Unlike her, he was an extrovert who made friends effortlessly. This taxi driver was very likely one such friend.
Outside the window, familiar sights greeted her: Scoops, where they would get ice cream in the summer … the single-pump gas station … Supermarket Saver, bedecked with pots of mums and grinning scarecrows … all of Fort Christopher’s meek array of services and amusements. And in every direction, like silent giants overlooking the sleepy town and its dwindling population: mountains. Everywhere mountains. They were the skyscrapers of Fort Christopher.
“So, uh, where you headed to, exactly?” The driver kept shifting his hand position on the steering wheel.
“I’m just visiting a friend a few miles down the road.” She pointed in the opposite direction from her house. “You can just drop me off here at the corner of Follen and Larch.”
“Nah, I’ll drive you. Just give me the address.”
“Thanks, but it’s such a nice day that I prefer to walk.”
Once parked, she gave him the money (all that was left of the cash from Morgan) and hurried out of the car. She struggled to keep a relaxed, normal pace. About thirty yards away, approaching Upland Avenue, she dared to peek behind her, just to reassure herself that everything was fine. But the taxi was idling, and its driver stared at her.
Her unease grew with each step. What was the driver’s problem? She couldn’t do anything, however, except walk. At last, ten paces later, the car engine roared to life, gradually fading into the distance. She waited a solid fifteen minutes—just to be extra careful—then swiftly retraced her steps, crossing the street past the old barber shop and then beginning her trek on Tillinghast Avenue, which would lead her home. She tried to shake off the unsettled feeling that had come over her. Soon she would be on terra firma and could tell her dad about the weird episode. He would likely get a good laugh out of it, reassuring her that the taxi driver was an old buddy of his.
Each time a car passed, she looked up to see if it was the taxi back again, but each time she was wrong, and as the minutes ticked by, her panic subsided. The farther she walked, the greater the distance between the houses … and the larger the plots of land. The sidewalk had long ago ended, and gone were any streetlights. Now she treaded on familiar territory: backcountry roads that winded and curved, lined with old oaks and maples. Shadows filled the potholes dotting the surface of the road, moving snatches of light. The branches above shuddered in the silent breeze. The dead leaves crunched beneath her feet. She had missed this.
At long last, she spotted her family’s mailbox standing at the end of their driveway. The nearest house was about a five-minute walk away. Gazing across the lane, she saw endless mountain peaks. She turned to begin the ascent: their house sat far off the road, on top of a hill, making the driveway always a tiresome hike. She trudged up the gravel path. Large piles of leaves and pine needles had accumulated, so much so that they filled the tire ruts. Why hadn’t her dad raked yet? It was now the first day of November.
Winded from the steep incline, she passed the crest of the hill and entered their secluded refuge. Here she always enjoyed complete isolation: from the front yard, someone could see no other home or sign of human life. Chiara was likely at the apprenticeship she had at the horse farm a few miles away, but her dad’s pickup truck was parked in its usual spot on the side of the house. It struck Amanda as odd that he hadn’t left for work yet, but she hurried to the porch: she had an incredible urge to see his face and hear his voice. Here she stood, the prodigal daughter, but her dad would run over to greet her with open arms.
Of course her house key was back in Nikki’s apartment, so she gave a loud knock on the front door. She waited. No response. Perhaps her dad was upstairs and couldn’t hear her? She pounded a bit more forcefully—they really should get a doorbell. She bent down and pulled the spare key from underneath the welcome mat at her feet.
“Dad?” She walked inside the front hallway and heard the sound of canned laughter. The television must be on in the living room. “Dad?” She peered inside the room.
A talk show played to an empty room. She went over to her dad’s chair, an overstuffed recliner, worn and threadbare from overuse. His favorite mug, which her mom had given him on his birthday years ago, sat on the end table, half-filled with coffee. Commanding the television to turn off, she listened for sounds of movement. Silence.
She moved into the kitchen and reeled from a horrid stench. An open gallon of milk sat on the counter, its spoiled, sour fumes wafting throughout the room. Chiara’s chair was pulled out from the kitchen table, a bowl of cereal at her place. A spoon sat in the bowl, the cereal bloated from the moisture of the milk, soggy and entirely unappetizing. Her dad might have let the dishes go, but Chiara was almost compulsive about cleaning.
Amanda walked toward the reeking milk container with the intention of throwing it out, but the daily calendar perched nearby caught her eye. It belonged to her dad. Tearing the page to the new date was part of his morning ritual—as much a habit as pouring his morning cup of coffee. She picked up the calendar, puzzled … October 18. That was two whole weeks ago. Swallowing uneasily, she picked up the milk jug and walked toward the garbage can on the other side of the kitchen. But there, lying on the floor, was her dad’s cell phone. Had he dropped it? Why would he just leave it there? She snatched it up, swiped in his passcode, and saw that he had a message. She played it back and heard her own voice: “Hey, it’s me. Sorry for not calling you back sooner. I hope things are going okay. … I’ll try to call you tomorrow.”
She had called her family on Monday. Today was Thursday. She tried to trace the days back in her mind. When had her dad called her last? She had no idea: thanks to the pill, a whole swath of her time in the city was a formless void in which she couldn’t remember what she said or did and when.
Regardless of that, the dated calendar page, the playing television, the bowl of cereal, the phone inexplicably lying on the floor—these all pointed to one conclusion: something was wrong. For some reason, her dad and Chiara had left very abruptly. Had they gone somewhere, not expecting her return, and were waiting to call her? Yet why would they leave no information? And her dad’s truck … they couldn’t have gone far without the family’s sole vehicle. No, they couldn’t have left, at least not voluntarily.
No, not voluntarily … but forcibly? She laid a trembling hand on the counter to steady herself. Waves of icy fear poured over her. Twenty-four hours ago, she never would have considered this explanation realistic, but in light of what she had just witnessed and experienced—that the NCP was willing to resort to anything to protect itself—Morgan’s claim about people being abducted now seemed terrifyingly credible.
No, it was more than credible. It explained everything. Of course the NCP would be concerned about her dad. He was far from being politically correct and made a concerted effort to blast the reigning party, a trait that solidified him as one of the most active members of the local opposition group.
The government prosecuted only one crime: treason. In the eyes of the NCP, her dad was a criminal.
Had Ethan known? Did he realize her dad was a target? Did he … help arrange her family’s disappearance?
No … no, she wouldn’t think about that. … Ethan didn’t matter right now. She only needed her family. She wanted to be with them more than she wanted anything else now. Everything else faded into distant shadows in her mind: Chiara and her dad instantly consumed her thoughts, desires, memories, and feelings. She had always assumed they would be here: she had taken their presence and love for granted. And now they were gone. She couldn’t lose them … she couldn’t lose her dad and Chiara, not like she had already lost her mom. Overwhelming panic began to cloud any rational thinking she had left.
“Dad!” Her petrified screaming, sputtered with half sobs heaving from her tightened chest, reverberated through the vacant house. She sprinted from the kitchen, up the stairs. “Dad!”