20

Kinshasa is one of the most dangerous cities in the world. Why, then, are the diamond sellers able to travel the downtown streets daily, carrying bags of expensive diamonds, with no fear of theft?

Caroline’s eyes are red and puffy from crying. I hope it’s not something Rory did.

They slide into the back seat, sitting close together. “We got the results back from the Wonder practice test,” Rory says before I even ask.

“You have a very smart son who has a very dumb girlfriend,” Caroline mumbles.

I don’t even know where to begin unpacking that sentence. Girlfriend?

“Tonight is movie night at the school,” Rory announces cheerfully, trying to distract us all from what Caroline just said.

“Movie night?”

“The fundraiser. Remember, they made us buy tickets?”

“Right.” I’ve written so many checks to that school, I have no idea what I’ve bought.

“Can Caroline come with us?”

“Of course. Parents out of town?”

“Yes,” Caroline says.

“Where?”

“Vienna, I think.”

“Your father is a diplomat?”

“Yes,” she says. “My mother is”—she pauses—“a diplomat too.” The way she meets my eyes in the rearview mirror, I suspect she knows they’re more than diplomats.

“That’s interesting,” I say.

“Interesting for them.”

When we return to campus at six thirty in the evening, the soccer field is decked out in twinkling lights, a movie screen showing the candy factory episode of I Love Lucy. Rory and Caroline head to the food line. I watch as they make their way across the field, arms touching. Caroline’s hand reaches for Rory’s, their fingers interlock, and she stands on her tiptoes to plant a quick kiss on his cheek.

I have one goal tonight: to find Gray Stafford’s parents. This afternoon, I ran Bill Stafford’s name and checked out the shady business dealings that led to his stint at Lompoc. I also looked into his software start-up, but nothing came up. In photos of Bill and Lacey from charity events over the last several years, they look like a typical Greenfield couple. They’re about the same age, probably met in college or grad school. He’s well dressed and tan, a little thick in the jowls. Her long platinum hair, smooth forehead, and toned physique point to countless hours in barre class and the aesthetician’s chair.

Scanning the field, I locate the two of them sitting on a plaid blanket. I weave through the crowd and wedge my blanket in beside them. By the time the movie starts, the night is dark and cold. Rory and Caroline have disappeared. I try to make conversation with Lacey, but she’s not interested. She looks considerably older than she did in the photos taken just two and three years ago, her forehead etched with deep lines, her hair brittle. After a tortured attempt at small talk, I offer, “I’m Lina, new in town.”

“I know who you are,” Bill Stafford replies.

Although I instinctively dislike Bill Stafford, the way he exudes arrogance, my gut tells me that Gray’s disappearance wasn’t related to his dad’s business dealings. Lacey ignores the exchange, sipping wine from a plastic cup and scrolling through her phone.

At first, I don’t recognize Gray when he returns to sit with his parents. With hair down past his shoulders and a San Francisco Giants jersey hanging off his thin frame, he barely resembles the photos of the bald, rescued boy. The only empty spot on his family’s blanket happens to be right next to me. When his mother tries to switch places with him, pointing out he can’t see the screen from there, he replies, “I don’t care.”

His tone isn’t rude, just jarringly emotionless—the same flat affect I’ve witnessed in so many trauma victims over the years. His plate is nearly empty, just lettuce and watermelon, a few green beans. Any armchair psychologist might speculate that the once-promising athlete, in the aftermath of his ordeal, is protecting himself by changing his body, making himself less noticeable. I could be wrong, but the whole vibe—the long, straggly hair, the ill-fitting clothes, the whiff of body odor—seems to be a wall he has built purposefully.

“Did you catch the Giants game on TV last night?” I venture, ignoring Bill Stafford’s glare.

Gray doesn’t look me in the eye. “I watch all of them.” Then he talks about Gorkys Hernández batting leadoff, Johnny Cueto and his hair.

A shadow of the kid he once was is still visible in Gray’s strong shoulders and his height, attributes he can’t hide no matter how much he tries. His vocabulary and sentence structure, however, are not as finely formed.

“Are you a Warriors fan too?” I ask.

His dad stands abruptly. “Son, let’s go.”

“What about Ben?” Gray wants to know.

“He’s spending the night with James,” Lacey replies.

“He should come home with us,” Gray says, a note of panic in his voice.

Lacey puts an arm around her son’s shoulders. “Your brother will be fine, sweetheart.”

Gray stands up and steps off the blanket, holding the paper plate in front of him, as his mother quickly folds the blanket and his father gathers their things.

Gray leans down to pick up a compostable fork that he has let drop to the ground. “You’re Rory’s mom, right?” he whispers.

“Yes.”

There’s something haunted and intense in his green eyes. “Rory will be fine.”

Or, at least, I think that’s what he says. But I can’t ask him to repeat himself, because his mother is tugging him away.

I watch them threading their way between the blankets and food trays, this tragic family, every mother and father glancing up at Gray as he passes, some more obvious than others.

In the car, as we’re driving Caroline home, I ask if they have plans for the weekend.

Caroline frowns. “The school has me seeing a math tutor on Saturday, typing tutor all day Sunday, the reading technician Sunday night. That stupid test is all anyone cares about.” And then she launches into a tirade against the Wonder Test, the school, and the American system of education. “In France the school system is so rigid, everyone tells me it will be better in America, but c’est la même chose!”

When she’s angry, Caroline’s French accent becomes even stronger, a bit of French peppered in with the English. She directs me left on Forestview, and then droite on Oakhurst. Her home sits behind a huge iron gate with brick columns rising up on either side. A mail slot is cut into the left column, above it an engraved gold plate bearing the name Donadieu. As we approach the property, she pulls out her iPhone and presses a few buttons. The imposing gate yawns opens. The wide, tree-lined driveway goes on for half a mile, the trees ultimately giving way to a view of a massive turn-of-the-century stone mansion.

“This is your house?” Rory says.

“I know. It’s a little, how do you say . . . a little beaucoup.”

The house is famous around here. Even by Greenfield standards, it’s grand. It was built by the French government for their ambassador more than a century ago. The architecture is stately, the shrubbery indigenous to the French countryside, the clay in the driveway mined in Bordeaux. It was all designed to be a French refuge on the edge of America—to make the ambassador and his family feel at home, even when they weren’t.

The house is dark except for a sconce on the porch and a dim yellow light emanating from a corner room on the third floor. A window must be open, because I hear Edith Piaf’s “Non, je ne regrette rien” spilling into the night.

“Someone’s home?” I ask.

“Blandine. The house manager. You do not want to tangle with Blandine.”

Caroline thanks me for the ride, gives Rory les bises—left cheek, right cheek, left, plus a peck on the lips—and hops out of the Jeep. As she approaches the porch, the massive front door swings open, and she disappears inside the mansion.