in the apartment downstairs. She logged onto the secure server and perused the various Dexter Moores of America until she identified the one who interested her. She followed the trail of his Social Security number across one database after another, college and the District’s DMV and the Arkansas Department of Education, hisfather’s police record—aggravated assault in Memphis—and his older brother’s military history, killed in Bosnia.
After an hour, she was satisfied: this Dexter Moore was an upstanding citizen. She picked up the telephone and dialed, and asked him to the movies. Later in the week, she’d be leaving town for a month—maybe more—in Guatemala, most of it up north in the jungle.
Two years later she delved even deeper, pulling phone records and bank statements, surreptitiously capturing a full set of fingerprints that she used to check against the CIA’s database. She confirmed again that Dexter was who he claimed to be, perfectly straightforward and undeniably respectable.
She’d already said yes.
That was six years ago. That was when she’d been able to suspend her normal state of disbelief about people, to renew her faith in life’s innocence. A faith she’d lost far earlier, in her teens, with the onset of her family’s string of disasters.
So then she’d believed—she’d wanted to believe, she’d needed to believe—that she could put aside her cynicism to marry this man, to lead a semblance of a normal life. After she’d investigated him to her full satisfaction, she promised herself that she’d never do it again.
She realized, even at the time, that this may have been an act of willful ignorance; she may have conspired to deceive herself, all these years.
“Ben,” she said, flagging down her youngest as he ran on his way to emergency-play.
“What?”
“Come here.” She opened her arms, and the boy leaned in, wrapped his wiry arms around her thighs. “I love you,” she said.
“Me too Mommy but I have to go now so bye-bye I love you bye-bye.”
It may have been self-deception. But it was what she’d needed, to get this.
KATE COULDN’T HELP herself. She rifled through the file cabinet, thumbing quickly through credit-card statements and insurance policies and old utility bills. Nothing. Then she took another pass, slower, removing one file at a time from the top drawer, paging through every piece of paper, fanning out the user’s manuals to routers and external drives and a stereo system that she knew for certain had been left behind in Washington.
She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, and returned to the bottomdrawer, starting at the rear. She came across an old manila file with a creased and torn tab that read MORTGAGE REFINANCE. Inside, behind the uniform residential loan application and in front of the verification of assets, she finally found it: a bare-bones contract for services between Dexter Moore and the Continental European Bank.
Kate read through the two pages’ worth of legalese, twice. There was absolutely nothing remarkable.
Briefly, she was angry with Dexter for hiding the contract from her. But of course this is what he would have to do, if he wanted to keep the bank’s identity from her.
So she forgave him. And instead she berated herself for her suspicion, for her snooping. For the things she promised herself she wouldn’t do, the feelings she wouldn’t have.
Then she forgave herself also, and went to school, to pick up the children.
“MY PARENTS,” KATE said, “are both dead. We—my sister and I—buried them in back-to-back years.”
“My God,” Julia said. “Where’s your sister now?”
“Hartford, I think. Maybe New London. We’re not in touch.”
“Big fight?”
“Not exactly,” Kate said. “Emily is a drunk. Usually a junkie too.”
“Yikes.”
“When my parents were ill, there wasn’t a lot of attention to go around. Or for that matter money. My parents were too young for Medicare, and my dad’s
After an hour, she was satisfied: this Dexter Moore was an upstanding citizen. She picked up the telephone and dialed, and asked him to the movies. Later in the week, she’d be leaving town for a month—maybe more—in Guatemala, most of it up north in the jungle.
Two years later she delved even deeper, pulling phone records and bank statements, surreptitiously capturing a full set of fingerprints that she used to check against the CIA’s database. She confirmed again that Dexter was who he claimed to be, perfectly straightforward and undeniably respectable.
She’d already said yes.
That was six years ago. That was when she’d been able to suspend her normal state of disbelief about people, to renew her faith in life’s innocence. A faith she’d lost far earlier, in her teens, with the onset of her family’s string of disasters.
So then she’d believed—she’d wanted to believe, she’d needed to believe—that she could put aside her cynicism to marry this man, to lead a semblance of a normal life. After she’d investigated him to her full satisfaction, she promised herself that she’d never do it again.
She realized, even at the time, that this may have been an act of willful ignorance; she may have conspired to deceive herself, all these years.
“Ben,” she said, flagging down her youngest as he ran on his way to emergency-play.
“What?”
“Come here.” She opened her arms, and the boy leaned in, wrapped his wiry arms around her thighs. “I love you,” she said.
“Me too Mommy but I have to go now so bye-bye I love you bye-bye.”
It may have been self-deception. But it was what she’d needed, to get this.
KATE COULDN’T HELP herself. She rifled through the file cabinet, thumbing quickly through credit-card statements and insurance policies and old utility bills. Nothing. Then she took another pass, slower, removing one file at a time from the top drawer, paging through every piece of paper, fanning out the user’s manuals to routers and external drives and a stereo system that she knew for certain had been left behind in Washington.
She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, and returned to the bottomdrawer, starting at the rear. She came across an old manila file with a creased and torn tab that read MORTGAGE REFINANCE. Inside, behind the uniform residential loan application and in front of the verification of assets, she finally found it: a bare-bones contract for services between Dexter Moore and the Continental European Bank.
Kate read through the two pages’ worth of legalese, twice. There was absolutely nothing remarkable.
Briefly, she was angry with Dexter for hiding the contract from her. But of course this is what he would have to do, if he wanted to keep the bank’s identity from her.
So she forgave him. And instead she berated herself for her suspicion, for her snooping. For the things she promised herself she wouldn’t do, the feelings she wouldn’t have.
Then she forgave herself also, and went to school, to pick up the children.
“MY PARENTS,” KATE said, “are both dead. We—my sister and I—buried them in back-to-back years.”
“My God,” Julia said. “Where’s your sister now?”
“Hartford, I think. Maybe New London. We’re not in touch.”
“Big fight?”
“Not exactly,” Kate said. “Emily is a drunk. Usually a junkie too.”
“Yikes.”
“When my parents were ill, there wasn’t a lot of attention to go around. Or for that matter money. My parents were too young for Medicare, and my dad’s
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