“M. Night Shyamalan doesn’t hold a candle to Jordan Peele,” Kala said.

Matt grunted. “I’ll give you that Peele revitalized the horror genre. Made it smart, weaving in social commentary. But I’ve got three words for you: The Sixth Sense.”

“I’ve got three for you: The Last Airbender. Horrible. And Peele doesn’t arrogantly give himself cameos in his own films.”

“It’s just fashionable to hate on M. Night.”

“You saying my views are just fashionable?” Kala held his stare as she took a gulp of beer. Her pretty eyes twinkled when she was angry.

“Yo, lighten up,” Ganesh said. “I want this stupid debate settled by the time I get back with another round.” He headed to the bar.

Kala seemed to realize she was, well, being Kala. Matt could’ve hugged her for it.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should’ve—”

He reached across the table and put his hand on hers. “If your views are ever fashionable, it’s because you started the fashion.”

Her eyes glistened as if she was going to say something about his family, something that was going to make them both cry. But she shook it off, realizing it was the last thing she should do.

“I just don’t get how you can like Shyamalan so much.”

Matt smiled again. She had a point, since most of the NYU film school snobs looked down on M. Night Shyamalan. But Matt loved Shyamalan’s movies because they were grounded in destiny—the protagonists unaware that everything in their lives had led up to a moment; that everything suddenly made sense; that they had a purpose in the universe.

Matt’s thoughts were interrupted by a commotion at the bar. He didn’t have a clear line of sight, but he saw the mop of curly hair bobbing around, and he knew.

“Shit,” he said, jumping from the stool and threading through the crowd. At the bar, he found Ganesh in a stare-down with three young men. Other patrons had stepped back, sensing trouble.

Matt put a hand on Ganesh’s shoulder, not acknowledging the other men. “Hey, what’s up?”

Ganesh’s jaw was jutted, hands balled into fists. Woo-jin and Curtis suddenly materialized next to Matt.

“Let’s go sit down,” Curtis said. “It’s not worth it.”

Eyeing Matt and his friends, one of the locals—he had cropped hair with a C-shaped scar on the side of his skull—said loudly to his own friends, “You hear the one about the black, the Chinaman, and the terrorist who walked into a bar?”

The three men burst into laughter.

Kala sidled up to Matt, whispered in his ear, “Ignore them.”

He should listen to her, he knew. But instead Matt said, “Korean.” He held the guy’s stare.

“What?”

“He’s from Korea, not China,” Matt said, looking up at Woo-jin.

The man pushed closer to Matt, his shoulders thrown back.

Woo-jin tried to defuse the situation. “We don’t want any trouble,” he said.

The man repeated the words in a mock Asian accent. “Oh, you no want no trouble. You love him long time.”

More laughter.

“Why don’t you and I go outside?” Ganesh said, nudging his way in front of Matt. “Or are you too scared to go without Semen Breath and Muffin Top?” Ganesh looked at the two men flanking the leader. It was a line from the movie The Judge. Matt knew because they’d watched it together, but the men were clueless.

The heavier man Ganesh had called Muffin Top hitched up his pants.

“Nobody asked you, Osama bin Fuckface,” the leader said.

Matt grabbed Ganesh just in time, holding him back from jumping on the guy.

The man’s legs were spread, a fighting stance. His friends seemed less enthusiastic.

That was when Matt realized that he recognized them, the friends. He looked at Semen Breath. “It’s been a long time, Steve. How’s your sister doing?”

Steven Ellison’s eyes immediately hit the floor. They’d been in Cub Scouts together. Gone on camping trips. Had playdates. Steve’s older sister had a severe disability and was in a wheelchair, unable even to feed herself.

“She’s good,” Steve said, his eyes sheepishly lifting to Matt’s.

“And, Nate, you still playing baseball?” The man Ganesh had called Muffin Top had been the star of their Little League team.

Nate, too, looked down, embarrassed.

But the leader, he was familiar, though Matt couldn’t quite place him, said, “You pussies can get all nostalgic, but this motherfucker”—he poked a finger in Matt’s chest—“thinks he and those Jew filmmakers can drag us all through the mud, and then just show up in our bar like nothing’s happened.”

“I had no part in the documentary,” Matt said.

“The fuck you and your shit family didn’t.”

Now Matt felt his blood turn hot. The rage he’d worked so hard to bury all these years coming to the surface again. “Say one more thing about my family, and Steve and Nate are gonna have to carry you out of here.” Matt meant it.

The crowd that had formed around them parted, and a blur of dark hair whooshed by. It was a young woman. She walked right up to the leader and put herself between the man and Matt.

“Ricky, what the hell are you doing? I’m gonna tell Mom that you’re—” She stopped, spun around, and stared intensely at Matt and his friends. “If you put one finger on him, you’ll be charged with murder. He’s got a plate in his head. One tap could kill him.” She looked at Matt.

“You should know better.”

Matt couldn’t believe it. After all the years thinking about that night at the Knoll—his electrifying first kiss—and it was her. Jessica Wheeler. As Matt stood staring, the crowd dispersed. Jessica shepherded Ricky, Steve, and Nate back to their table, wagging her finger at them. In just a few seconds, she’d ended the standoff. Shamed them all.

Back at their table, Matt watched Jessica as she continued to scold the three, then led her brother to a back office. She must work at the place. Matt had a vague recollection of Ricky Wheeler now. Ricky had been on the football team with Danny, but they hadn’t been close friends. Ricky looked much different these days. Not just older and heavier; there was a slackness in his face. The slurred speech Matt had attributed to drinking too much might be from a brain injury. Matt watched the door to the office, waiting for Jessica to come back out.

“Hell-o,” Kala said, snapping her fingers in front of Matt’s face.

Matt was about to explain when his cell phone chimed. Agent Keller’s number. He swiped the device.

“Matt, it’s Sarah Keller.” She said something else he couldn’t make out. The connection was fuzzy, and the bar was loud again.

“I’m having a hard time hearing you. Hold on one second.” Matt plugged an ear with his finger and pushed through the crowd.

“Can you hear me?” Keller asked.

Matt stepped outside the bar. He made his way past two men smoking near the front door, and to the parking lot, which was lit by a single streetlight. It was good to be out of the stale air of the bar. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“No worries. I heard you had some problems in Mexico,” Keller said.

“You can say that.”

“Carlita Escobar said you had a run-in with the local police. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just a long-ass day.”

“I can imagine.” She paused. “I hoped we could catch up tomorrow. You have time to meet?”

“Yeah, but I’m not in New York. I changed my flight and came to Nebraska.”

“I know, so did I. Could we meet in the morning? I saw a diner on the main road, so maybe we could get some breakfast?”

“Sure, but I don’t understand why you came all the way here to—”

“I’ll fill you in on everything tomorrow. But right now I have a question for you, and it’s not something I want to ask.”

Matt waited.

“We’d like to conduct autopsies.”

“Autopsies?” Matt processed this. “I thought—the gas leak—the Mexican cop said they closed their investigation. I don’t under—”

“I promise you, Matt, I’ll explain everything tomorrow, but I have to tell the Lincoln field office if they need to have someone available.”

“I don’t understand.” Matt’s mind was racing. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would—”

“Matt, there’s no easy way to say this, but there’s evidence of possible foul play.”

Matt felt his knees buckle a little, the air stripped from his lungs.

“Are you there?” Keller said. “Matt?”

“Yes. Okay, you have my consent.”

“Thank you. We understand your aunt plans to have the funeral on Sunday. So the medical team will be done by tomorrow. It’s been given top priority.”

Matt just held the phone, still trying to process. Trying not to think of his family dissected on cold stainless-steel tables.

“And, Matt,” Keller said.

Matt still didn’t reply.

“I’m really sorry.”

Matt severed the connection. He stood there outside the old bar, the sound of music leaking from cracks in the walls. For whatever reason, his thoughts drifted to Kala and Jordan Peele and M. Night Shyamalan and destiny.

And then it hit him. Maybe that was it. Maybe this was why he’d survived.

To find out what really happened to his family.

CHAPTER 36

OLIVIA PINE

BEFORE