Barbara took all this to Jerome and asked if he thought Holly might be on the verge of some sort of weirdo breakdown, maybe kicked off by the Macready School bombing. “Maybe she’s like, flashing back to when her cousin Janey got blown up by Brady Hartsfield.”

Based on her searches, it certainly crossed Jerome’s mind that Holly had caught the scent of another really bad man, but there’s something else that seemed—to him, at least—equally plausible.

“Hearts & Friends,” he says to his sister now.

“What about it?”

“Has it not occurred to you that Holly might be, don’t gasp, hooking up? Or at least meeting a guy she’s exchanged emails with?”

Barbara stares at him with her mouth open. Almost laughs, then doesn’t. What she says is, “Hmmm.”

“Meaning what?” Jerome says. “Give me some insight here. You spend girl-time with her—”

“Sexist, J.”

He ignores that. “Does she have a friend of the male persuasion? Now or ever?”

Barbara considers this carefully. “You know what, I don’t think so. I think she might still be a virgin.”

What about you, Barb? is the thought that immediately jumps into Jerome’s mind, but some questions should not be asked of eighteen-year-old girls by their big brothers.

“She’s not gay, or anything,” Barbara hastens on. “She never misses a Josh Brolin flick, and when we saw that stupid shark movie a couple of years ago, she actually moaned when she saw Jason Statham with his shirt off. Do you really think she’d go all the way to Maine for a date?”

“The plot thickens,” he says, peering into his phone. “She’s not at the airport. If you zoom in, you’ll see it’s Embassy Suites. She’s probably drinking champagne with some guy who likes frozen daiquiris, strolling in the moonlight, and discussing classic films.”

Barbara makes as if to punch him in the face, only springing her hand open at the last second.

“Tell you what,” Jerome says. “I think we better leave this alone.”

“For real?”

“I think so, yeah. We need to remember that she survived Brady Hartsfield. Twice. Whatever happened in Texas, she got through that, too. She’s a little shaky on top, but down deep… solid steel.”

“Got that right,” Barbara says. “Looking at her browser… that made me feel skeevy.”

“This makes me feel skeevy,” he says, and taps the blinking dot on his phone that marks the Embassy Suites. “I’m going to sleep on it, but if I feel the same in the morning, I’m gonna dump it. She’s a good woman. Brave. Lonely, too.”

“And her mother’s a witch,” Barbara adds.

Jerome doesn’t disagree. “Maybe we should just let her alone. Work it out, whatever it is.”

“Maybe we should.” But Barbara looks unhappy about it.

Jerome leans forward. “One thing I know for sure, Barb. She’s never going to find out that we tracked her at all. Is she?”

“Never,” Barbara says. “Or that I peeked at her searches.”

“Good. We have that straight. Now can I go back to work? I want to get another two pages before I knock off.”

17

Holly isn’t even close to knocking off. In fact, she’s just about to get started on the evening’s real work. She thinks about kneeling for a little more prayer first and decides she would only be procrastinating. She reminds herself that God helps those who help themselves.

Chet Ondowsky’s Chet on Guard segment has its own webpage, where folks who feel they have been burned can call in on an 800 number. This line is manned (or womaned) twenty-four hours a day, and the page claims all calls will be kept absolutely confidential.

Holly takes a deep breath and makes the call. It rings just a single time. “Chet on Guard, this is Monica speaking, how may I help?”

“Monica, I need to speak to Mr. Ondowsky. It’s quite urgent.”

The woman responds smoothly and with no hesitation. Holly’s sure she’s got a script, complete with possible variations, on the screen in front of her, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but Chet has either left for the day or is on assignment. I’ll be happy to take your contact information and pass it on to him. Some information on the nature of your consumer complaint would also be helpful.”

“This isn’t exactly a consumer complaint,” she says, “but it is about consuming. Will you tell him that, please?”

“Ma’am?” Monica is clearly puzzled.

“I need to speak to him tonight, and before nine P.M. Tell him it concerns Paul Freeman and the plane crash. Have you got that?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Holly can hear the clitter-clitter-clitter of the woman typing.

“Tell him it also concerns Dave Van Pelt in Dallas and Jim Avery in Detroit. And tell him—this is very important—that it concerns Philip Hannigan and the Pulse nightclub.”

This startles Monica out of her previously smooth delivery. “Isn’t that where the man shot—”

“Yes,” Holly says. “Tell him to call by nine, or I will take my information elsewhere. And don’t forget to tell him it’s not about consumers, but it is about consuming. He’ll know what that means.”

“Ma’am, I can pass the message on, but I can’t guarantee—”

“If you pass it on, he’ll call,” Holly says, and hopes she’s right. Because she doesn’t have a Plan B.

“I need your contact information, ma’am.”

“You have my number on your screen,” Holly says. “I’ll wait for Mr. Ondowsky’s call to give my name. Please have a pleasant evening.”

Holly ends the call, wipes sweat from her brow, and checks her Fitbit. Heart rate is 89. Not bad. There was a time when a call like that would have rammed it up over 150. She looks at the clock. Quarter of seven. She takes her book out of her travel bag and immediately puts it back. She’s too tense to read. So she paces.

At quarter to eight she’s in the bathroom with her shirt off, washing her armpits (she doesn’t use deodorant; aluminum chlorohydrate is supposed to be safe but she has her doubts), when her phone rings. She takes two deep breaths, sends up the briefest of prayers—God help me not to frack up—and answers.

18

Her phone’s screen says UNKNOWN. Holly isn’t surprised. He’s calling on his personal phone or maybe a burner.

“This is Chet Ondowsky, to whom am I speaking?” The voice is smooth, friendly, and controlled. A veteran TV reporter’s voice.

“My name is Holly. That’s all you need to know for now.” She thinks she sounds okay so far. She punches her Fitbit. Pulse is 98.

“What’s this about, Holly?” Interested. Inviting confidences. This isn’t the man who reported on the bloody horror in Pineborough Township; this is Chet on Guard, wanting to know how the guy who paved your driveway shafted you on the price or how much the power company stiffed you for kilowatts you didn’t burn.

“I think you know,” she says, “but let’s make sure. I’m going to send you some pictures. Give me your email address.”