much on Kira that she almost forgot Tony. She knew he blamed himself for not telling them about Jacques right away. But trying to make him talk only upset him, and Brian was far better than Rebecca at distracting him. They went to Capitals games, or sat in the basement playing Fortnite, while Rebecca stared at her laptop trying to make sense of the case.
She didn’t tell Brian how much time she spent on it. She talked to Barraza and Rob Wilkerson, tracked every kidnapping of a woman anywhere in Western Europe. She’d even fallen into the rathole that was the Russian financial system as she looked at ZAM Muscovy.
* * *
Fall turned into the winter. Kira took her finals, came home. Her grades were fine. In fact, they were better. Not going out much, she said. Figure I got my partying in over the summer. They stayed close to home for New Year’s. Kira went back to school.
Now she was trying to be good to a little girl who was dying. In the middle of a Boston winter. Maybe it was all too much. Maybe Becks ought to go see her.
Yes.
She’d find a flight to Logan, surprise Kira. They’d visit Ayla together. Have dinner at one of those overpriced Italian places on the North End. If Kira told her she was making a big deal, she’d insist, no, she just wanted to hang out for a day, she’d missed the misery of single-digit weather.
* * *
By 1 p.m. she stood in front of her daughter’s dorm, Harleston Hall, brick and four stories. Like a lot of Tufts, it looked not-quite Harvard. God. What a snob she was deep down. Anyway, she hadn’t told Kira she was coming. Now she wasn’t so sure of what she’d done. What if Kira wanted to spend the afternoon hanging out with her roommate? Or studying? Or—
Too late for regrets. And too cold. She reached for her phone.
“Kira. I’m downstairs.”
“You’re where?”
“You weren’t kidding. It’s freezing.”
The day went fine. Kira seemed excited she’d come up, a chance to play hooky in a city that somehow belonged to them both, neutral ground. As they finished up dinner at Carmelina’s—a no-white-tablecloths North End place that hadn’t been here when she was growing up—Rebecca felt relaxed in a way she hadn’t since that first night in Barcelona. The bottle of wine they’d shared had helped.
“Let’s check out the Encore,” Kira said.
“What’s that?”
“Casino.”
“Boston has a casino? Along with modern Italian food and the Patriots being great? Ohh Tom Brady—” Maybe they hadn’t exactly shared the bottle.
“Please don’t, Mom.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t slobber over Tom Brady like every other middle-aged woman.”
“Middle-aged.”
“Sorry.”
“No it’s true. So. Encore. Casino.”
“Yeah, it opened like last year.”
“Please don’t tell me you’ve been spending lots of time there, K.”
“Never been. It’s close though. Like up by Logan. Not sure exactly where.”
“Hold on. I’ll check—”
Rebecca pulled up Bri’s app.
But she couldn’t find the Encore. Weird.
“You sure about this?”
“No, I just made it up.”
She checked again. Nothing. As far as the app was concerned, the Encore didn’t exist. In fact, nothing on Twenty-One seemed to have been updated in a while.
Rebecca had the feeling she sometimes did when her phone wouldn’t do what she wanted, I’m so old. She tapped at it a little more. Nope.
What was wrong with her husband’s two-million-dollar app?
“The Encore, right?”
“I think so, yeah.”
Rebecca went to Google: Encore Boston Harbor is a luxury resort and casino located in Everett, Massachusetts…
A hundred pieces that hadn’t fit suddenly locked together.
She had the strange sensation she was falling down a well, or maybe more accurately falling up, falling away from the darkness that she hadn’t even realized was all around her—
“Mom,” Kira said. “You okay?”
Not a word to her, not a breath.
Not now. Not ever.
“Never better.” She turned the phone to Kira. “It’s in Everett, super-close.”
“Can we?”
“Girls’ night.” Rebecca made herself smile. “I think we both deserve it.”
35
Gaithersburg, Maryland
Room 310 of the Holiday Inn Gaithersburg had a not-quite-new wooden desk in the corner, a not-quite-ugly blue-patterned comforter on the bed. Brian sat on it, jiggling his legs. His blue North Face puffer beside him. He patted at its pockets like they held a pistol or a knife. But they didn’t.
He’d figured Irlov might pat him down when they started meeting again, maybe bring a bodyguard. Nope. They’d gone back to work like Brian had never left. Like Barcelona had never happened.
Like Irlov figured Brian was fully domesticated, would never try anything.
Problem was, Irlov was right. Brian couldn’t imagine going at