kitchen. Jonah was already there, waiting patiently after expending his energy outside. I filled three bowls with the appropriate food and spaced them apart on the floor, then, while they ate, filled a glass from the tap. My well offered pure spring water—no labels, no plastic, no cost. As I drank, I picked up my phone and began thumbing the screen to see the latest posts.
I followed makeup artists. Some I knew personally, some only by reputation, but the pictures they posted kept me up-to-date on new products and styles. I followed local restaurants and stores. I followed craftspeople. There was an amazing silk-screen artist whose posts alone were works of art.
I followed my mother, CNN, and the Devon PD, but none of those could distract me in a positive way, which was why I followed CALM. Some think that holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it’s letting go, I read now and couldn’t have agreed more. Sometimes, though, it was easier said than done.
Like now.
What was that noise?
I lowered the phone and listened in dismay as my pets alternately munched kibble and shuffled pellets to get their little mouths around more. They made the same sound every day, but it sounded different right now. That munch and shuffle, over and over, conjured the image of multiple cameras snapping multiple frames.
It was memory, of course. I hadn’t been near enough to the cameras today to actually hear them, but the knowledge that they were lying in wait was enough to bring it all back.
Distancing myself, I sank into the living room sofa, tucked up my feet, and looked at those new texts. Joyce wanted news; I texted back saying I had none. It occurred to me that Nina might. I was debating calling her when Alex phoned again.
“Grace Emory’s son?” she asked in hushed disbelief. “I thought it’d be someone from outside, maybe a parent with a grudge. But a student?”
“How did you get his name?” I asked. Grace was right about the unfairness of that.
“They came for him at school.”
“He’s high school. You’re middle school.”
“The teaching community is tight,” she said as if that forgave the talk, and hurried on before I could argue. “I taught Chris in sixth grade. He’s brilliant. Lazy, but brilliant.”
“Lazy? How is he lazy? I’ve never seen laziness. He does everything Grace asks—”
“But nothing more,” Alex broke in, “and I’m talking intellectually. He was a great reader when I had him, read fast and with total comprehension, but he would only read what was assigned, just the assignment, nothing more. I’ll bet he never reads a book at home.”
I opened my mouth to argue but nothing came out. She was probably right, given his role model. Grace wasn’t a reader. I had invited her into my book group, but she wasn’t interested. Same when I occasionally suggested she read a book that I loved. Her addiction was for fashion magazines and the never-ending search for a different look. But that was neither here nor there when it came to her son being a hacker. Besides, sharing this with Alex felt disloyal to Grace.
“If he doesn’t read outside class,” I said, “how would he know about hacking? Are there instructions online?”
“Pretty much. I’m not saying he did it, but he could have. He’s a smart kid.”
“Right, so why would he want to change his grades?”
“Oh, his grades were never changed.”
That stopped me. “Whose were?”
“Random others. Maybe he was testing himself before trying something bigger. Honing the skill, y’know?”
I didn’t find anything humorous in her turn of phrase. “Maybe it wasn’t him at all.”
“It sure looks it. Poor Grace. She was always the first one to sign up for parent-teacher conferences or send cookies for a bake sale. She must be terrified.” She paused, waiting for me to confirm it. When I didn’t, she said, “The police station’s a circus. They say it’ll make the national news tonight.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised, given the national brands I’d seen emblazoned on satellite vans in town, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t alarmed. Federal charges were a big thing, but the crime itself—alleged crime—was localized. Nationwide interest didn’t make sense unless someone had an ulterior motive. I certainly knew about those.
“The judge is on his way,” Alex said. “They want him locked up. They think he’s a flight risk.”
“Chris? Chris is fifteen! Who are you talking to, Alex?”
She offered three names, one reliable, two not, but my stomach was knotting up against the past again—a past that,