with names drawn on them, all connecting to one another with different-colored strings. Some strings dangle loose, unassigned.
This is my father—forgoing hard drives for twine and pushpins. A computer can store everything I might possibly need, but then I can’t see it. I can’t solve it.
My eyes roam over the whiteboard to the rest of the den. The books are stacked haphazardly in the bookcases. Several boxes are shoved into the corner. A tangle of electronic devices litter the floor beside his desk.
What problem is he solving now?
He’s looking again at my hair. He’s going to ask me about tonight—about Aksel.
I gesture around the usually tidy space. “I haven’t seen this much paperwork since Prague.”
“I’m consulting on a report for the United Nations Humanitarian Council on the effect of the migrant crisis on the island economies of the Aegean Sea,” he answers easily.
“That’s all you’re doing?”
He hands me a paper from one of the files. “I am consulting, Sophia,” he says, walking over to the wall of whiteboards, “analyzing the acquisition probability of special atomic demolition munitions—ADMs. That’s what they’re after now.”
For years, I’ve understood that his work is much more layered and nuanced and complex than an average diplomat’s.
But now that it’s over—shouldn’t it be over?
“Who?” I ask, scanning the economic graph.
“Everyone. Anyone,” he says. “There are more terrorist cells now than ever, and each wants to get their hands on one.”
“And what exactly is a special atomic demolition munition?” I ask.
“In slang? It’s a backpack nuke.”
“Those exist?”
“Sure.”
“But they can’t get one,” I say, “right?”
“America kept track of her nuclear weapons at the end of the Cold War. Others didn’t.”
“You mean Russia.”
He surveys one of the whiteboards. “The development of ADMs changed everything. Small nukes that could be transported easily and carried across borders? I couldn’t think of anything more dangerous. Until the Russians succeeded in creating the first micro-nukes. Smaller than a fire extinguisher, light enough to carry in a handbag.”
“Is it scientifically possible to create a weapon that small?”
“Absolutely.”
I motion to the wall. “And you believe they exist?”
“I know they did exist, Sophia. But they were dismantled. That’s the important part.”
“How do you know?”
He exhales. And that, Sophia, I will not answer.
“So, what are you doing now?” I prompt.
“Wondering,” he says slowly, stepping back over to his desk, “that’s all.”
Handing the economic graph back to my father, I suppress the urge to tell him that I was afraid earlier, that my blood ran cold when the man walked up behind me. The nervous adrenaline I felt in the street seeps into my bones—both distant and raw. It feels like days, not hours, since the Creamery.
“Darling, is there something you want to discuss?”
I imagine the conversation: I was afraid when I saw a hooded figure in the street walking toward me … It was nobody … Just some guy.
Then he would say: It’s over. You have to believe that.
And I’d say: I do.
And I’d be lying.
What will happen if I tell him that although the man appeared to be from Waterford—wearing a Carhartt parka and work boots and strolling confidently into Alpine Market—by the way he pronounced his rs he sounded as though his first language wasn’t English, but … Chechen?
“Sophia?” he asks.
“I’m going to bed,” I say, backing out of the den.
Suddenly, I am so scared I’m trembling. Because I realize what I am truly afraid of, and it’s not that man.
It’s leaving Waterford.
CHAPTER 25
My phone beeps. It’s another text from Charlotte, her seventeenth since Saturday. This is why you have a phone—call me!
Instead, she calls me, demanding, “Did Aksel drive you home? Tate says—”
Downstairs, the doorbell rings. “Charlotte, I have to go. I’ll see you—”
“Is Aksel picking—”
“See you soon!” I hang up, hurry to the front door, and swing it open.
It’s been fifty-six hours since he dropped me off Friday evening, and I’ve been thinking about this moment for each one.
Aksel is dressed in jeans and a collared shirt under a canvas jacket; his hands are tucked casually in his pockets. His face is windburned, and his green eyes flicker gold in the morning sunlight. Stepping forward, he brushes his lips swiftly against my cheek.
“You look beautiful,” he says. I’ve heard this phrase hundreds of times from my parents; it’s entirely different coming from Aksel.
He glances into the foyer and living room; he doesn’t look curious, rather relieved.
Twisting a piece of hair in my fingertips, I try not to smile too widely. “Let me, um, grab something.”
Inside, I retrieve Aksel’s clean sweater from my drawer. On