“Yeah. But here’s something we didn’t know,” says Kalisha, as Tierney crouches down to see her computer screen.

  CITY OF LIVERPOOL

  CONSTABULARY INDICTMENT

  25 JANUARY 2008

  “Liverpool? How in hell did Liverpool information show up?” asks Tierney.

  “It’s our only lucky break, sir. I was inputting Syracuse, New York, police reports—Mike Miller went to college at Syracuse University; I’ve been looking at all towns in and around people’s alma maters—and then I got this from Liverpool, England. It’s a mistake. But it’s a great fucking mistake.

  “It turns out that Liverpool is the name of a town outside of Syracuse. So this report came up. Liverpool, England. Not the Liverpool in upstate New York.”

  Kalisha pauses. She wants to give the next statement as much drama as she can: “It turns out Miller spent two years as a Spanish teacher in Liverpool, England.”

  Tierney looks confused.

  “Lemme get this straight. Mike Miller…”

  Kalisha immediately interrupts.

  “Miller was using an alias. Who the hell knows why? He was probably pushing pills and weed there, too, and wanted to live under the radar. Let me introduce you to Simon Paxton.”

  Kalisha hits a computer key and reveals a series of photos of a young man who is clearly Mike Miller—this, despite his bushy mustache and his lime-green sport jacket.

  “What the fuck was he? The fifth Beatle?”

  “Coulda been. But like I say, he was an American who taught Spanish to grammar school kids in Liverpool. And here’s the story, courtesy of the always dependable Guardian.”

  PRISONER GONE MISSING FROM RAXFORTH LOCK-UP.

  SUSPECT IN MISSING PERSON CASE IS ABSENT.

  District 7 Liverpool police today confirmed that Simon Paxton, under arrest on charges connected to the disappearance and possible homicide of Mercy McCambridge, his fellow schoolmaster at St. Edward Public School, has mysteriously escaped from Raxforth jail. Police admitted that Paxton had not been under careful watch. They further suspect that Paxton was assisted in his escape by an official within the Raxforth compound.

  Sources say Miss McCambridge had previously moved to press character against Paxton, who she claims, after an evening of dancing and drinking with her, broke her jaw with his fists. She stated further that he had thumped her about the neck and back, causing bleeding and severe contusions.

  The subsequent week, Mercy McCambridge was reported missing. Two neighbors recounted seeing Paxton that evening in the rear garden of McCambridge’s house.

  Liverpool justices, detectives, and constabulary have vowed to keep up their efforts to locate both the escaped prisoner and his alleged victim.

  While the search for Mercy McCambridge continues, police are also pursuing the whereabouts of Simon Paxton, a man who they term a vicious and dangerous criminal.

  “Is there any follow-up?” asks Tierney.

  “There is,” says Kalisha. She presses some keys on her computer.

  “They found Mercy McCambridge’s body in the nearby Mersey River.”

  Then she presses a few more keys. Tierney sees a document on the screen.

  New York City Police Department, Borough of Queens

  Kalisha does the interpreting for him.

  “Well, the next day… well… right over here in the good old USA… at the good old 113th Precinct in Queens, the police blotter reports that an intoxicated and unruly male passenger aboard a London to New York Delta flight was questioned upon arrival at JFK airport.”

  Finally, she reads exactly what is written on the screen in the police report.

  “‘After questioning the man, he was released. The Manhattan resident’s name is Michael Miller.’”

  MONTH EIGHT

  CHAPTER

  68

  A PIECE OF ADVICE.

  If you’re eight months pregnant and your best friend calls you totally at the last minute, and she begs you, literally begs you, to babysit her four-year-old twins, say that you can’t because… “I have to hammer ten-inch nails through both my eyes”… “I’m scheduled to jump from a diving board into a pool full of lye…”

  Or you can ignore my advice, which is exactly what I did. In that case you just say, “Yes. Of course I’ll do it.”

  It’s Betsey, of course.

  “I have a bit of a medical emergency,” she told me, “and I managed to get a doctor’s appointment. And Frankie is going to go with me to the doctor. It’s nothing serious, but I need to have something checked out. I know it’s last minute… No… before you ask, it’s not Jane Craven, nothing to do with the pregnancy, nothing worth carrying on about. I could go alone, but it’d be great if Frankie could come with me.”

  “How about… I could go with you to the doctor and Frankie could stay with the kids,” I say, all the while thinking, Why didn’t Betsey propose that in the first place?

  “No. This way is better. And anyway, Bobby and Juliet think it’s a big treat to have you babysit.”

  “Okay, okay,” I tell Betsey. “Just warn Bobby and Juliet that I will not be playing the Backward Baby dance game. That I will not be doing anything that requires more than five minutes of standing up. And if I go into labor, they will…”

  Again, she cuts me off. Sweetly.

  “They know how to dial 911. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, Em. I know what you’re feeling. I’m feeling the same way. But I don’t know what I’d do…”

  Now it’s my turn to interrupt.

  “Bets, you know how I am. I’ve got to ask. What’s going on? If the doctor’s visit is nothing important, then why is Frank going with you? And why won’t you tell me anything about it? Come on, best bud.”

  Then she says those famous two words, the two words that almost always seem to end up being a lie.

  “Trust me.”

  “I do trust you. Okay. Okay. So I’ll shut up right here. Anyway, I have to hang up right this second.”

  “Right this second, Emily?”

  “Right this second. You see, if I hang up right now, I’ll have enough time to pee at least three times before the Uber gets here.”

  And the Uber gets here. And I get to Betsey’s place.

  Juliet and Bobby act as if Santa Claus has just come down the chimney. Wow. These two kids put the adore in the word adorable. Just good-looking enough, just chubby enough, just… well, I was going to say that the twins are also just smart enough. But they’re not. They are very smart. Perhaps, as my mother used to say, too smart for their own good. They’re also charming and extremely funny. When they grow up, they might be the first brother and sister team to do stand-up comedy.

  As soon as Betsey and Frankie close the apartment door, Juliet looks at me with her hands on her hips and speaks.

  “So, Mommy says you won’t play Backward Baby with us.” Her little voice is filled with skepticism. “Is Mommy telling the truth?”

  “Of course,” I say. “Mommies don’t lie.”

  “But how about if we ask you really nicely?” says Bobby.

  Please notice he doesn’t say “real nice.” He says, “really nicely.” The proper usage of the adverbs.

  “Let’s discuss this in a few minutes,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

  When I return from the bathroom, Bobby says that he and Juliet have an announcement.

  Juliet begins.

  “We both really love you, Emily. And what we want to tell you is that we know you’re pregnant. Just like our Mommy. So we’re not new to all this.”

  Bobby takes over.

  “So, we understand how uncomfortable you must be,” he says.

  Then Juliet launches into a spot-on imitation of Betsey. The four-year-old has mastered the slight Pennsylvania accent, Betsey’s unique conversational style: a frequent back-and-forth between being very excited and very calm.

  “Oh, these friggin’ feet. Oh, Frankie. My ankles are sooooo big.”

  Bobby then slips immediately into an equally impressive imitation of his father.

  “Honey, I always listen. You know I do.”

  I start laughing so hard that my lower stomach and back begin to hurt. But, God, they are funny.

  “Now they usually kiss, but we’re going to leave that part out. And we’re going to ask you what we really want to ask you,” says Juliet. Then the question.

  “Can we go to the park near IS 227?”

  Oh, no. Outside. Walking. Pushing a swing. Making sure the kids aren’t abducted.

  And what about the person following me?

  I couldn’t possibly put Bobby and Juliet in that kind of danger.

  “You probably know IS 227 better as the Louis Armstrong Middle School,” says Bobby.

  “Yeah, that’s it. I do,” I lie. Louis Armstrong’s name on a middle school? Welcome to Queens, New York, Emily. It’s more than just a place to catch a plane to Europe.

  “Don’t you guys have video games you want to play?” I ask.

  I’m hoping they’ll forget all about the park.

  But they don’t.

  “We don’t like video games. We really want to play outside,” says Juliet.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Not today.”

  They are such sweet and clever kids, and they’re doing their best to hide their disappointment. It’s adorable and heartbreaking at the same time.

  Suddenly I want to say what my mother always said to me, the question that always hurt me and drove me crazy.

  I hear her voice: Why can’t you be like normal kids?

  But I don’t say it. In fact, I’m angry at myself for even thinking it. And there’s one thing I promise myself this moment. I will never ever say that sentence to Oscar.

  “Pretty please can we go to the park?” says Bobby.

  “Pleeease?” says Juliet.

  I know it’s risky. I know the man who’s been following me is still out there.

  What I don’t know is how I could possibly say no to these two precious puppy-dog faces.

  “Okay, fine, we’ll go to the park,” I say. The kids start yelping and jumping for joy. “But hold on. I’ve got to sit on the bench. And you’ve got to do whatever I say. And when it’s time to go… Which will be when I need to go to the bathroom… or whenever I say it is, for any reason… you can’t argue with me. Deal?”

  “Okay,” says Bobby. “But don’t worry. If you have to do pee-pee, you can always go in the sandbox.”

  “That’s disgusting,” I say.

  “Yes, it is,” says Juliet. “But I’ve seen some kids do it.”

  CHAPTER

  69

  IF YOU’RE WONDERING WHAT I’m thinking as I sit on a park bench and watch Bobby and Juliet run from the slide to tire swings to monkey bars to trapeze… well, I’m wondering how soon we can leave.

  And, of course, as always now, I’m wondering if I’m being followed.

  Oh, shit. It looks like Bobby and Juliet are about to go into the wooden playhouse. I want to scream: Get the hell away from that playhouse! Are you two crazy? There might be a madman hiding in there! But I just say loudly, “Don’t go in there!”

  Juliet shrugs. Bobby rolls his eyes. But they obey. They do not go into the playhouse.

  I watch Bobby and Juliet as if they are cat burglars on a rooftop. They run from the chinning bars to the tire swings to the tip-top of the slide. From the big kid swings (so called because there are no seat belts) to the climbing ropes.

  And when I finally turn my eyes away from Juliet and Bobby, I search for dangers elsewhere in this park. I see what I should see: kids playing softball on the grass, kids playing kickball on the grass, the vigilant and not-so-vigilant parents (these days as many men as women).

  The stalker could be here. Why not? New geography. New places to hide. Somewhere nearby may be the person who is following… or not. Or maybe. Keep looking, Emily. You may be wrong. It may be you’re imagining it. But, then again, maybe you’re right.

  Juliet is gently nudging Bobby out of the way, determined to precede him on the ladder of the slide. To them it’s all horseplay, rough fun; to me it’s violence and danger. It could lead to a broken wrist or arm, stitches on Juliet’s forehead, a big purple lump on Bobby’s knee. I get up from the bench and power-walk toward them.

  “Hey, you two, you Brown kids. Juliet! Bobby! Cut it out! Stop pushing!”

  Two Black moms nearby look at me. Oh, I get it. “Brown kids.” I yell, “Bobby Brown and Juliet Brown, you’re going to fall and hurt yourselves.” I glance toward the women. They’ve gone back to their conversation. Okay, two new people now think I’m nuts.

  Bobby and Juliet stop arguing, and I walk back to my park bench. I see that a man—twenty-five maybe, curly black hair, green Army-style messenger bag, okay, kinda handsome—has sat down on the other end of the bench. He looks up from his phone so quickly that I think he must have been watching me. This guy knows me. Or he doesn’t.

  “Amazing,” he says. “If there’s a way to ignore safety rules, a kid will do it.”

  I smile. The guy keeps talking.

  “And imagine what it will be like when your new one comes along.” He glances at my pregnant belly.

  I feel myself suddenly growing tense. I’m not about to give this stranger one bit of detail. (“No, they’re not mine,” “I’m just babysitting,” “I’m expecting my first.”)

  “Yes, I can only imagine,” I say. I look ahead of me and see that Bobby is pushing Juliet on the tire swing.

  “Bye,” I say to the cute guy with curly hair. He smiles and goes back to his phone.

  “I think we should get going,” I say as I walk closer to the children. Of course the litany of “Just a little longer” and “We just got here” is the song both kids sing. I climb the five steps up to the playhouse and the top of the slide. Now I am afraid that I will never get down from up here.

  There are just two ways down from the playhouse—five steps or the slide.

  “Do the slide, Em. The slide. C’mon!” Bobby shouts.

  “No. Don’t slide. You’re pregnant,” says suddenly safety-conscious Juliet.

  I go with Juliet’s opinion. I carefully navigate the ladder. I’m on the ground.

  “I’m thirsty,” Bobby says as we walk toward a cluster of trees near the entrance to the park.

  I look around for a food truck or a soda machine or a water fountain.

  (“Do you know how disgusting a New York City water fountain is?” my mother told me one time when I told her I’d drunk from one. “People let their children urinate in them.”)

  “We’ll find something to drink on the way home,” I say.

  “But I’m thirsty right now,” Bobby says. His voice is not selfish or whiny. He’s confused by the situation. Why can’t he have a drink now?

  And suddenly a voice, a man’s voice, loud.

  “Who’s that? I know. I see Emily and Juliet and Bobby.”

  The voice seems to be coming from behind me. The children look confused. I’m confused. Oh, shit. My stalker? Maybe. No. Maybe. Yes.

  I look around me, and I see lots of men and women and children, but I can’t figure out where that voice came from. I’m frightened. At least I think I’m frightened.

  Then I hear, “Mommy! Daddy!” Bobby is running and yelling as he makes his way to Betsey and Frankie. Juliet joins them. Bobby throws his arms around his mother’s legs. Frank bends down and scoops up his daughter.

  I hurry to catch up. The four of them look beautiful, wonderful, marvelous. The adorable children. The pretty pregnant mom. The handsome father.

  But who’s that other woman joining them now? She’s pregnant also. Oh, my God. It’s me. I’m moving. I’m joining them, but it feels like I’m outside myself, that I’m seeing myself with this family of four.

  I see me, another pregnant woman, tired-looking, sad. What’s the deal? What’s the relationship? Who is she? The pregnant cousin from Iowa? The unmarried pregnant sister? A friend from the neighborhood?

  Let me put it another way.

  Who am I?

  CHAPTER

  70

  FRANKIE OFFERS TO TAKE the kids for a while.

  “You gals, go relax. Get some herbal tea or something,” he says. This guy Frankie may be the nicest person I’ve ever known. He’d be perfect if he stopped using phrases like you gals. (But, hey, that should be every man’s biggest flaw.)

  Bobby and Juliet seem to be delighted with their father’s proposition. Apparently two energetic little kids would rather run around like crazy, eat ice cream, and drink Coca-Cola with an energetic dad than spend time with two very off-balance, very pregnant women.

  “See you later,” Bobby and Juliet each yell.

  “Yeah,” says Frankie. “Don’t pick up too many guys.”

  Betsey responds with the traditional middle-finger communication. Her husband responds with mock sarcasm, “Betsey, please, not in front of the children.”

  For me, this little verbal exchange simply extends the charm of the beautiful, happy Brown family unit. These four folks—soon to be five—seem to have cornered the market on good marriage vibes. Sure they have their challenges—both parents have tough jobs, their finances aren’t always as sturdy as they’d like—but they love hanging out with one another, and I try hard to bury (or at least, disguise) my envy.

  “How’d the kids behave?” Betsey asks as we walk to the edge of the park.

  “They were a perfect little lady and gentleman. I was a perfect nervous wreck. That jungle gym is an accident waiting to happen.”

  I decide not to tell Betsey that a big part of my nervousness had nothing to do with her children at all. It had to do with whoever the hell might be following me.

  “They don’t call it jungle gym anymore,” says Betsey. “It’s called a climbing gym or climbing bars.”

  “Is there something offensive about jungle gym?” I ask.

  I am trying to do my part in keeping up a conversation with Betsey. But the fact is: I don’t care one little bit about the right term for jungle gym.