Girl in the Rearview Mirror

  Dedication

  For Greg

  Epigraph

  You see, Mr. Gittes, most people never have to face the fact that at the right time and the right place, they’re capable of anything.

  —Noah Cross, Chinatown

  There’s the cold in your stomach, but you open the envelope, you have to open the envelope, for the end of man is to know.

  —Robert Penn Warren, All the King’s Men

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Yesterday had been the hottest day of the year, and today was even warmer. Arizona seemed to be moving closer to the sun. If only we’d stayed inside. Instead, I escorted Amabel Martin through the holiday festival.

  It was one of those endless summer afternoons when time seems to bend back and repeat itself, like taffy stretched and pulled over the elbows of a giant machine. Amabel and I wandered the midway for hours, buying an invisible dog on a stiff leash, losing a yard of tickets playing games, and drinking cup after cup of lemonade. Heat pressed over the fair as though the striped tents were made of wool. Already five people had collapsed, and a line of ambulances idled behind the grandstand, waiting for the next. Volunteers distributed bottled water compliments of “Senator Martin—Your Senator!”

  All afternoon, Amabel had fixated on the Tilt-A-Whirl, nagging to ride until I gave in. Her head just cleared the height requirement. Gloating, she raced to a cart, and now sat impatiently, kicking her legs. Her cheek sparkled with a painted flag, stars rendered in silver glitter. At four years old, she was already a beauty, with a bossy, charming face and strawberry blond hair.

  On the sidelines, one of Senator Martin’s men—a Snoop, as Amabel and I called them—chewed his gum impassively, like a man at a bus stop. A curly white cord snaked from his ear down the stiff collar of his polo. Amabel waved at him with her arm stretched straight. Snoops had shadowed her all her life; the Senator had been in office for decades.

  With the scream of a guitar riff, the Tilt-A-Whirl jerked into motion. The seats lifted and began to glide, first in one direction, then the opposite, still slowly enough for the dizziness to feel pleasant. A breeze swept our hair.

  Amabel wriggled beside me, giddy, as we waltzed by other carts. Then, abruptly, she gasped and tried to stand, pushing at the lap bar.

  I snatched her waistband. “Sit down!”

  She pointed, jabbing the air. “That girl—she’s following me!”

  Our cart spun, more quickly now, with a sick zip of acceleration.

  “What?” In the direction of Amabel’s finger were two carts, one holding a trio of boys, the other with its back to us.

  “The one with the red hair!” Amabel’s voice was shrill.

  The second cart spun, and I caught a glimpse of a young woman—maybe a teenager—with long bare legs and bright hair. She was riding alone.

  “Don’t be silly, Ammy,” I said.

  We sailed backward and slammed into a turn. Amabel squealed. The force of the spin pressed her legs into mine, and her face was flattened and distressed.

  I squeezed her hand. “It’s almost over.”

  Amabel scowled, resenting being babied. She craned at the carts sailing by, a hectic impression of shirt patterns and white faces. The music was so loud it felt physical, like someone breathing on my neck.

  Finally, the song ended and the ride drifted to a stop. The slouching attendant began releasing the safety bars. People streamed away.

  When our bar was lifted, Amabel darted to the exit.

  “There she is!”

  She pointed to a teenager moving with the flow of disembarking passengers. The girl was striking. Bright, tomato red hair fell down her back, contrasting with her milk-pale skin. She wore a short white dress and aqua cowboy boots. We reached the exit at the same time she did, and she stepped back to let us go ahead, smiling blankly, though Amabel was gaping. An intricate tattoo of flowers climbed her bicep. No—face paint, with a heavy dose of glitter, like Amabel’s flag.

  We filed down the stairs and I took Ammy by the shoulders to keep her clear of the crowd. The midway was packed, people carrying corn dogs and typing into their phones and pointing at Uncle Sam striding past on stilts. Around us, spinning rides filled the periphery of my vision with color and motion. The racket of shouted conversation and tinny carnival music thickened the air like soup.

  My head pulsed, and I knelt beside Amabel to ask what she wanted to do next. Her lower lip shook.

  “Sweetie, what’s wrong?” I asked.

  “You didn’t believe me.” A fat tear rolled down her cheek, blurring the flag.

  “About the girl?” I glanced around, but in the chaos, the redhead had vanished. “We ran right into her, and she didn’t notice us.”

  Amabel sniffled, smearing her hand across her nose. She was imaginative, always inventing stories in which she played a starring role. Being followed, being kidnapped, being rescued—these were her current obsessions, influenced by a library of princess movies she knew by heart.

  I pulled a napkin from my pocket and dabbed at her eyes. Her skin felt feverish. “Why don’t we take a break?”

  We bought Italian ices and settled at a picnic table in the shade of a striped tent. Misters sprayed a haze of water that evaporated as it hit our skin, deliciously cooling.

  “Now,” I said. “Tell me about the girl. Is she a spy?”

  Amabel shook her head, giggling. In a stage whisper, she told me the redhead had trailed after us all day: had her arm painted as Amabel got her face painted, rode the Ferris wheel with us, stood behind us at the puppet show.

  “It’s probably a coincidence,” I said. “Do you know what that means? It’s when something seems important, but really just happened by accident.”

  Amabel frowned. “No! She was staring at me.”

  “She was looking at your beautiful flag.” I touched her cheek. Her skin had cooled. I unfastened her ponytail and gathered the loose hairs.

  Ammy squirmed. “I saw her before. At the restaurant,” she said, pronouncing it rest-oh-want.

  My hands slowed. I leaned to see her face. It was smooth, innocent, her lips faintly parted.

  “At your dad’s restaurant?”

  Sensing she had my real attention, Ammy knelt on the picnic bench and shimmied. “Yep!”

  “Sit still,” I said, arranging her hair again. “When was this?”

  She shrugged. “We were eating ice cream.”

  I looped her ponytail through the elastic band and patted her to sit back. I scooped the soft, slushy layer from the top of my lemon ice. Its tartness puckered my mouth. In the blur of summer, I couldn’t reme
mber when we’d last visited The Grove. I hadn’t noticed any girl. Maybe she worked at the restaurant, but I knew most of the waitresses, and she’d seemed too young.

  Amabel tipped her cup back and swallowed the last drops, coming away with a sticky mustache of juice.

  “Do you remember when we talked about knowing when to stop playing a game? It’s okay to tell stories as long as you stop when we ask you to.”

  “I’m not! It’s not a story, Finn.” Her eyes were wide.

  “I still think it’s a coincidence. But if you see her again, you tell me right away. Promise?” I held out my hand, and she latched her pinkie in mine.

  “We’ll see her again,” she said. “She’s following me.”

  I scanned the tent, packed with heat-strained adults and riled kids. I didn’t see the redhead girl, or anyone else, watching us. The Snoop stood a few yards away, legs planted wide.

  Ammy must have had a rough morning, scolded and rushed, the Martins tense about the long day ahead. She was just jealous of the attention the Senator was getting.

  “We have a little time before the fireworks,” I said. “Let’s do something fun.”

  Amabel ran to the carousel and climbed onto a purple unicorn. As we circled, the ride bobbing gently, mothers held their palms out, ready to catch their children if they fell. The only danger here was artificial, like the slingshot ride across the way, currently shooting a pod in the air that plummeted to earth, bouncing and tumbling on its bungee. Delighted screams fell down to us.

  Over the last year, Amabel had begun to lie. Mostly harmless fibs, and obvious, since she told them in a pleased, sly tone. But once, she managed to fool us.

  Last fall, she’d started ballet lessons. Three months in, she announced she was going to be in a recital with the older classes. I was surprised; her movements were comically clumsy. It would be cute to see her onstage. The studio sent a glossy invitation to its “annual evening of music and motion,” and Marina bought her the pink tutu she’d been coveting.

  On recital night, Amabel and I left Philip and Marina in the auditorium and found our way backstage. Girls much older than Ammy rushed about, stretching and slicking on lipstick in mirrors. They were graceful and sinewy, dressed in black, hair swirled into lacquered buns. I panicked, wishing I’d checked with the teacher about what to wear. I didn’t even notice Amabel was crying until she grabbed my hand with both of hers and tugged me to a stop.

  “I don’t want to see Miss Eva,” she whispered. Her face was stricken.

  It had been a lie. Another girl in her class had been chosen to dance in the recital, and Amabel, jealous, blurted her story to me, not realizing how it would grow: the invitation, the tutu, her parents dressed up, big girls all around her, anticipation thick in the air.

  I carried her out, and we drove home, Philip and Marina stonily silent in the front seat, Amabel holding my hand tightly in back.

  After I tucked her into bed, I went to say good night to Marina. She sat by the pool, dangling her legs in the water. Her white swimming suit glowed in the twilight.

  “She didn’t mean it,” I said into the quiet. “She must have expected one of us to catch her.”

  Marina stretched her legs in front of her, appraising her toes, a delicate-stemmed wineglass beside her, near the edge of the pool. “They say lying is a sign of intelligence in children.” Her voice was flat and cool.

  Amabel refused to return to ballet, so she switched to horseback riding lessons. For a while, she was sober and remorseful, but soon enough the fibs began again.

  Pink clouds, pale on top and glowing neon below, blanketed the wide desert sky. A white rocket shot into the air and popped with an authoritative boom, signaling that the show would begin soon. Heads tilted up, and the general tide shifted to the field.

  Amabel danced in place, the mysterious girl forgotten. She begged for a piggyback ride, and I indulged her.

  She squeezed my hips with a vise grip.

  “Boy, you’re strong. Must be those riding lessons.”

  Awkwardly, happily, we strolled to meet her family.

  The Martins were using the festival as a rallying event. They were cordoned off from the crowd, surrounded by folding tables piled high with Senator Jim swag and plenty of staffers to solicit donations and distribute yard signs. When Amabel and I crossed the security barricade, the volunteers were packing up, faces tired and sweaty. They wore matching navy shirts printed with the slogan we’d all heard a thousand times already, though the election was still months away: Senator Martin—Your Senator.

  The Martins were easy to spot. Look for the nice clothing and perfect posture; look in the direction all the faces are looking; find the center of attention. Marina and her father-in-law, the man himself, were yacking with a gaggle of white-haired ladies. Tall and rangy, the Senator towered over them. Like teens, they held out a selfie stick and he stooped into the frame.

  His son, Philip, leaned against an empty table, listening to an excited middle-aged man in a garish bright suit, like a caricature of a used car salesman. Though Philip was polite, I could sense his desire to open a beer and be alone.

  I knelt to Amabel. “Go give your dad a kiss.” She scooted over. He set his palm on her scalp like a cap. Catching my eye, he winked. His golden hair was etched with a clean part, like that of a young Robert Redford. He wore navy, khaki, and boat shoes, giving off an aura of nonchalance. If the Senator was the success, and Marina his cheerleader, Philip was the most popular, the easiest to like, quickest to laugh, the only one who chafed at the stiff, stuffy importance of the Martin name.

  Marina had spotted me, too, and was heading over with a scary smile. Worry about the campaign had made her frenzied in her enthusiasm.

  “Amabel!” she called. “Let’s get you in a picture with Grandpa.”

  Amabel went warily. The Senator placed a hand on her shoulder. It sat heavily on her thin frame. Cameras flashed. The picture might soften his image, remind people that, in spite of his decades in Washington, he was a family man.

  All of us had paused to watch the photograph—the volunteers, the old ladies, the car salesman. Our faces turned toward the Senator like flowers to light. He didn’t miss the opportunity. Smiling, benevolent, he lifted his chin to project his voice.

  “It means a lot to be with my granddaughter today. This is a day to celebrate our oldest values. The beliefs that haven’t changed—what we fight to keep from changing. This day helps me remember what I’m working for.” In spite of his age, his voice was deep as a drum and syrup smooth.

  Amabel twisted, but his hand pinned her in place. I gave her a sign to be patient.

  The Senator went on, patriotic, proud, rallying. He drew people in with his rhythmic cadence; suddenly he amplified his voice, belted out a crescendo that could raise goose bumps in the desert heat.

  “Today I don’t want to talk about what needs fixing, though everyone knows there’s plenty of work to do. I want all of us, every one, to celebrate and give thanks for the best thing we have. Freedom!”

  We burst into authentic applause, and the Senator’s smile seemed authentic, too; his face gleaming, his shirt damp at the collar.

  The campaign was faltering, though none of the Martins said so aloud, not around me anyway. The Senator had struggled in the primary against a Tea Party candidate who energized crowds with talk of border walls and bucking big government. The near-loss rattled Jim, made him a little bit resentful and very tired. He’d taken a vacation, thinking the worst was over. He’d underestimated his Democrat rival, who kept the antiestablishment fervor going; people were angry about the economy and the housing market, and Latinos were turning against him in droves.

  I couldn’t imagine him losing. The Martins were pillars of this place, as much Arizona to me as the dry heat, the red rocks, the scorpions.

  Another rocket popped, and a voice crackled over a loudspeaker, “Take your seats for the firework extravaganza!”

  The reporters left and vi
sitors decamped for their seats. Abruptly, we were alone. In the sudden privacy, the Martins’ collective exhaustion was laid bare. The Senator shook a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. Philip rolled his neck. Marina passed around hand sanitizer. They’d been on their feet for hours in that scrubby patch of grass, the sun beating down, shaking hands, memorizing names, smiling smiling smiling, sneaking off one at a time to a nearby RV to use the bathroom or just sit in the cool air for a spell.

  Amabel stood forgotten by her grandfather. I went to rescue her.

  At my approach, the Senator came out of his daze.

  “Finn,” he boomed. “I’m sorry I didn’t say hello earlier. How are you?”

  “Senator. I’m well, thanks. And you?” I was embarrassed by my artificial tone, the pretentious well, delivered in a rush like the manners of an obedient child.

  “Please, call me Jim.” His eyes drifted over my forehead and hardened. “No news, I hope?”

  Bryant Dewitt, a top aide of the Senator’s, had arrived. He must have come from another event, as he wore a formal suit. Though short and slim, he was classically handsome, with thick, wavy dark hair and a lilting voice. His mother was Colombian, and he spoke Spanish fluently, if with a scholarly accent. The Senator dispatched him to any event that anticipated a Latino crowd.

  Bryant was jocular. “No news. We’re all set for the email blasts to go out at nine.”

  “Excellent.” The Senator dropped a hand on his back and they strolled away, heads together.

  I knelt to Amabel. “You were nice to stand with your grandpa while he gave his speech. Do you remember what happened on July fourth in 1776?”

  She rambled about Christopher Columbus while I spread a picnic blanket over the trampled grass. We settled down, Amabel leaning heavily against me in spite of the heat. I watched as Philip and Marina set out lawn chairs, Marina bending to brush the seat with a palm.

  Bryant joined us. “Hello, ladies.”

  Amabel adored him. She wanted to tell him all about the fair. We sat side by side, his fingers resting lightly on my wrist even as he asked Amabel teasing questions that made her giggle. As I gazed at the sky, a feeling of peace settled over me. I was really here, this was really me, with Bryant, and my darling Amabel, and the senator of Arizona. Details stood out in stark, specific richness: the lumpy hard ground under the blanket, my thin shirt sticking to my back, a breeze sweeping over my bare legs, the bruise-colored sky above. Remember this, I thought.