Everywhere to Hide

by Siri Mitchell

  It wasn’t until college that I realized just how different I was. How the American dream was only for a certain sort of person. Money isn’t just something you earn; it’s a perfume that leaves its scent on everything.

  Leo hung up. “The team tells me there’s a man just around the corner who’s been hanging around for no apparent reason. It’s suspicious. He’s Caucasian. Tall. Thin. Light brown hair. Wearing khakis and boat shoes. Ring a bell?”

  “No. There was a skateboarder earlier, but he was wearing shorts and a hoodie.”

  “We’re going to walk around the corner together. I’ll let you know which one he is. I want you to tell me if you recognize anything about him.”

  We walked just far enough so we could peer down the street. “Over there. By that tree, near the intersection.”

  I looked. He was a type of preppy that I’d seen a thousand times, but nothing about him seemed familiar. I shook my head.

  “Okay.” He made a phone call. Spoke to someone for a few moments. Hung up. “It’s taken care of. We’ll follow him for a while, see if we can figure out what’s going on. You done at the library at eight?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll take you there and I’ll meet you there after. Don’t leave without me.”

  * * *

  That afternoon I tried to bring all my concentration to bear on my students. But at the back of my mind was the thought that maybe the FBI had found a lead in the case.

  While my first student was working through some reading-comprehension questions, I checked my phone. There was a news alert about campaign financing for the upcoming election. I clicked through.

  Campaigns were seemingly awash in cash. Everybody seemed to be trying to buy the elections. A vote was the most powerful weapon an American could wield. After all the noise, all the ads, all the social media campaigns, it all came down to voting. What were those votes worth? Trillions, apparently.

  It was another good application for cryptocurrency. If campaign donations were limited to cryptocurrencies and their blockchains made public, then all contributions could be traced. With the way the technology was developing, within the next ten years there wouldn’t be any more dark money in politics.

  “Ms. Garrison?” my student slid her answer sheet in my direction.

  I went over the answers with her and gave her another set.

  While I was waiting for my second student, I called the hospital to see if Mrs. Harper had checked out.

  She was still under observation.

  My second student kept playing with her water bottle, spinning it one way and then the next. Even I could read it as a sign of distress.

  I put a hand to it and stopped it from spinning. “Katie? What’s going on?”

  “What if I don’t do well? What if I fail it?”

  “You can’t fail it.”

  “You know what I mean. I got a 21 on the ACT the first time I took it.”

  “And what did you get last time?”

  “A 26. But what if I do worse?”

  “All you can do is practice. And keep working the strategies I’ve given you. If you’ve done that, then you get what you get.”

  “Can you tell that to my parents?”

  “Remember the rules? This is between you and me and the test, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “You need to think of yourself. Who are you? What do you want?” That was asking a lot of a seventeen-year-old. I didn’t know if I could answer those questions myself at twenty-eight. But I was part test coach, part life coach. “You’re going to start applying to colleges this fall. So maybe take some time this week and think about the things you really like to do and the kinds of places that give you energy. What are your favorite things? Who are your favorite kinds of people?”

  “But thinking about going away to school makes me feel sad. And lost. And lonely.”

  That was the thing about growing up. It sounded exciting and glamorous when you were in high school, but once you got into college, once you graduated, it was lonely. You did feel lost.

  At least I had.

  * * *

  What were my favorite things? Who were my favorite people?

  I didn’t know.

  I’d told my student to think of herself, but that was advice I couldn’t follow either.

  Why not?

  Because I couldn’t. I didn’t know who I was.

  I knew things about myself, but I didn’t know myself. I had this idea that other people carry in their minds some image of themselves. Some sort of picture of how they look.

  Not me.

  I had braces in middle school. My teeth are straight. I can feel them with my tongue. I know I have black hair. My driver’s license says I have brown eyes. But are they edging toward amber? Or more toward green? I’d have to look in a mirror to say which, and I’d have to do it right then, while I’m standing there looking at myself.

  In fact, I’d done that once during my undergrad years. I recorded audio of me looking at myself, reporting what I was seeing. It didn’t help; I still couldn’t turn all those disparate features into a composite face.

  Sometimes I felt my face the way a blind person would, trying to translate what I felt into how I looked. But I couldn’t do it because I can’t map faces.

  Who was Whitney Garrison?

  I didn’t know.

  Did it bother me? I didn’t know that either. The thing is, how would my life be different? What would change if I suddenly recognized a face? I supposed it was like asking a blind man what would happen if he could see.

  After I broke up with my ex, I stopped trying to explain myself to people. One of the casualties of our relationship was trust. He taught me people can break it.

  Another casualty? Confidence.

  I’d been with him for a year and a half. Before that, I would have told anyone that I was a smart, independent woman. After I left him I just felt stupid. Stupid for not being able to see what he was doing to me. Stupid for putting up with him for so long.

  Why hadn’t I left sooner?

  Was it the face blindness? Had the experience of never feeling normal left me with an insecurity he’d been able to exploit? Was that what he’d sensed in me? And if he had, then how? How had he seen it when I hadn’t even told him about my face blindness at the beginning?

  Normal people didn’t go around explaining their weaknesses to everyone. They didn’t say, “I never learned how to swim,” or “I can’t sing,” or “I’m color-blind,” did they? I suppose, if I was honest, I hadn’t given many people the chance to know about that side of me.

  But I figured I was a step ahead. Not everyone knows their own handicaps. And not everyone who knows them admits to them. I just did the things I could, and I tried to stay in my own lane. I learned not to put myself into situations that required the things I couldn’t give.

  What things?

  Recognition. Reliance on friendship. It was like being tone-deaf. I couldn’t give what I didn’t have. No amount of trying would give me what I lacked. I was un-abled.

  And it was fine.

  I wasn’t lonely in the way people think of loneliness. Work kept me busy. Coaching kept me busy. Being a junior associate at a law firm would keep me busy too.

  I had a good life. A very good life. I had no complaints.

  None at all.

  Chapter 23

  My last student, Eli, had issues.

  “How are you feeling about the test?”

  He shrugged.

  “We’ve done a lot of practice tests. You’ve improved three points from when you started.”

  “I know. But it’s stupid. The whole test is stupid.”

  “I agree. The test is stupid. It’s a snapshot of what you remember during a three-hour period of one day in your entire life.”

  “Then why do I have to take it?”

  “Because it’s the way people have decided this game is played.”

  “I have this friend who never even
studied and took it the first time and almost got a perfect score.”

  “I did too.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “It’s not. And we can sit here talking all day about how it’s not fair, but starting in August, you’ll still have to apply to colleges, and some of those on your list aren’t test-optional. You’re going to have to send them your scores. So it’s up to you. You either play the game and do the best you can, or you don’t. But either way, what they’ll see is what you get.”

  As I was finishing up my advice on the reading section, an alarm started clanging.

  We flinched. And then we straightened, looked around.

  Lights were flashing.

  Was it a fire alarm?

  There always seems to be a delay in action when an alarm goes off, as if no one wants to be the first to decide it’s the real thing. But the library didn’t give us a chance. A voice came over the loudspeaker and library staff appeared as if by magic. They came up the stairs at a run.

  “Fire alarm! Everyone out! Let’s go!”

  My student shoved his papers into his backpack and took off. I had more to take care of. My notes. His score sheet. My bar exam study guide and index cards. By the time I packed up, I was alone on the second floor.

  The lights were still flashing, the alarm still clanging.

  I threw my backpack over my shoulder and went toward the stairs.

  A man with a messenger bag slung across his chest emerged from the bookshelves along the opposite side of the room and started toward me.

  Something about the way he was moving so purposefully, not for the stairs but for me, sent a pulse of dread through my chest.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw—was that Harold? I couldn’t tell because I couldn’t see any glasses. But a man was sitting at a carrel over by the windows that looked out onto the tennis courts. His hands were clasped around the top of his head and he was rocking back and forth.

  I abandoned the stairs and headed back through an alley of books, toward him.

  The man with the messenger bag changed directions as well.

  Leo’s warnings echoed in my head. I was supposed to be vigilant and keep an eye out for the killer.

  But what if the alarm was real? What if there truly was a fire? I couldn’t let that man by the carrel remain at the back of the library, surrounded by books.

  I threw a glance over my shoulder as I quickened my pace.

  The man was gaining on me.

  I should be heading toward the stairs, toward people, toward the exit, not deeper into seclusion.

  I’d almost reached the carrel. “Sir? Sir! You can’t stay here.”

  He didn’t appear to hear me. Just kept rocking back and forth. Now I could hear him moaning.

  I put a hand to his shoulder. He paused in his rocking, turned toward me.

  “We have to go. Sir?” I moved my hand to his elbow. “I can help you.”

  He just kept rocking.

  I moved around behind his chair so I could see the other man.

  Three more steps and he would reach us.

  “Sir?” I shook him by the shoulder. “Please!”

  A hand closed around my arm and pulled me away from the carrel.

  It was the man with the messenger bag.

  I tried to pull away, but his grip only tightened.

  My body resurrected the feelings of being trapped. The panic. The utter helplessness. But I fought against it. Twisting my arm, I tried to free myself.

  It didn’t work.

  I put a hand to his chest and pushed, but it didn’t have any effect.

  He caught it with his own and levered me toward the bookshelves.

  But I wasn’t going to give up without a fight. I swung my backpack at him and kicked him at the same time.

  He dropped my arm.

  I used my weight as an anchor and pulled my hand from his.

  At the end of the shelves, behind the man, a woman appeared. “Hey!” She strode down the aisle toward us. “I know you heard the alarm. You’re going the wrong direction. Everyone is supposed to leave!”

  The man pivoted from me, pushed her out of the way, and took off toward the stairs.

  I squatted beside the man at the carrel who was still rocking back and forth.

  And then the alarm stopped ringing. The flashing lights shut off. A deafening, tenuous silence settled over the library.

  The man at the carrel slowly stopped rocking. His hands came down.

  I noticed a pair of glasses on the floor. And a hat with a blue feather lay nearby. It was Harold.

  I bent and picked them up.

  He took them from me. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry. Since the war, things haven’t been the same.” He could have been talking about Vietnam or Afghanistan for all I knew. He put the glasses on. “That’s why I always come to the library. It’s usually quiet here.”

  I squatted beside his chair. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m good.” He swiped at the perspiration beading up on his forehead.

  The woman came over. A library lanyard hung around her neck. As she talked to Harold, I left them, moving toward the stairs. They were glass-sided, curving down in a long spiral to the ground floor.

  I went down a few steps so I could get a better view. I’d told Leo I wouldn’t leave the library without him, and I wanted to keep my promise. I didn’t see him. But I did see the man who had been up on the second floor with me. I recognized him by his messenger bag.

  He was heading toward the doors.

  Had he seen me standing there at the top of the stairs?

  “Whitney!”

  I searched the crowd, trying to find who had called my name.

  “Whitney!”

  There! Leo was rooted in the middle of the lobby, holding his position as people flowed back into the library. I recognized his hair. I pointed in the direction of the door. Made a gun with my hand. Then pointed again, out behind him, to the doors.

  Leo used his arms as leverage, as if trying to swim through the crowd. But by the time he fought his way through the door, the man had disappeared.

  Leo quizzed me once he came back inside. “So, this man. Why are you so sure he was zeroing in on you?”

  “He wasn’t headed toward the stairs like everyone else. He changed directions when I did.”

  “Can you tell me anything about him? Anything at all?”

  “I don’t know. Lights were flashing. The alarm was ringing. And Harold was—”

  “Who’s Harold?”

  “He’s one of my friends. All the noise, all the lights. He couldn’t handle it. So I went over to try to help him. That man followed me.”

  “He might have been trying to kill you. So no offense to Harold, but you need to tell me what you noticed.”

  “Sorry. I don’t know.” I closed my eyes. Tried to remember. He’d made me feel small. Vulnerable. Imperiled in a way I hadn’t felt since I’d moved to Virginia. “He was tall.”

  “Black? White? Brown?”

  “I don’t know. I have a hard time with skin colors.”

  The side of Leo’s jaw pulsed.

  “He had a messenger bag over his chest. That’s how I recognized him to point him out to you.”

  “What kind of bag? Canvas? Leather?”

  “Leather. Brown.”

  “An attaché? Like something you’d normally carry in your hand?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m remembering it as a messenger bag.”

  “Can you remember what else he was wearing? Shorts? Jeans?”

  “No. Twills. Or khakis.”

  “Any other impressions? Anything that would help us find him?”

  “Hair was lighter colored.”

  “Blond?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe? I don’t remember.”

  “Beard? Mustache?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure he didn’t have either. If he did, I would be able to remember them.”


  “If we’re going to catch this guy, we need your help.”

  “And I can’t give it to you. I’m sorry, but I can’t! What do you want me to do?”

  Chapter 24

  Leo’s phone rang. He spoke for a moment and then hung up. “They have the suspect. The one from earlier by the Blue Dog.”

  The one I hadn’t recognized? “He’s here?” At the library?

  “The FBI is questioning him outside. I know you can’t recognize faces, and I know you said he wasn’t familiar, but we’re going to let you see him again. Tell me if there’s anything you recognize about him at all.” Leo took my backpack from me. “You ready for this?”

  I took a deep breath. Nodded.

  We walked out into the evening together. A fire truck was parked by the curb. Its lights were flashing, tinting everything with their fiery glow.

  He nodded to a loose cluster of people standing over by the community garden area that lined the walkway. In the middle was a man who turned toward us as we approached. “That’s him!” He was wearing a button-down and twill pants. A leather messenger bag was slung across his chest.

  “Right. The one from earlier.”

  “No! That’s the man I was telling you about. The one from upstairs who grabbed me while the alarm was ringing.”

  One of the agents pulled the wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open. Drew out a driver’s license. “This says his name’s Hartwell Anderson Thorpe IV.”

  I heard myself gasp. Hartwell Thorpe? I felt my face flush as a familiar, blanketing numbness spread from my face down my arms to my feet. I tried to fight it off. I forced myself to straighten my shoulders, to lift my chin.

  Do not retreat.

  A bully’s biggest weapon is psychological. He wins by invading your head, changing the way you perceive the world. But I refused to be frightened anymore. So I walked up to him, reached out, and slapped him across the face as hard as I could.

  He took it. He just stood there and took it. “I deserve that.”

  Those words only made me want to slap him harder. I was contemplating how much it would hurt my fist if I punched him, how much satisfaction it might give me if I kicked him in the shins, but Leo had already put a hand to his chest and stepped between us, facing me. “So you know him then?”