Hidden

by Karen E. Olson

  ‘The accounts were all frozen,’ he tells me now. ‘All I had was what we had on the boat.’ His eyes grow dark with the thought of my betrayal.

  I had a feeling they’d freeze the accounts if they found us. I’d routed the money to several places, and they found them all. Except one. The only person who knew about that one was Tracker. Tracker took what was owed him and the others, left the rest for me.

  ‘I don’t have it. It’s gone.’

  ‘But you don’t deny taking it.’ His tone is flat.

  ‘I didn’t take much. It didn’t last long. It was gone before I got here.’

  He stares at me, unbelieving.

  ‘Really. I left you mostly everything.’

  ‘And they took it. I couldn’t get any of it.’ He is angry now, and I take a step backward, away from him. The movement causes him to stand up straighter; his eyes do not let go of mine.

  I wonder now what happened to him after. I have not asked him. He knows about my life but I know nothing of his. Is he really still in Miami, or is it New York, like he told Steve? What has his life been like for the past fifteen years?

  ‘Did they catch you?’ I whisper, wondering if a fifteen-year sentence would make sense.

  It is as though a light switch has been flipped. His face lights up and he laughs out loud, reaching for me, pulling me to him. I tense slightly as his arms wrap around me. ‘No, Tina. They didn’t catch me. But that doesn’t mean you don’t owe me.’

  It has gone from helping him to owing him.

  ‘It’s not my fault they froze the accounts.’

  ‘But if you’d stayed, we could have gotten more. I wouldn’t have been left with nothing.’

  He believes I have to pay my debt to him. He has already made a subtle threat, and he could destroy me if he wants to. But as I listen to the beat of his heart beneath my ear, I realize that it might not be so easy for him. That my friends here might not believe him. After all, I am a respectable citizen. I do have odd habits, but everyone on the island is a little bit odd in their own way.

  As I think this, though, I know better. I know a phone call to the police would uncover my secret. But would he do that? He would be putting himself at as much risk as me.

  ‘You owe me,’ he says again, and this time I see him as if for the first time: a man who has been harboring anger for so long that he will break me because I left him with nothing. He was hiding behind the one whose hand caresses my cheek and looks deeply into my eyes. Fear rushes through me as I realize how quickly he switches from one to the other.

  I have never been afraid of him. Our relationship had its ups and downs. We are both opinionated and strong-willed. The attraction is deeper than looks; we always found our way back to each other after an argument, and our feelings were always even more intense than before. Later, there was an undercurrent of unraveling despite our best efforts to pretend otherwise. But I have never been afraid. Until now.

  He pushes me away for a second before he pulls me back and kisses me and then abruptly lets me go.

  I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He goes into the bathroom and I hear the shower. He is waiting for me to join him, but instead I put on my own clothes, close up the laptop and go back outside to my bike.

  He told me to walk away, so I am doing just that.

  But as my feet hit the pedals and I fly past the hotels and restaurants, up past the llamas and past my house, I realize I am not just walking away. I am trying to escape.

  I need the Bluffs; I need to see them, to feel their power, and soon I am there. I tuck my bike behind a bush, haphazardly locking it in place. I want to leave the backpack with the laptop, but I can’t. I shift it onto my back as I descend the wooden stairs, my hand gently touching the railing now and then, a grounding.

  I reach the bottom and look up behind me, the stairs climbing as if to the sky. The rocks are hard under my sneakers; I stumble a few times as I get my bearings. I walk along the bottom of the Bluffs, the water dancing toward me, the sound soothing my troubled thoughts.

  How could I do it again? Before, it was different. We were young and crazy and in love, and he had a plan that would make us rich. I wasn’t in it for the money. I was already rich; it was my father’s money, I had earned none of it. But I wanted him to have what he wanted, and I wanted to make it happen. To show that I could. I didn’t think of the consequences. So I hacked into the bank’s system and wire transferred money to accounts I’d set up all over the world. From there I transferred the money again and again. He gave me usernames and passwords – I never asked where he got them, didn’t want to know – and Tracker gave me the way in to the system; he still thought that part was all me. I kept Tracker safe, or so I thought.

  It was when the FBI showed up that we had to run.

  I shiver in my fleece, a brisk wind sweeping across the water. I spot the ferry in the distance; it’s on its way. Steve is probably at the Town Dock now, waiting.

  He said there are others who are coming. But he’s been here for five days now, and I’ve seen no sign of anyone else. He always had a habit of overdramatizing. It’s possible he’s just saying that because he wants me to do the job.

  He is as vulnerable as I am, so if they really are on my trail, they will find him, too. He can’t afford to stick around, and it doesn’t seem as though he is in a hurry.

  I am rationalizing. I am talking myself out of it. But as I do, I feel the weight of the laptop in the pack against my back. Its lure is beyond anything I have felt, even here. I have tried so hard to stay away from it, but disappearing for fifteen years to an island has not meant I do not still dream about it, my fingers on the keyboard, the codes, the passwords, the elation of knowing I’ve gotten past a firewall, through a portal, cracked a system.

  He is right. I am like a kid with an ice-cream cone. And I have not completely changed.

  I am embarrassed about this. And now I find myself tempted to go back to where I started: huddled in front of a computer screen.

  I hear voices carried on the wind, and I turn to see an older couple wrapped in fleece coming down the steps. It’s time to go, but something bright catches my eye. I lean down and pick up an iridescent white stone. It is smooth in my palm, and I close my hand over it, feeling its magic.

  I shove the stone in my pocket as I make my way back up the steps, past the couple, giving them a nod and a quick hello, but not stopping even though they seem as if they want to ask me something.

  I don’t have time. I need to give him back his laptop and send him away. I just hope he’ll let me.

  I am not prepared for Veronica. She is pacing in front of my house, her arms hugging her chest, her hair flying in the wind. I was not going to stop, but I have to when she sees me and lifts her hand up in a short wave.

  I ride up to the house and lean the bike against the side. ‘What’s up?’ I ask. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Can we go inside?’ Her usually bright face is dark and drawn; her eyes skitter around behind me. Something has her rattled.

  I open the door, drop my backpack on the table and offer her a cup of tea.

  She shakes her head. ‘No, not now.’

  I am even more perplexed and worried. I lead her into the living room and indicate she should sit in the rocking chair, which she does. The squeak of the chair echoes against the walls as I settle on the couch, my legs crossed. I am wound as tight as she is now.

  ‘Your friend,’ she starts, then swallows hard and smooths her hair back as though she has just realized that it’s windblown.

  I wait.

  ‘He came by. Your friend, I mean. Came by the gallery. He was looking for you.’

  ‘We had a fight.’ I figure it’s easier to lie a little.

  ‘He said so.’

  I’m not surprised. He can’t tell anyone, either.

  ‘He was a little desperate. Wanting to find you, I mean.’

  I force a smile. ‘It was a bad fight.’ I try to look apologetic. ‘I’
m sorry he bothered you.’

  She worries the cuff of her sleeve, unplacated.

  I lean forward, closer to her. ‘What is it, Veronica? What’s upsetting you?’

  She leans forward, too, so our heads are almost touching. ‘He had a gun.’ It is whispered, frantically.

  I sit back, trying to be nonchalant. ‘A lot of people have guns, Veronica.’

  ‘He had it under his arm, in like, a holster. Like on TV or something.’ Her voice is trembling.

  I try a small smile on to alleviate her worry. ‘It’s OK. He’s with the FBI.’

  I don’t mean to tell her this, I immediately regret it but it seems the only way to calm her down. It works. Immediately, she straightens up, the worry no longer etched in her face, a curious smile beginning.

  ‘FBI?’

  ‘That’s right. So there’s nothing to worry about.’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘I thought he might do something to you.’

  She might not be wrong. I shrug. ‘It’s OK. I don’t think he’s like that.’

  ‘Are you sure? I mean, how can you know so soon?’

  I have to keep up the facade that I have just met him. ‘You’re right, I guess, but he doesn’t seem like that.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  I nod, and I must have finally reassured her because she relaxes as she smiles.

  ‘I think I’ll have that cup of tea now, thanks, Nicole.’

  I don’t want to have tea, but I can’t tell her no, so I go into the kitchen and put the water on to boil. She follows me and watches me take two mugs and the box of peppermint tea out of the cabinet.

  ‘Steve says you got a computer.’ It is said matter-of-factly, and she doesn’t seem to notice that I tense up.

  I smile. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  Her face lights up. ‘Will you let me help you set up a website for your paintings? We can work it out so you can sell them through the gallery, if you like.’ It’s what she would like, to have the opportunity to make money off me even though my work might not be in her gallery. She realizes that I have her number, and she gives me a sheepish look. ‘It would make you look more professional to go through a gallery,’ she tries. ‘I’ve done this for a couple of the other artists.’

  I think about the word artist. I’ve never really thought of myself that way, but Veronica has always referred to me as an artist. I should be used to it by now.

  ‘Anyway,’ she says awkwardly when I do not answer, ‘it’s up to you.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I assure her. ‘Let’s set it up. Why don’t we plan to do it sometime next week?’

  ‘That would be great, but can we do it after hours? I’m trying to get everything ready for the season.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll let you know which day.’ She doesn’t have to know that a website for my paintings isn’t at the top of my priority list at the moment.

  The teakettle whistles, and I pour the water into our mugs, the peppermint scent sudden and strong.

  Veronica takes her mug and sips. ‘So what is he like?’ she asks then.

  I know what she’s looking for: the same thing Jeanine was.

  ‘He’s nice,’ I say, hoping I sound enthusiastic enough about him. I surprise myself by conjuring up an old memory: holding hands as we walked through the gardens at Viscaya, the scent of roses and a spring rain hanging in the air. His smile playful as he snapped pictures with an old Polaroid camera, waving them in front of my face as they developed, teasing me that they would come out perfect because I had a special magic power to make everything more beautiful.

  Veronica is talking, and I shake myself out of the memory.

  ‘What did you fight about? I mean, it seems that maybe you two—’ Her voice trails off, and she gives me a wink.

  I shrug, taking a sip from my own mug, the hot liquid burning my tongue. ‘Just a little disagreement. No big deal.’ But as I think about it, it is a big deal. He is no longer that boy with the camera. He is looking for me. I glance out the window and see nothing but the sea and the horizon, white clouds dancing in the sky. Even though I left his room, I can’t really escape. I am trapped here.

  My hand holding the mug shakes slightly, the tea spilling a little, but Veronica doesn’t notice.

  TWELVE

  After Veronica leaves, I pace my living room, my heart pounding. He must have seen her leave. He must know I am here alone. So when the knock comes at the door half an hour later, I actually feel relieved that the waiting is over, except I then hear the familiar ‘Hello, hello!’ and Steve comes in.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Steve asks, the worry etched in his forehead. ‘I ran into Veronica.’

  So word is already out that he is FBI. Not something he’d want advertised, but what did he expect me to tell people, carrying the gun?

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, patting his arm. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Is he really with the FBI?’ A tone of incredulity laces his words.

  ‘That’s what he says.’

  Steve makes a face and strokes the side of his beard. ‘Not what I would have expected.’

  ‘Why?’ I can’t help but ask.

  ‘Doesn’t seem the type.’

  He says this so seriously that I chuckle. ‘And what do you know of FBI agents, Steve?’

  He raises his eyebrows and gives me a grin. ‘You’d be surprised.’

  Nothing about Steve should surprise me after all this time, and my first instinct is to think he is teasing me. But there is something in his expression that makes me ask, ‘Were you FBI in another life or something?’

  ‘Now, Nicole, you know I was a geologist.’

  I think now that I have been wrong, that this is our usual banter, so I say, ‘A geologist who is really MI5? A British agent who comes to Block Island to track down a wanted man?’

  ‘Who says it has to be a man?’ Steve teases.

  His words catch me off guard, and paranoia spreads through me. I have been living here under the radar, or so I’ve thought. What if someone has been watching me all this time? What if he had help in finding me?

  Steve notices I have grown quiet, and he laughs. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ he says. ‘I was not an FBI agent, although it would have been a lot more exciting than being a geologist. At least from what I see on TV and in the movies.’ His laugh dies down, however, and his expression shows concern. ‘Why is he here?’

  He has no idea how loaded a question that is. I have to clear the fear out of my throat so I can speak. I pick up the mug off the kitchen counter and take a sip of the remnants of peppermint tea that lay in the bottom.

  ‘I think he’s just here on vacation,’ I say after a few seconds.

  Steve comes closer, puts his hand on my arm. I am reminded of his marriage proposal, and the awkwardness of that moment returns. He realizes and pulls his hand back, stuffing it in his pocket.

  I want to make it better. I want to tell him. The urge is so strong I don’t think I can fight it. And I find myself opening my mouth, the words rushing out.

  ‘No, no, that’s not right, Steve. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, I feel so awful about it. But I know him. From before. Before I came here.’ The relief that comes with the words is palpable. It is as though I have had a balloon inside me and it’s popped.

  He is staring at me, his expressions changing as fast as my breaths as he struggles to comprehend. ‘What are you saying, Nicole?’

  ‘He and I, we were lovers. A long time ago.’

  ‘Is he your ex-husband?’

  Jeanine has been talking, as usual. For a second it annoys me to think that they have been talking about me behind my back. I shake my head. ‘I was never married. But—’

  ‘He broke your heart,’ Steve finishes for me, his face softening as he believes he’s right.

  And he is. In a way. He broke my heart into a million little pieces and left it on that houseboat on the Seine in Paris, along with my old life. I nod, although as I do, I know I have made a big mistake. Thi
s is the first clue to my former life that I’ve told anyone here. Who is to say I won’t spill everything? This is all I can allow myself to tell.

  ‘Did he know you were here?’ Steve asks.

  ‘No. It was a fluke.’ I reach into the cupboard for a glass and the bottle of cognac. As I pour a finger, I raise my eyebrows at Steve. ‘Want one?’

  He frowns. ‘It’s only a little after lunch.’

  ‘It’s been a long day already,’ I say, realizing I have not eaten since my croissant at the coffee shop, but I knock back the drink anyway, the warmth coating my throat and settling in my shoulders and back, relaxing me.

  Steve is confused. This is something I would have done before. Before I was Nicole. When I was Tina. He is bringing her back too quickly. I glance at the backpack, where the laptop is hidden. After Veronica left, I spent the hour trying to convince myself that it would be fruitless to take it out, since I don’t have wireless here.

  It only took a phone call to the landlord to ask if he could add wireless to the cable contract; I would cover the whole cost, no problem.

  I put the glass in the sink and lead Steve into the living room. I settle on the sofa; he perches at the edge of the rocking chair across from me. He waits for me to tell him. I shuffle through all the things I can say and settle on something.

  ‘We had a fight. He wants me to go back with him. I told him I can’t do that. Not after all this time.’ The lies slip off my tongue easily. Too easily, like all the others.

  Steve rests his elbows on his knees, his hands folded between them. He waits a few seconds, then, ‘Are you sure?’

  He is asking me if I’m sure it’s been too long, if I really don’t want to go. His expression tells me he is hoping to hear exactly what I say.

  ‘I can’t go.’ My tone is firm, because this is the one thing I know for sure. I will not leave this island and my life willingly.

  ‘So you’re not in love with him?’ His tone is so plaintive, I give him a smile.

  ‘No. Not now. I was, once.’ As I say it, I remember. The way he would look into my eyes, his kisses consuming my whole soul. It is different now; there is too much behind us.