Tinfoil Heart

by Daisy Prescott

  I’m still working five days a week waitressing. Just because my boyfriend owns half of the county doesn’t mean I’m quitting and watching telenovelas all day with Tony’s mom and aunts. I’m going to look into getting my master’s degree online so I can apply for teaching jobs. Put my history degree to work. Use my powers for good instead of evil.

  I’ve given up on finding out what happened. The last investigator suggested my dad was using an alias when he married my mother. He said for a few grand more, he could possibly get a lead through a guy he knew in the black market of selling stolen social security numbers.

  I turned him down.

  And I’m okay.

  More than okay.

  I’m happy.

  “How long have you been working here?” Wanda asks while pouring us both mugs of coffee.

  “I started in February.” I count out the months in my head. “Eight months, give or take a couple of days. Why?”

  “Seems longer. It’s nice to see you finally settling in.” She gives me a motherly look of pride. Today’s lipstick is a bright coral.

  “I guess I am.” I grin at her. I do that a lot these days. I no longer have to fake being chipper and upbeat. I’m annoyingly happy.

  “You were so lost when you arrived. Obsessed with aliens. I was worried you’d be indoctrinated into one of the UFO cults and end up eating poisoned pudding.” Wanda touches my arm.

  “I was pretty obsessed, wasn’t I?” Cringing, I wrinkle my nose. “And I do like pudding, so you were right to worry about me.”

  “When you kept asking if anyone had direct information about the crashes, I asked Zed if he’d take you under his wing. Keep an eye on you so you didn’t fall in with the crazies.”

  “You did? Does everyone know Zed?” It’s a small town, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who gets out much.

  “Known him most of my life. We were in high school together. But he’s a few years older.”

  “So you’re familiar with his work at the Center?” I question her, trying not to stare at the smudge of coral lipstick on her teeth.

  “What center?” Her eyes widen with confusion.

  “Zed’s organization?” Not wanting to betray his confidence, I don’t tell her the name or location.

  “I thought he was a therapist. Last I knew at least. Figured he could help you through your grief over your momma.”

  “He told me he retired.” I’m so confused.

  She frowns, and two parallel lines appear between her eyebrows. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask his wife next time I’m at the hair salon.”

  Hold all the horses. In shock, I screech, “Zed’s married?”

  Wanda pats her fluffy hair. “His wife does my do. They have a couple of kids, too, but they’re out on their own now. Moved to California. Or one of the Carolinas. I can’t keep track.”

  “Wow. I totally misjudged him.”

  “You two going to gossip all morning or can we serve some breakfast to customers?” Tony shouts from the kitchen.

  I laugh and flip on the lights. Wanda unlocks the front doors.

  The rest of the morning my mind reels from the information bomb she dropped on me.

  Boone’s at meetings today, so I’ll have to wait until I get off work to ask him about Wanda’s version of events.

  At dinner with Boone, I bring up my conversation with Wanda.

  During the week, we alternate between my casita and his new house in the same neighborhood as Shari’s. When not traveling on the weekends, Boone and I spend as much time as possible at the ranch.

  Tonight we’re at my house. I even bought an adult-sized couch made in this century for my living room. The red velvet loveseat is now in my bedroom.

  “Did you know Zed’s married?” I swirl my fork through the red enchilada sauce on my plate.

  “Sure.” He shrugs like this is common knowledge. “Why?”

  “I thought he lived in his parents’ basement.”

  With a shake of his head, he chuckles at me. “Did you ever ask him?”

  “No, because I thought it would be an invasion of his privacy. And he might be embarrassed he still lived with his mother.”

  “Why would you think that?” He smothers his smile with his hand.

  “Because he’s the king of the alien conspiracy theorists.”

  “Stereotype, much?” he asks.

  “Fitting. He talked about using the computers at the library and all sorts of paranoid ideas about the government watching him.”

  “Who says they aren’t?” Setting down his fork, he grins at me.

  “Not you, too.” I roll my eyes. “I thought we settled this when I visited the ranch.”

  “Fine, no truth for you tonight.”

  I stick my tongue out at him.

  “Speaking of the truth, have you ever worked in an oil field in your life?” I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.

  His hazel eyes crinkle with amusement. “I’ve done work in an oil field, but no, I’ve never been an oil worker. Most of the guys at the Rig work on land leased from my family.”

  “What were you doing there five days a week?”

  “Watching commodity prices and making trades. Eavesdropping on conversations. Fantasizing about you. All while eating a tasty breakfast.”

  “Money, knowledge, sex, and food. At least you have your priorities streamlined.” I laugh.

  He adds his laughter to mine. “Man’s a simple creature.”

  “Said no woman ever,” I say, drily. “That reminds me.”

  Pushing back from the table, I tell him to hold on for a minute. When I come back, I hand him the envelope with a law firm’s name as the return address. “Look what I received in the mail today.”

  “What is it?” Not waiting for me to explain, he reads the single piece of paper and his eyes widen. “Jim left you something in his will?”

  “Apparently, I get the contents of his safety deposit box. Want to go to the bank tomorrow afternoon with me and find out what’s inside? Maybe it’s the real alien autopsy video. Or material from the debris field. Or a million dollars.”

  “Which one do you want it to be?” He smiles at me. “Until you open the box, the possibilities are endless.

  “I’ll go with option ‘C.’ A million dollars. Imagine what I could do with that kind of money,” I say, my mood shifting back to happy, its new normal.

  “Tell me how you’d spend it.”

  “New cars for me and Wanda because ours are old and falling apart. Get my master’s degree so I can teach. Travel more. Volunteer as a Big Sister or maybe get licensed to be a foster parent to other orphans. Or train to be a grief counselor. I’ve had enough experience with death and grief, I should put it to good use. Endless possibilities.”

  “You can do that all now. I have the money.” He means it.

  “I imagine you do, but I don’t want you to develop a complex I’m only using you for your handsome face and your millions. Total gold digger material right here.” I sweep a hand from my messy bun down over my Target dress and mustard-colored old man cardigan.

  “No wonder Jim left you something. He fell for your charms.” He gives me a quick peck.

  My heart squeezes with the memory of Jim’s passing.

  Staring down at the key, I hesitate to open the box.

  Boone squeezes my thigh above my knee. “You don’t have to find out today. Rent the box under your name and wait until you’re ready.”

  His suggestion is completely reasonable, but I’m too curious to put this off.

  Inside is a piece of silvery, metallic material, a stack of black and white photos, an old Army ID card, and the front page of the Roswell Daily Record with the headline: “RAAF Captures Flying Saucer on Ranch in Roswell Region.”

  And an envelope addressed to Miss Lucy Wesley Halliday.

  “I don’t think I ever told him my middle name,” I say, opening the envelope and then reading the text on a plain white piece of paper
, “Lucy, thanks for the cookies. Hope this helps you find answers. Believe. Sincerely, Jim.”

  More confused, I pick up the ID card with a younger version of Jim staring at me from the black and white picture. “I swear he said he was in the Navy.”

  Dead silent, Boone stares at the box.

  I don’t think he’s breathing. To check, I press my hand to his chest. “Breathe.”

  His ribs expand with his inhale. “What did you say Jim’s last name is?”

  “I didn’t. It’s Walter.”

  Boone nods his head once.

  “What is this?” I pick up the material and try to crumple it in my hand. It won’t stay crumpled. Nor does it have any weight to it. Lighter than Mylar or Tyvek, but thicker. “Check this out.”

  He refuses to take it when I try to pass it to him.

  “Boone? What’s wrong?” Worry churns my stomach at his odd behavior.

  With a quick glance around the room, he lowers his voice. “Close the box. We need to get out of here.”

  When I start to laugh, he silences me with an intense glare.

  “I’m serious.” He slams the box closed and locks it. “Let’s go.”

  I follow him out the door. We don’t get far before a smiling bank employee stops us.

  “You’re not allowed to take the boxes out of the bank. I can give you a bag if you need help carrying the contents out to your car,” she says, blocking our exit.

  “I promise to return it,” Boone tells her, his voice almost a growl. Amber dominates his eyes and he reminds me of a lion about to pounce.

  “Don’t tell my boss you took it or I’ll get fired.” She steps to the side.

  “We won’t,” I reassure her. “I’ll bring it right back.”

  Once we’re in the car, Boone moves everything from the box to a metal toolbox he had in his backseat. He locks that, too.

  “You’re being weird,” I tell him, unsettled by his behavior. “Did you just rob the bank? Because I’m feeling like Bonnie to your Clyde. I love you, but I’m not going to shoot people or go to jail for you.”

  “I’ll explain everything when we get to the ranch.” He jogs back inside of the bank with their safety deposit box and then returns empty handed.

  “You didn’t deny robbing the bank, Boone.” I lean against my door.

  “Don’t worry. I didn’t rob the bank.”

  Driving back to the ranch, Boone checks his mirrors repeatedly.

  I spend the trip thinking about the collection of objects Jim left for me.

  Newspaper clipping. ID card. Photos. Weird material.

  “Holy shit!” I yell so loudly Boone swerves onto the shoulder of the road. “Is this what I think it is?”

  He flicks his gaze to me before taking the turn that will lead us to the ranch and the sinkhole. “What do you think it is?”

  “It’s proof the crash happened.” My eyes are bugging out of my head and my body buzzes with excitement. “The Roswell Incident is real.”

  “That’s what Jim wants you to believe.”

  “I bet those pictures are proof. Do you think they’re of the alien autopsy?” I’m practically bouncing as I freak out.

  “The truth?” he asks, pulling to a stop in front of the ranch’s gate.

  “It’s not out there, it’s right here.” I pat the top of the toolbox sitting on the seat between us.

  “That’s not the truth, Lucy. It’s a lie you’re supposed to believe.”

  Wrinkling my forehead, I try to make sense of what he’s saying. “Why would Jim lie to me from beyond the grave?”

  “Because he knows the truth. The contents of his box is his way of forcing our hand.” We pull through the gate and drive up the hill.

  “Huh?” I mumble.

  Once he parks and gets out of the truck, he waits for me to climb down.

  “Let’s go inside.” He scans the hill above us and the drive behind us.

  “You’re kind of freaking me out, Boone.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to find out until you were ready.”

  “What? That aliens did crash on your land?” I trail behind him through the front door. “Hold on, do you have the spaceship in one of your outbuildings? Tiny alien graves hidden somewhere on the property?” I’m half joking as I anxiously scan the outbuildings.

  I’m rambling because I’m nervous, and I’m nervous because I’m freaking out.

  After leading the way to the open living area, he sits on one side of the huge sectional, and I curl up in the corner so I can face him.

  He won’t look at me, resting his elbows on his knees with his hands knotted in his hair.

  “Boone?”

  “I hate to crush your hopes, but what you believe to be the truth about aliens and the UFO crash is a cover up.”

  “For a military weather balloon? Is that what the material is from?” I ask, hopeful that there’s a simple explanation.

  “No, although the Defense Department happily spread that story as their own after the fact.”

  A million thoughts swirl in my head. “Instead of me asking you questions, can you just tell me the whole story? I’ll sign an NDA or whatever you need.”

  He reaches out his hand for me to take. “I trust you. You don’t need to sign anything.”

  I squeeze his fingers. “Then spill it, Santos.”

  “The official crash site and debris field from ’47 are fake, but it’s not a government cover up. My great-grandfather planted it.”

  “Go on,” I tell him, curiosity sending my pulse racing.

  “If he could convince some people to believe in little green men and flying saucers, the ensuing debate would keep the population focused on the wrong information. So he created a crash site with the wreckage of an old ship and added some dummies my great-grandmother made from wax and paint. You’ll notice the first headline said captured, not recovered. The military was a little slow to react and start their own cover up, but the secret spy weather balloon story eventually stuck.”

  My questions now have questions of their own. “What kind of ship? Old wreckage? Why would he do that? Wrong information? What’s the right info?”

  “Slow down and I’ll try to explain.” He squeezes my hand, sending a small shock of static across my skin.

  I jerk away and stand, pacing. “Why would your great-grandfather do that?”

  “Distraction,” he says, thankfully remaining seated while I stalk the room like a nervous lion.

  “From?” I ask.

  “Us.”

  “You and me? We weren’t even born yet.” My brain is running a lap behind him.

  “No, us as in my family.” He gives me an intense look. “Protecting the truth.”

  “Why?” I’m down to using single syllables.

  “Lucy.” He uses the tone that sends sparks of desire through my body. “Think about the timeline.”

  “I hate that you’re asking me to do math right now.” Inhaling, I stop my pacing and sit on the arm of the sectional. “Your grandfather moved here in the early 1940s, bought a bunch of land. Then faked an alien crash and little green men in 1947. As a distraction.”

  “Facts,” he confirms.

  “But why? Future tourism?”

  “No, that was an unfortunate outcome he never could’ve predicted. The little green men were supposed to be horrifying. Not an adorable little space friend to be used on every possible product.”

  “Other than the E.T. phenomenon, I’m not getting it. What am I missing?” My forehead aches from how hard I’m furrowing my brows in thought. “Why did we have to leave the bank so fast?”

  “Because Zed isn’t paranoid. People are listening and watching. Imagine if the ufologists found out you inherited proof of the little green men? You’d be all over the international media in hours. Do you want that?”

  “Hell no,” I blurt out.

  He studies me, waiting for me to figure out the bigger picture.

  “You said the wreckage of
a ship. Not a fake prop like the supposed alien corpses.” Speaking slowly, I hear the blood whooshing in my ears from how hard my heart is pumping right now. My voice shakes when I say, “Boone?”

  “Yes, Lucy.”

  “This is going to sound crazy, really crazy. So far beyond my usual weird rambling.”

  “Ask me anything.” He stands and walks closer to my edge of the couch, leaving a comfortable perimeter of personal and safety space.

  “Are you human?” I can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth, but something tells me it’s the right question. “You once asked me to consider the fact I’m not asking the right questions because I’m working off of incorrect information. Is . . . is this what you meant?”

  I want to high five myself for asking without passing out, or running out of here screaming. Or doing the former then the latter. Where would I go? Suddenly this house feels extremely isolated.

  “Breathe, Lucy.” He’s smart to remind me.

  “You brought me out here to your lair where no one can hear me scream.”

  He closes the distance between us faster than expected. One second he’s a few feet away, the next he’s cupping my face.

  “Answer my question. Please,” I whisper because he’s right there and there’s no need to shout. Especially not if he has super fancy alien hearing.

  “Yes, I’m human.” He gives me a sheepish half-smile. “At least part of me is.”

  “You can’t say stuff like that. I don’t know if I can believe you.”

  He sits back against the cushions. “You can trust me. I’m part human. My great-grandmother was human, so Shari and I are hybrids.”

  “And your great-grandfather?”

  “Panaeon, or in the most simplistic terms, an alien. Although with this country’s laws, I’m not sure if he’d qualify as an illegal alien or legal. He was undocumented for sure.”

  He’s making jokes. About being an immigrant from outer space.

  “So your great-grandmother had sex with an intergalactic traveler? A lover from another galaxy?”