I type again:
Give me a lead. Please.
Finally, a response:
Find Jill Bailey.
* * *
—
I start with Google. My gut feeling is that she’s CIA. She must be, if this source is telling me to find her. If she knows something about Falcon. If she’s somehow connected to a CIA source.
But the name, it’s too common. Google turns up nothing about a Jill Bailey who works for the CIA. I’m not surprised. But I need to see if this tip is legit.
So I top off my drink and head down into the dark web.
I learned how to do this years ago. Back when I was investigating drug trafficking. Not as hard as you’d think, actually. And there’s a treasure trove of information out there. Just harder to access.
It takes me a good hour to find anything useful. But when I do, it’s gold. A leak from a whistleblower. A contractor who worked at the CIA. It’s a database of names and positions, from five years ago. I’ve seen these before. Used them to corroborate information about people, case officers and such.
There’s a Jill Bailey listed as a reports officer, Syria.
The tip was good, again. This source, whoever it is, knows a hell of a lot.
And I’d be willing to bet this Jill Bailey does, too.
I stand up from the table and stretch. It’s getting late and I haven’t eaten. My stomach’s growling. I pad into the kitchen. Look in the pantry. Sparse contents.
I grab a container of noodles. Peel off the paper lid, fill it with water. Stick it in the microwave. Watch the digits changing. Time ticking down—
A ring. My cellphone, on the table. The screen’s lit up, vibrating. I walk over to check it—
Miles.
I stare at the name. I don’t have to pick up.
I shouldn’t. I should let it go to voicemail. Let him wonder what I’m doing. Let him think I don’t want to talk to him.
But I can’t. And I hate that I can’t.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.”
That voice. So familiar. So many damn memories.
“How are you?”
“Fine. You?”
“Doing well.”
The microwave beeps. I walk back over. Hold the phone with my shoulder, reach for the noodles.
“What are you up to?”
“Working.”
“Of course.” He says it lightly. But I hear the judgment.
“What do you want, Miles?”
“I just…wanted to say hi. And…you know…just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay.”
“I’m great.” The words sound flat. “Busy.”
“Maybe you should take a break. Everyone needs a vacation, Alex.”
He can’t resist, can he? Being so damn judgmental. Questioning my decisions. Acting like he knows better.
The mention of a vacation irks me. Because it’s another area where I compromised. I always wanted to explore new places; he wanted to return to familiar favorites. Our last few vacations? We ended up renting the same cottage in Ocean City each time.
I grab a fork and start fluffing the noodles. Steam escapes in little puffs. I bring the bowl over to the couch. Sit down, curl up. Phone’s still pinned to my ear with my shoulder.
“There’s one more thing,” Miles says. “One more reason I called.” I can hear the hesitation in his voice.
“Yeah?”
“I thought you should hear it from me first. You know, before you see anything on social media, or any of our friends say anything…”
I go utterly still. No. Not possible—
“I’m seeing someone, Alex.”
My heart drops. I’ve been so focused on the fact that he’s no longer with me. But the thought of him with someone else…
“We’re still married,” I say.
“Legally separated—”
“You didn’t waste any time, did you?”
“Alex—”
“I gotta get back to work.”
“Alex, please—”
“Bye, Miles.”
I press end and sit staring at the phone. He’s seeing someone. He’s moved on.
Who is she? That means they’ve been out on dates, doesn’t it? Had those awkward-as-hell first conversations, maybe talked about the future—
The thought makes me sick to my stomach.
In my mind I’m back on our own first date. At that trendy Mexican place in Dupont Circle. Sitting at that table outside. Laughing. Talking.
“Do you want kids?” he’d asked.
I hesitated. I’d told the truth on other dates. Said no. Seen the recoil. Heard the empty promise to call. And truth be told, I was enjoying this date. This guy’s company. I didn’t want the date to end. “I’m not sure. You?”
“I’m not sure, either.” There was a beat of silence, then he added, “But I’m leaning toward no.”
The topic didn’t come up again until a couple of months later. We had dinner at his college buddy’s house in the suburbs, with the buddy’s wife and two kids. The kids were terrors. Throwing tantrums. Refusing to eat. The husband and wife were fighting with the kids. Fighting with each other. It was awkward and uncomfortable and we couldn’t get out of there soon enough.
“I don’t think I want kids,” I said on the car ride home, because it seemed as good a time as any to break the truth.
He laughed. “Thank God. Me neither.”
And that was the end of it, then. We talked about it more later, of course. I told him I’d just never felt any sort of maternal pull. I wasn’t like my mom in that respect. She always told me that being a mother was one of her life’s goals. And thank God it was. I bounced around the foster care system until I was five, until she adopted me. I don’t know what would have happened to me if she hadn’t.
Miles and I fell in love quickly. He was as ambitious as I was, a consultant with an MBA. Worked just as long hours. We bonded over a shared love of jazz music and sushi, modern art and historical fiction. He wasn’t perfect—no one was—but I found his quirks to be endearing. The fact that he took such pride in his appearance, even if he did hog the bathroom for far too long most mornings. His penchant for documenting his life on social media, which would give us a fun trip down memory lane in the future.
We got married, we bought the loft, we focused on our careers. We ate at nice restaurants, took nice vacations. We had the perfect life.
Or so I thought.
And then last year, we brought over dinner to his co-worker, a few weeks after the co-worker and his wife had welcomed a new baby.
“Would you like to hold her?” the wife had asked. To my surprise, Miles agreed. He took the baby into his arms gingerly. And then, it was like he melted. He just stared at the baby in his arms. Mesmerized.
I got nervous.
“Maybe we should have one,” he said on the way home.
“A kid?”
“A baby.”
“Babies become kids.”
He didn’t say anything else the rest of the ride home. And then, two days later, when we were getting ready for bed, he said the words I was dreading.
“Alex, I want to have a baby.”
I was in the middle of brushing my teeth. I kept brushing, then spit. Looked at him in the mirror. “I don’t.”
“Where does that leave us?”
I rinsed the brush. Rinsed my mouth with water. Then looked at him in the mirror. “You’re just saying this because you held that baby. But you’re not thinking about—”
“I’ve been thinking about this for years.”
I turned and faced him. “You’ve never said a word to me about it.”
“That doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking it.”
“I�
�ve told you. I just don’t have that maternal instinct. I don’t want a child.”
“Or are you just focused only on yourself?”
I stared at him. This person I thought I knew. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
I couldn’t believe he said that. Thought that. I loved him. Deeply. I loved my mom. Missed her every day. My friends. My country. For God’s sake, I was passionate about my career because finding the truth helped people. I wouldn’t be able to do my job the same way with children. Just look at my mom.
“What if you change your mind later?” he asked.
I wasn’t going to change my mind. I felt confident about that. But I considered the possibility anyway. “Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“But by then, it might be too late. It’s not like you’re getting any younger.”
The words cut, even if he didn’t mean them to. “Then there are plenty of kids sitting in foster care.”
“I don’t want a kid from foster care. I want my own kid.”
He couldn’t have chosen more hurtful words to say. Couldn’t have touched on my worst fears in a worse way. “It would be your own child. That’s what happens when you adopt.”
“I know, I know,” he said dismissively. “It’s just…Don’t you want to have it all?”
“I thought I did.” It’s true; I never felt like anything was missing.
“Alex—”
“I’m not changing my mind,” I said quietly.
He looked me right in the eye. “Neither am I.”
* * *
—
I blink and focus on my surroundings. The fireplace in front of me. The built-in shelves on either side. Filled with classics, hardcover favorites. A framed picture of my mom. And one of Miles and me. My favorite one from our wedding day. Our arms around each other, our cheeks pressed together. The biggest smiles—
I look away. Stare down at the cup of noodles in my lap. The liquid’s been absorbed. The noodles are thick and soft. My appetite’s gone.
It’s the last one left of us, that picture. The last one in a frame, at least. There’s still the giant corkboard in the kitchen, with loads of pictures tacked to it. But the framed pictures—I’m almost there. Just one to go. The wedding picture. The one that’s hard as hell to put away. Almost like an admission that the marriage is over.
I don’t know why this is so damn hard.
I look at the picture of my mom. God, I wish she were here. Not a day goes by I don’t wish I could talk to her again.
In my mind I can see her here, in the loft. On the couch, where she was the last time I saw her.
“If you and Miles have kids—” she said, mid-conversation.
“Mom, I told you we’re not having kids.”
“I know. But you might change your mind.” She gave me a loving smile. “I did.”
“And we might not.”
“And you might not,” she conceded. She reached for my hand. “I just want you to be happy, Alexandra. And there are many different paths to happiness.”
“I have Miles. And you. And I have my career.”
“And you’re kicking ass at it,” she said, drawing a laugh from me. “Really. I saw your latest on the wiretapping.”
“There are bigger stories out there. And I’m going to find them.”
She gave me a quizzical look. “Doesn’t have to be the biggest story, Alexandra. Just has to be a truth that people need to hear.”
I shake off the memory. Stand up, head to the kitchen. Throw the noodles in the trash. Sit back down at the table, at my laptop.
I have Miles. And you. And I have my career.
I don’t have Miles anymore. He’s moved on. He’s going to get what he wants. A wife and kids. The kids that he wants more than the life we had.
And I don’t have Mom, either. She’s gone. That damn heart attack stole her from me.
I force those thoughts from my mind. I need to focus. Now that I know the tip is good, I just need to find the right Jill Bailey.
Five years ago she was at the CIA. Is she still? I focus on that time frame, because that’s the last confirmation I have. I look up every Jill Bailey who’s lived in DC, or Northern Virginia, or Maryland. I narrow them down to a few. Cross-reference. Check other databases, court records—
Here’s something. A Jill Bailey who changed her name, four years ago. And not right after a marriage, either. An out-of-the-blue name change. She became Jill Smith.
I dig into the address associated with the name. The house sold just weeks after the name change.
I get that feeling again. That tingly rush of adrenaline. I’ve found something.
This is someone who wanted to disappear. Who tried to disappear. But no one can truly disappear.
It doesn’t take long to find the new address, in Florida.
I throw it into Google Maps. Look at the house on satellite view. Then street view. Nice little house, nothing too flashy. Palm trees. A golf course nearby. Looks almost like the kind of place you’d take a vacation.
Miles’s words run through my head. Everyone needs a vacation, Alex.
He’s wrong, though. I don’t need a vacation.
I need a Pulitzer.
* * *
—
I fly down to Fort Lauderdale the next day. The flight costs too damn much, but it means getting to work right away. This isn’t the kind of story you sit on. This is the kind of story you run down. Whatever it takes.
I rent a compact sedan at the airport. Head to a Hampton Inn. Close to Jill’s house, and cheap. I drop off my suitcase, then drive to her house. It’s evening by the time I arrive. I sit across the street and wait. There’s a RAV4 in the driveway. Sidewalk chalk scribbles on the pavement. A trike outside, and a stray ball in the grass.
Typical suburban house, typical suburban family.
The kind of thing Miles wants.
There are lights on inside. I can see figures moving behind the curtains. They’re probably eating dinner. Probably settled in for the night.
I drive back to the hotel, stop in the McDonald’s drive-through on the way. I eat the burger and fries in bed, watching mindless TV.
Early the next morning, I drive back to the house. I sit on the street and I wait.
The husband pulls out of the garage at seven. I don’t get much of a look at him.
She leaves an hour later. Comes out the front door, two kids in tow. She looks average. Boring. Yoga pants, baggy shirt. Hair tied back, minimal makeup.
One of the kids is a boy. Serious-looking. The other’s a girl. Younger, like a toddler. With a full head of dark curls.
I watch Jill load the kids into the SUV, strap them into car seats. It takes forever.
She backs out of the driveway slowly, then drives off down the street. I wait a moment and follow. I try to keep my distance, at least a little.
She heads to preschool first. Joins a line of cars, mostly SUVs. The occasional minivan. I pull off into the parking lot of a nearby bank and watch.
When her car reaches the front of the line, a teacher opens the back door. She leans in—unstrapping the car seat, maybe? Helps the boy out. Adjusts his little backpack, takes his hand. Walks him inside.
Jill’s car drives off.
I leave the lot and follow, leaving two cars between us.
She heads directly home. Parks in the driveway, walks inside. Never looks around. She has no idea I’m following her. No idea I’m watching.
Three hours later she leaves the house again. Hurries out, drives off. I follow.
Back to preschool, back into the line of cars. A different teacher walks out with the boy, holding his hand. He’s clutching something in his other hand. Some sort of paper. An art project maybe.
When she drives off, I f
ollow.
She doesn’t go straight home this time. Stops at the grocery store. I park in the next row over and watch as she gets the kids out of the car seats. God, it’s a time-consuming process, isn’t it? She lifts them into a cart shaped like a race car, belts them in. The girl grabs the plastic steering wheel, jiggling it.
I head inside after them. Grab a basket, never taking my eyes off her. I pretend I’m examining produce, and a couple of times I get close enough to hear her speak. She’s refereeing an argument between the kids. Speaking calmly. A peacemaker.
I stand behind the table of tomatoes and watch her.
She’s a normal suburban mom. What does she have to do with Falcon?
Maybe nothing. Maybe I have the wrong person—
She looks up, notices me. Her face transforms. Tightens.
She knows I’m watching her.
She forces a smile. But it’s too late. Her face has already given her away. This is someone who’s been watched before.
Someone who knows there’s a reason she’s being watched.
This is the right Jill Bailey.
I drift away, out of sight. I have the answer to my first question.
I drop the basket by the door, head back to my car. Sit there and wait.
She takes forever to come out. Her cart’s loaded down. The little girl looks asleep. Jill loads the kids into the SUV, one by one. Then the groceries—
She sees me. Goes still, stares right at me. I stare back, from behind my shades.
She finally gets in her car and drives off. Slowly, past my car. I watch her the whole time. She doesn’t intimidate me.
I don’t bother following her. I don’t need to. I got what I came for.
I pick up a six-pack and a sub sandwich on the way home. Eat and drink sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching bad television.
The next morning I’m back on her street, farther away this time. I follow her at more of a distance. She heads to the park. I watch her watch her kids. She looks like a good mom. Attentive. Cautious. You can never be too cautious, can you, Jill?
The little girl bumps her chin on the seesaw. Gives me my opening. I make my way over to the little boy. “What’s your name?” I ask him.
“Owen.”
You Can Run Page 8
