“Additional information is required, pertaining to your arrest earlier this week.”
“Like what?”
“Like, additional information.”
“When will I get my stuff back?” Anthony said, as he reached for his desk’s top drawer.
“Slowly!” the deputy barked, startling Anthony. He glanced over his shoulder to see the guy standing with his hand on his gun.
Anthony moved aside so that the deputy could clearly see his hands opening the drawer. Opening it s-l-o-w-l-y. His hands shook. “I don’t—that is, don’t worry, I don’t even own a gun. Not even a BB gun. I used to play paintball, but I sold the marker on eBay a while back.” The camera waited right on top where it had sat, unused, for months; Amelia’s was the one they used. He took his from the drawer and handed it over. “The memory stick is in it.”
Morales opened the access door to the camera’s battery and, yes, memory stick, then snapped it shut. “The iPod too,” he said, indicating it with a nod.
“Why do you need that?” Anthony asked, dread creeping over him, filling him, cinching his stomach and gut. They would not find pictures of him on there; they’d find pictures of Amelia. Amazing, beautiful pictures from late summer taken inside an abandoned barn, images never meant for anyone else to see. His password would be no barrier for the techies whose job it was to recover or remove data.
“All electronic media storage devices. Do not attempt to alter the data,” Morales said, hand extended.
Anthony took it from his bedside table and gave it to the deputy. Morales unplugged the headphones. “You can keep these. Where’s the power cord?”
“Here, hooked to my computer,” Anthony said, going to his desk and unplugging the iPod’s cord. “This is a desktop, obviously, so—”
“I just need the tower,” the deputy said. “Do not attempt to power it up. Disconnect the power and peripherals and flash drive—which I’ll need, and carry it downstairs.”
“When will I get my stuff back?” Anthony asked again, as he worked to disconnect all the cords from the back of the computer. His hands were sweaty, and he could not stop them from shaking. If they found everything that was stored in his computer and on his iPod and in his phone, his troubles might be only just beginning. They’d pinned him with a charge he never knew existed, so there was no telling what else he might face. Worse, if Amelia’s father got the report, he would lock her up or move her out of the country. He’d file a restraining order. He’d come after Anthony with pruning shears and rope.
Anthony continued, “Because, you know, everything I do—homework, email, check the news, the weather—I mean, my life is pretty much all in here.” As well as more photos, and emails, and things he’d written about her that were intensely private. Suppose Wilkes got hold of the sonnet where he’d described the sea-brine taste of her, or the soft slope of her inner thighs? Suppose he read the journal entry about the day they cut their afternoon classes and made love three times in the woods near Falls Lake? The details—positions, explorations of acts they hadn’t tried before—weren’t fit for any father’s eyes, let alone a father whose daughter was thought to be not only inexperienced but chaste.
“When the investigation has been completed and the case resolved, you’ll get it back,” the deputy told him.
Anthony finished with the cords and turned the tower back around. “How long does that usually take?”
Morales paused, then asked, “Are you employed?”
“Yeah. I work part-time—I’m still in high school.”
The deputy didn’t ask why he wasn’t at school this morning; maybe that answer was apparent. What he did say was, “You might want to think about investing in new stuff.”
“Are you serious? That long? How can that be legal?” Anthony stared at the deputy, whose round, smooth face betrayed no opinion. “Anyway,” he said, “I already told the police what happened. She already told them, too, and our statements match, the police told me they do. I don’t see how any of this is necessary.” He should never have let them in. But what choice was there? Sour dread rose in his throat, and he thought he might be sick.
“Lift that, and precede me downstairs,” Morales said, in a tone that reminded Anthony which of them was in possession of both a weapon and the authority to use it. He swallowed hard, and complied.
In the living room, Winship waited with several empty bags in hand, in varying sizes. The deputy handed him the camera and Winship selected one of the bags, each of which was clearly marked with the word Evidence in bold letters, and dropped the camera into it. He used a Sharpie to write on the bag, then he set it on the end table and picked up a roll of tape. “Set that here,” he told Anthony, then quickly taped the disc drives shut before pulling an evidence bag over the top of the tower and then upending the bag, which he wrote on as before. They went through the routine again with the flash drive.
Winship said, “Your phone, son, where is it?”
“Lost.”
“Is that right?”
Anthony said, “I’ve looked for it everywhere. I don’t know what happened to it.”
“Have a seat, then, and Deputy Morales will keep you company while I try to resolve that problem.”
“It’s not here,” Anthony said. “I’m pretty sure I lost it at the mall. And I called them, but nobody turned it in yet. Probably got stolen.”
Winship nodded to Morales, who put a hand on Anthony’s shoulder and pushed him slightly, a suggestion, an encouragement, to take a seat.
He sat, and listened miserably while the investigator moved about his bedroom right overhead. His pulse pounded, making his head throb. Morales stood with feet splayed, hands clasped behind his back, watching Anthony, saying nothing, waiting for what Anthony suspected he knew was about to happen.
“Eureka,” Winship called.
Morales smirked at Anthony. “Good try,” he said.
When they were finally gone, Anthony paced from the front door to the back, living room to kitchen, his feet traversing a straight line because his thoughts were anything but straight. He’d been raped and robbed, that’s how it felt, and it was a travesty—and it wasn’t as though he could call the police and report the crimes. He knew he should tell his mother, but he didn’t want to call right now and disrupt her day. He couldn’t call Amelia. He should, he supposed, call Mariana Davis, so that at least she would know how he’d been screwed in yet another way. And to ask what he could do to protect Amelia. Maybe Davis would be able to get an injunction or something, whatever it was that could prevent the police from investigating further. Didn’t they need just cause to do this? He had certain rights, didn’t he? If he had a goddamn computer, he could look it up.
The attorney’s business card was tacked to the refrigerator door. Anthony got the house phone and dialed her number. When her assistant put his call through, he said, “The cops just came with a search warrant and took pretty much every electronic device except the TV, and I need to know if you can stop them, and if you can’t, I need to know whether whatever they find in my stuff is going to get back to Harlan Wilkes.”
“Okay, first, take a breath. Are you breathing, nice and deep?”
He did as directed, feeling some of his anxiety escape as he exhaled. “Yeah, I’m breathing.”
“All right. Now, if they already got a warrant, it isn’t likely I can stop them. Tell me what they’re going to find,” Davis said, and when he told her, she replied, “Hm. That’s unfortunate. You’d better strap yourself in. Wilkes may become the least of your troubles.”
Anthony said, “If you mean statutory rape, then A) everything was consensual, and B) I thought that only applied to people under sixteen.”
“Oh, no, it’s completely legal for you two to have sex. I don’t want to be alarmist, all right, so I’m not going to predict anything specifically. But if the DA takes a shovel and flashlight to the statutes, he might dig up some ugly charges for you. I’ve worked in Wake County for six years n
ow, and I can tell you, Gibson Liles—he’s the DA—has a moral streak that would make a preacher want to adopt him.”
Anthony cringed, thinking of such a man at his desk with the photos and emails and journal details spread before him like a feast. He cringed at the thought of Liles phoning Harlan Wilkes—they were probably already pals—to describe for him the road his daughter was traveling. “I’m worried for Amelia. It’s already martial law over there.”
“Your loyalty and concern are honorable, but not practical. We have to focus on you right now.”
“It’s not me versus her.”
“It will be.”
ACT II
What is this thing that builds our dreams,
then slips away from us?
—QUEEN
14
IM WINTER STOOD INSIDE HER CLOSET, A SMALL WALK-IN that the home’s previous owner had outfitted with cedar paneling, and breathed deeply. The pungent scent always reminded her of her Ithaca house and, tonight, a simpler time. In Ithaca, she’d never had such anxiety when preparing for a date—because in Ithaca, she’d never dated a man who wasn’t supposed to date her, and who really should not, now, be seeing her romantically when her son, a student under his charge, was having a run-in with the parent of another of his students, and with the law.
Lunacy, that’s what this was. She knew it. William knew it, too. And yet, he’d stood there in the art studio earlier today after it had emptied of students, watching her while she made what was her third pass at a 4×4 canvas on which she was painting a wren, and said, “I’d love to see you, later.”
She’d pushed her unruly hair from her face using the back of her hand and looked at him critically. “Not really.”
“Yes, really. Are you still angry with me?”
She had been. For a week she’d avoided him at school, avoided everyone but her students, cursed, silently, the uptight attitudes of the Ravenswood advisory board members who’d unanimously recommended that Anthony be suspended until he was cleared—if he got cleared—and cursed William for caving in to them. She’d asked him, “And if he’s not?” He had answered, “One thing at a time, all right?”
One thing at a time. Who ever had that luxury?
By the time she stood there in the school’s studio working on the wren, however, her anger was gone. She’d had time to think it over, to talk to her mother, to talk to Rose Ellen, who’d said, “And I thought Mark’s girlfriend’s pregnancy scare was stressful. But listen, Anthony’s mess isn’t William’s fault, right? If our kids would just keep their pants on, they wouldn’t have these problems.”
Kim had to agree. And, given the situation, he had been right to suspend Anthony. She set her paintbrush down and told William, “No, I’m not angry. I understand, and really, he’s better off at home.”
“So, I’ll pick you up?” he said, his eyes so compassionate, so blue behind his wire-rimmed glasses. Kim felt a flutter low in her belly. What caused that butterfly sensation—physically caused it? And why did William have to provoke it so easily? She really ought to be sensible, to resist.
“I’ll meet you there,” she said.
“I haven’t named a place.”
She’d smiled. “Name it.”
Now Kim stood in the closet in her panties and bra, unable to decide between wearing a skirt, or a dress, or pants. They were going to an intimate little bistro, where they’d hear the jazz trio that played there on Friday nights. If this night had been taking place two weeks earlier, she’d have been excited, anxious in an entirely different way. As it was, the hollowness in her gut and the way she kept catching herself clenching her teeth were akin to anticipating a lousy performance review (which she’d never had but always, always feared). She wanted to see William, was, truly, eager to see him, and yet there was no denying that the timing was incredibly bad.
That lousy performance review was sure to come, though it would be about mothering and not work, and would probably not come from William. It would come from other women whose sons had managed to either avoid or evade run-ins with the Moral Authority. William would be mostly concerned with maintaining order at Ravenswood while being subject to judgment himself. How, the Authority was sure to ask—had begun asking already, if rumors were to be believed—could he have permitted such an environment as had bred behavior like Anthony’s? That behavior was expected at public school; what was their tuition money being spent on, if not an educational experience that was in every way superior?
If she chose the dress she’d ideally wear to this kind of restaurant—say, this sleeveless plum sheath in embroidered silk that she’d bought in Italy for next to nothing, would William be more likely to set aside his own anxieties regarding Anthony’s situation, or would he think she was trying to distract or influence him? And, well, wasn’t she? And in asking her out tonight (regardless of what she might wear), wasn’t he in essence saying he wanted her to distract and influence him?
She groaned. Why did this have to be so damned complicated? Eyeing her cellphone where it sat atop a pile of folded T-shirts, she reached for it. How much easier she would make things by simply canceling the date. No dress, no tension. She could stay home, build herself a chocolate-chip macadamia nut sundae. Start that new Elizabeth Berg novel her mother just finished. She could iron … something.
“Oh, just deal with it,” she said, laying the phone down again. She chose the plum dress, and a delicate black cardigan, and the engraved silver bracelet her parents had given her when Anthony was born. “To remind you that you are still you,” her mother had said, fastening it around her wrist. Over the years, Kim had found that she often chose the bracelet when she needed that reminder. It was so easy, far easier than she’d imagined when she set out on the journey, to lose yourself in the job of motherhood and not realize you’d gone missing. Tonight, she wanted to be Kim Winter, amateur artist, lover of French culture, lover of the ocean, of the forests, of the lingering scent of rain on fallen leaves. She wanted to reclaim Kim Winter, lover.
She left her room and stopped in Anthony’s bedroom doorway to say she was leaving. She found him lying on his bed with his feet propped on his headboard, reading a slim paperback that he held in one hand with the cover folded behind it. In his other hand was the charm Amelia had given him. He turned it end on end and passed it from finger to finger like a magician keeping limber.
“What’s that you’re reading?” she asked.
“Shakespeare’s poems. ‘The Rape of Lucrece,’ ‘A Lover’s Complaint,’ like that.” He laid the book on his chest.
“I thought you were scheduled to work tonight.”
“Eric gave me the night off.”
“Why?” This seemed unlike the man who owned and managed Anthony’s workplace, a fastidious, terse, single man whose entire existence centered on music and its production and reproduction, and the running of his store. She could not recall one time in the year that Anthony had been working there when Eric had altered the schedule in an apparent fit of generosity.
“He felt like it,” Anthony said, too casually.
“Try again.”
“Okay, fine.” He stilled the charm and closed his hand around it. “He asked me to stay away, for the moment. He thinks maybe I’ve been bad for business. Anyway,” he said, not giving her a chance to protest what surely could not be true, “you look great. Have a good time—which means, don’t talk about me,” he said wryly. “Take the night off.”
Kim dredged up a smile. “Thanks. I’ll try. You should, too. Maybe find something more upbeat to read.”
“Upbeat. What a novel concept.” He pulled his feet down and turned onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “But hey, I wouldn’t want to spoil my righteous anger.”
“Maybe you should get out, too. Do you have any plans?”
He raised and lowered one shoulder. “Maybe.”
Eleven days of separation, during which Cameron McGuiness was his only connection to Amelia, had been a strain and a
test of his endurance unlike anything soccer had ever demanded of him. To his credit, he’d spent a lot of the time working on the play he was writing for his senior project, starting over, writing it out in longhand in a notebook. He wouldn’t tell her much about it. She was sure, though, that it wasn’t a comedy.
“Have you heard from Amelia?”
“Like that could happen,” he said.
“From Cameron, I mean.”
“Nothing new,” he told her, but he averted his eyes.
She went to him and kissed him on the temple. “Be good.”
“How could you imagine I wouldn’t?” he said.
She wished she had some way to comfort him. As long as she was wishing, she wished she had done a better job of whichever parenting aspect applied to teen love and sex and the exploding capabilities of electronics. Or that he had done a better job of policing himself and Amelia. She wished he had chosen a girl who didn’t feel her parents needed to be deceived.
“I won’t be out late. But if you go anywhere, leave me a note—and lock up.”
“Don’t I always?” he said, resuming the position she’d found him in.
“Yes, you do. You do,” she said, an apology and acknowledgment, both. “Don’t mind me. I’m just a little scattered, you know?”
“Tell me about ‘scattered,’ ” he said, waving his good-night.
Outside, Kim pulled her sweater closed and buttoned the top button, then left the house, stepping out into the twilit world. She stood on the porch long enough to catch the minty scent of bee balm in her flower beds, to admire the deepening blue of the sky and the sweep of two bats crossing paths beneath the streetlight, where bugs still swarmed in November. Anthony had been delighted by this their first year in North Carolina. Kim had been delighted by the reason for it: warm days that in most years continued into December. A twentysomething woman jogged past with a large dog at her side, its collar jingling, and then the evening was quiet again, interrupted only by the noise of Kim’s not-so-sensible heels tapping the sidewalk as she walked to her car.
Exposure Page 16
