Almost Home

  I scan the paper. Written in Jared’s chaotic scrawl are some unintelligible notes, a phone number. He’d scribbled at the bottom, “M.J.A., Trin.H. #3” and beneath it the numbers “3284” There is a date in the upper right-hand corner: May 10, 1998. A chill shoots up my spine. We’d been together then. Perhaps the stationery was old, a piece of paper he brought back from vacation and later grabbed from a drawer to write something in haste. He left Cambridge for a conference one weekend that spring, though. I don’t recall, or hadn’t known, where. London, I assumed. But it could have been abroad.

  I hold up the paper. “Hey, what do you make of this?”

  His brow furrows. “Don’t know. Might be nothing, scrap of paper from an old holiday.”

  “Maybe.” I start to return the paper to the stack. But my hand lingers on it, not wanting to let go of something that was written by Jared, touched by him. “Mind if I keep it?”

  “No worries. I don’t think Jared’s mum will notice.”

  I turn back to the stack once more. Farther down there is a clump of papers, stapled together. I pull them out. They are photocopies of a document of some kind written in Arabic. “Check this out.” I pass them to him.

  Scanning them, he shrugs. “Looks like research of some kind.”

  “But Jared was studying war criminals in Europe,” I press. “And he certainly didn’t speak Arabic.”

  “No clue.”

  “Can I take these, too? I can have them translated by someone at the department.”

  He nods. I take the documents back and tuck them in my bag, then turn back to the stack of papers. My vision blurs slightly and I blink, realizing how dry and heavy my eyes have become. I glance at the clock on the wall. It is after eleven. “It’s late,” I say. “I had no idea.”

  He looks up reluctantly. “We can keep going tomorrow if you want.” He starts to set the papers back in the trunk. “What’s this?” I lean over. Wedged in the base of the trunk, nearly obscured by a pair of faded jeans, is an envelope bearing a red-and-blue pattern. He tugs, pulling it out. Closer now, I recognize the design as British Airways.

  “Probably some ticket stubs from an old vacation,” I reply, wondering if it is Jared’s ticket to Madrid.

  Chris, who has opened the envelope, hands it to me. “I don’t think so.” Inside is an unused plane ticket, the detachable kind the airlines issued before e-tickets. I unfold the itinerary that is stapled to the top of ticket. A nonstop flight, Gatwick to Rio de Janeiro. The departure date is July 1, 1998, just a few weeks after Jared died. “Maybe he had vacation plans for the summer…” But even as I say it, I know that this is not the answer. Jared would not have gone away like that, not without telling me.

  Chris shakes his head, then points to the top of the page. Number of travelers: two. “Jared wasn’t traveling alone.”

  I thumb quickly down to the second page of the tickets. “Oh my God,” I gasp, seeing my own name.

  “He was planning on taking you with him.” Chris’s voice is grim. “And Jordie…these tickets are one-way. Wherever he was taking you, the two of you weren’t coming back.”

  chapter THIRTEEN

  I STARE SILENTLY AT the tickets for several seconds. “I don’t understand,” I say at last.

  “He never mentioned anything to you? Did you two have vacation plans after term ended?” I shake my head. “Maybe it was a surprise,” Chris persists.

  “Impossible. I was scheduled to move back to America that week and Jared knew it.” I rifle through the envelope the tickets came in and pull out a small receipt. “He paid cash for these.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want anyone to know where you were going.”

  “But if that was the case, why would he have used our real names?” Chris shrugs, not answering. “I guess that’s why he asked his mother for money,” I add.

  “Not likely,” he replies, leaning over my shoulder. “Look here.” He points to the purchase date, May 18. “He bought the tickets almost a month before he called home for the cash.”

  But only a few days after he returned from Madrid, I think, remembering the hotel stationery. My mind reels back to the last semester at Cambridge. There was a sense of desperation in our final month together. “Come away with me,” Jared often said, closing his eyes and pointing to a faraway corner of map that hung over his desk. I assumed it was just his way of saying that he didn’t want our time together to end, that running away was a metaphor for escaping our inevitable separation, for not letting circumstance tear us apart. I didn’t realize that he actually might have meant it.

  Chris takes the tickets from me and sets them aside. “Well, let’s keep looking tomorrow. Maybe we’ll find something else that will explain the trip.”

  Reluctantly, I pick up the stack of papers I’d been searching and start to put them back into the trunk, still thinking about the tickets to Rio. My hand catches on something thick in the middle of the stack. “Oh,” I say, pulling out a photograph. It is a picture I took of the Eight playing rugby on the grassy patch beside the boathouse that March day when Jared turned up with the ball. I always had my camera with me in those days, never wanting to miss capturing a moment. When was the last time I’d taken a picture, I wonder now? I run my finger over their smiling, carefree faces. A month later, Jared would be dead and the Eight would be broken forever. In that moment, though, we were eternally young and happy.

  Chris leans over to examine the picture, his breath warm on my cheek. “I’d almost forgotten that day.”

  “Me too.” Tears well up in my eyes too quickly to blink them back.

  “Don’t,” he says, leaping up. “Let me get you a tissue.” He never could handle sadness, I think as he disappears into the bathroom. A moment later he returns, looking sheepish. “No tissues. I think I have a towel somewhere…”

  I shake my head. “It’s all right. I’m sorry,” I say, wiping my eyes with my sleeve as he drops to the floor beside me. “It’s just that…”

  “I know.” He reaches out and wraps his arm around my shoulders. Gratefully, I close my eyes and let him draw me in close. His warm, musky scent reminds me of college and the boathouse, of the last time I felt happy and safe, and for a moment it is as if Jared is holding me, stroking my hair. But Jared is dead and none of these things—not his clothes nor his papers, nor the embrace of his best friend—can change that. They just make the loss more real. Suddenly I am falling into a bottomless well of grief, the pain is as raw and fresh as if he died yesterday. This is what I dreaded most about coming back again, what I spent a decade trying to outrun. I cry harder now into the front of Chris’s shirt, not caring whether he minds.

  A few minutes later my sobs subside. “I’m sorry,” I say, struggling to catch my breath.

  Chris does not answer. I look up. He is staring at me intensely, his face just inches above mine. Then he reaches down, cupping my face, brushing the wetness from my cheeks with his thumbs. A strange expression, one that I have not seen in years, crosses his face. “Jordie…”

  “Chris,” I say, but before I can speak further, he brings his lips down hard on mine. I freeze, caught off guard. I never meant for this. But the warmth feels good, his touch a welcome respite from all of the worry and hurt. I am kissing him back now, reaching for anything to push away the pain.

  My mind reels back to the May Ball and a kiss that never should have happened, one that sealed all of our fates. Don’t, I think, forcing the image from my mind. This is not that kiss. We are not those children. Heat rises in me, eclipsing memory, as Chris presses me back against the floor, cushioning me with one arm, unbuttoning my blouse with the other. My gun, I think, as his hands run down my torso, before I remember I’m not carrying it today. I look up at him, a thousand conflicting feelings running through my mind. We should stop, and talk about what is happening between us. But Chris’s eyes are closed and as his hands travel beneath my hips, I close my eyes, yielding to his touch. I reach up, clasping his shoulders, running my hands d
own the rippled muscles of his back. Then I climb on top of him, tearing at his jeans, choosing to ride, rather than fight, the waves of desire that crash down upon me.

  Afterward, I roll to one side, closing my eyes. “Did I hurt you?” Chris asks, still cradling the back of my neck, holding me close. I shake my head. He kisses my eyelids, my cheeks. There is a reverence to his touch that tells me all I ever wondered about his feelings for me, his unrequited love.

  I shift and feel something beneath me. Jared’s shirt. A cold tide of regret washes over me. I should have stopped things before they went this far. Ten years ago I would have stopped things, knowing that it was wrong. Ten years ago I did stop things. But now it is too late. Chris is moving lower, his kisses tracing a path from my neck, down my still half-buttoned shirt to my stomach. For him, this is just beginning.

  My stomach twists. I pull away, sitting up. “I should go.”

  His face falls. “You’re leaving? After what just happened, I thought…”

  Then I understand. To me this was an impulse, a way to dull the pain. But this is something he’s always wanted, a dream come true. I turn to face him. “Chris, we can’t do this.”

  He smiles. “I think we just did.”

  “Seriously.” I pull up my pants. “You know what I mean.”

  His cheeks flush. “Why not?” he demands, unaccustomed to not getting his own way.

  For about a thousand reasons, I think. Exhaustion overwhelms me. I should set this straight, but I know how stubborn Chris can be and I cannot handle a long debate right now. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m just tired and I have a super-early morning for work. Let’s talk about this later, okay?”

  “No worries,” he replies quickly, mistaking postponement for acquiescence. “Maybe when you come back to finish going through the trunk tomorrow…”

  “Okay,” I agree, standing up, eager to leave. I look down at the splash top and blue shirt that still lie beside the trunk. I hesitate. Is it weird to ask the man I’ve just slept with for a memento of my dead ex-boyfriend? “Is it still okay if I take those?”

  But Chris nods quickly, giving no indication that he finds my request strange. “We found some great stuff in this trunk and we’re making real progress,” he says eagerly, following me to the door. He looks as happy and relaxed as I have seen him, the Chris of college days. He thinks we are going to be together now. “If we walk to the corner, there’s a taxi stand…”

  “I can manage, thanks.” He leans down and, before I can react, kisses me long and full on the lips. I break away gently. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  On the street, I pause to catch my breath, then walk to the corner and climb in the first of two awaiting taxicabs. What just happened, I wonder? As the car winds through the darkened streets, I think back to the moment before our kiss. Did I do something to invite it? And why didn’t I stop him? On some level, it felt right—I was always attracted to Chris—never with the passion I’d felt for Jared but the kind of base-level attraction women feel watching David Beckham or George Clooney. It was, I decide, a physical need, intensified by the emotions brought on by Jared’s belongings.

  But for Chris it was more than that. I see his face the moment before we kissed, the burning intensity in his eyes. It was a look I recognized from years ago, something I had not wanted to acknowledge since coming back. His feelings are not in the past. And now I’ve stirred those emotions, toyed with them. He looked so hurt when I left abruptly.

  My thoughts shift to Jared and the plane tickets. Why didn’t he tell me of his plans for us? And why Rio? Our talks of fantasy vacations centered around Africa or Greece and the Mediterranean. We never discussed South America. Rio was a huge, teeming city, not at all the outdoorsy kind of trip we would have planned. The millions of people would have made it easy to get lost in the crowd.

  I reach in my bag and pull out the plane tickets. Jared purchased them just days after the Madrid conference. Something happened there, something that made him want to flee and take me with him.

  Duncan said something about Madrid, I remember. Maybe he knows something about what happened to make Jared want to run. I promised Sebastian and Sophie that I’d contact Duncan again anyway to ask about the financial documents. I’ve already jeopardized our investigation once by asking the wrong questions about Jared. Do I dare risk it again? But as I clutch the plane tickets in my hands, my resolve grows. My gut tells me that whatever happened at Madrid is linked to Jared’s death. It is worth taking the chance.

  Twenty minutes later, I unlock the door to my flat and walk upstairs. I am exhausted but cannot bring myself to climb into bed like this, so I go to the bathroom and turn on the shower full blast. I stand under the hot spray for several minutes, not thinking, numb, then scrub myself everywhere, as if trying to wash away what just happened. Then I collapse in bed, still damp and naked but for a towel. I fall asleep quickly, clutching Jared’s shirt in my arms.

  Some time later, I awake. The bedroom is still dark, but I can tell from the rumble of a garbage truck on the street below that it is almost dawn. My head is thick from too much wine and my muscles are strangely sore, an ache like after a workout but in all the wrong places. Chris, I think, feeling the hardness of the wood floor beneath me, his weight above. Jesus. What have I done?

  Unable to lie still with my thoughts any longer, I roll over and sit up. Five forty the clock on the nightstand reads. I am dying to call Duncan to ask about Madrid, but it is too early. I walk to the bathroom and brush my teeth. My own reflection stares back recriminating, eyes puffy, cheeks red and scratched from Chris’s stubble. I eye the shower. A run first, I decide, splashing water on my face instead. I need to sweat this out. Five minutes later, after changing into navy sweatpants and a long-sleeved white t-shirt, I lock the apartment door behind me and jog down the stairs onto the street.

  The morning air is brisk and cool, the pavement still damp as though it has rained overnight. Forcing my eyes from the river, I turn and start running toward Hammersmith Bridge, past a row of narrow houses that back up to the river. The uneven dirt surface is reassuringly solid under my feet. Chris’s face appears in my mind and I push it away. No thinking during the first five minutes of a run; that is the rule. The houses on my right begin to thin, giving way to unkempt parkland.

  I reach the base of Hammersmith Bridge and begin to climb, passing a few other runners, some early morning pedestrians walking dogs. My blood pumps more quickly. I can feel my legs begin to lose their stiffness, my head begin to clear. Through the fog that hangs low above the water, I make out an eight, chopping their way through a warm-up exercise.

  The bridge begins to slope downward and a few minutes later I reach the far bank. I hesitate. Going to the left will take me toward Putney Bridge, enabling me to run home in one continuous loop. But it will take me past the boathouses and I cannot face that, not today. Instead I turn right toward Barnes. Here the bank is less developed, the deserted path lined with sparse trees and brush. The fog is thicker now, obscuring the road ahead. A bird chirping mingles with the pounding of my footsteps, our chorus breaking the early morning silence.

  I run harder now, a thin layer of sweat beginning to form beneath my sports bra. Chris’s face reappears in my mind. Five minutes are up; I have no excuse for avoiding the thought any longer. For me, last night was a physical need, born out of the grief of digging into the past. And it was over for me the minute it happened. My curiosity satisfied, any questions about an ongoing relationship seem ridiculous, moot.

  But this was not some casual encounter for Chris; to him it really meant something. And he thinks it is going to continue. He did not want a one-night stand. He wants me. I have to talk to him, today. To set him straight that we cannot—will not—be more than friends. It will not be an easy conversation. I adore Chris and the thought of hurting him is more than I can bear.

  Apprehension wells up in me. I hate conversations like this. I had them with Mike several times during my months in
Washington. He didn’t understand why I did not want to meet his parents, was so hurt when I refused to discuss the future. With Jared it was different—our commitment just was, like our breathing, present without conversation since the day we first kissed.

  Suddenly there is a sharp scuffling sound behind me. I stop running, spin around. The fog has closed in, shrouding the path, making it impossible to see more than a few feet in the distance. Uneasiness rises in me. I snap my head from side to side, trying vainly to see the riverbank, the hidden trees.

  “Hello?” I call aloud, my voice fading into the mist. There is no response. My skin prickles. Another runner perhaps, but I have not seen one since crossing the river. I remember the train ride back from Cambridge, how the papers disappeared from my bag. Have I been followed?

  My hand rises instinctively to my waist but closes around air. Damn, I’ve left my gun at the flat. Despite Maureen’s warning, I didn’t think I’d need it, not here. Hearing another crackling sound, I jump. The noise comes from ahead of me now, but it is more muted, farther away. Probably just a squirrel. I shake my shoulders, trying to cast off the chill. There’s no one here. I am not reassured. The instinct of knowing when I am being watched is one that I have honed well in this line of work, and I am seldom mistaken. Casting a final glance into the thick fog in front of me, I turn and run swiftly toward home.

  April 1998

  As we pedal along the road that leads out of Cambridge, the colleges recede behind us and the town noises fade. The road narrows to a single lane in each direction. The fens, their spring grasses still ascending to lush, stretch endlessly on either side, broken only by the occasional house or farmer’s shed. A few wisps of feathery cloud mar the bright azure sky.

  Ahead, Jared cycles with long, sure strokes. My own movements are short and jerky, my balance uncertain. The muscles above each of my knees, unaccustomed to this form of work, burn in protest. The faint perspiration beneath my shirt begins to pool, trickling down my sides.