“Westport, Connecticut.”
That fits.
Reeves mimics Donnie’s move and downs the drink. “I live in New York now,” he says, wiping foam from his mouth.
“How long you been a writer?”
Reeves smiles. “My first novel was published five years ago. I was actually in law school—both parents and my two siblings are all lawyers—but I dropped out.”
That’s one point for the kid. He’s passionate, breaking away from what was expected of him. It still doesn’t explain why he’d agree to write a book about some washed-up rocker, but still.
Picking up on Donnie’s thought, Reeves says, “Look, I know I’m not an obvious choice.”
“What, were your parents big fans or somethin’？” Donnie asks.
This amuses Reeves for some reason. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“Then what?”
“I had this dream, you know? Everyone thought I was crazy dropping out of law school. My father’s still furious. And while my first novel received starred reviews and literary awards, it sold fewer than five thousand copies. My publisher dropped me. I’m the joke of my family.”
“And you need the money?”
Reeves smiles. “Well, there’s that.”
“Now that’s somethin’ I can relate to,” Donnie says. He downs the remnants of the drink, raises a hand to catch the waitress’s attention.
“But it’s more than that,” Reeves says. “When my agent called, I thought she was kidding. But then I did some research … on you.” The writer makes eye contact with Donnie now. “And I think I can do your story justice. I think I understand.…”
What it’s like to be a joke, Reeves mercifully doesn’t say. Donnie examines the kid. Against his better judgment, he asks, “How would this work?”
“However you want. I suggest we get to know one another and perhaps you can tell me about your life. I can identify the parts that I think would make for a good story and write an outline. We can
discuss the outline, and then I’ll write a first draft and get your feedback.”
“That’s it?” Donnie asks.
“That’s it, though we’ll need to spend at least a week together.”
Donnie thinks about this. Mickey consulted with one of his contacts in the publishing world, and the terms for the deal are a bit unusual, he said, but so is falling off a cruise ship into the Atlantic, and the money is right.
“Seven days in my life.” Donnie laughs, motions to the next round of drinks the waitress sets on the table. “Think you can handle that, Reeves?”
“It’ll be like Hemingway in Paris.”
Donnie has no idea what that means, but he likes this kid.
They drink more Car Bombs. Talk some more. That leads to dinner, sixteen-ounce dry-aged bone-in rib eye at one of the hotel’s fancy restaurants called StripSteak. A woman approaches their table and asks Donnie for a selfie. He hasn’t gotten so much attention outside the cruise ship or second-rate venues in years. He offers a crocodile smile for the photo and she scuttles off.
By midnight, Donnie is feeling sloppy, but he’s made a decision and he thinks he’ll be okay with it when he sobers up. He and Reeves stumble into the hotel lobby. Donnie looks at the writer.
“Hemingway, my boy, let’s do it.”
Reeves’s eyes are bloodshot. With slurred speech, he says, “You’re sure? We can talk tomorrow if you need to think about—”
“I don’t need to think. But I got two conditions.”
Reeves waits.
“One, you make me sound smarter than I am.”
Reeves hesitates. “I want to tell your real story, not some—”
“I’m just fuckin with you.” Donnie cackles. “Even a smart guy like you can only do so much.…”
Donnie holds up two fingers. Looking at them, he has a strange sensation of panic, but he shakes it off.
“Two, though, and I’m not kiddin’ on this.”
Reeves nods for him to continue.
“We start the story when I’m fifteen, after I was on my own and joined the band. I don’t want to get into stuff before then.”
Reeves ponders this. “I think we can make that work.”
“Good.” The last thing Donnie needs is for anyone to start digging into what happened at Savior House.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JENNA
Jenna and Willow drive for a long while in silence. Unsatisfied with Jenna’s vague answers to her barrage of questions, Willow has resorted to an old standby: the silent treatment. Willow stares out the window as Jenna races through the questions playing in her mind on a loop: Why would someone want to kill Artemis Templeton? He’s famous, one of those tech billionaires people love to hate. But is that it? Why was I assigned for the hit? Is it because Arty and I were both wards of Savior House twenty-five years ago? Was it The Corporation? If not, how did they know I had been part of the organization? How did they know about my new life, my family?
Her head is spinning. She needs to get it together. Get Willow safe and then focus on the who, the why.
“Billy seems nice,” Jenna says, if only to distract herself, break the quiet. She’s not so sure he is nice. Rendezvous at the back of 7-Elevens might speak to the contrary. But he gave Willow his Jeep without question. And the way he looked at her in dopey awe.
Willow ignores her.
Jenna stares at red taillights and heavy traffic on I-81. Once they reach 42 South, it will open up.
“Look, I know this is a lot.…”
Willow glances at her with heavy lids, telling her off in a way that only a teenager can. She reaches for the radio, turns it up. She’s usually glued to her phone, so this is the best she can do to avoid communicating with Jenna.
Jenna decides to keep trying. She lowers the volume, says, “I know it was scary, what happened.
Once I get you safe to your dad, we can all talk about it.”
The radio’s volume goes up again, and Jenna decides to let it go for now.
Forty minutes later, she merges onto the Woodrow Wilson Parkway. At last, she sees it, mile marker 21, and she pulls to the shoulder. Willow’s head leans against the passenger window, her eyes closed.
Jenna checks the mirrors. Only a few stray cars, plenty of distance between the headlights. She searches the glove box, then the center console, but doesn’t find what she needs. She gets out and opens the Jeep’s back. There’s an ice scraper stored there from the winter. It will have to do.
She walks down a small ravine filled with weeds that borders the asphalt shoulder. On the other side of a steel highway guardrail is a handmade cross that has a teddy bear and streamers from balloons that have long since deflated. One of those grim markers. A spot where wayward teens
probably were driving too fast and lost control. Or where a drunk driver plowed into unsuspecting motorists. Like Jenna’s parents.
Jenna looks around and waits for a car to pass.
Then she falls to her knees and starts digging with the ice scraper.
It takes a minute or two before Willow notices. She comes out of the Jeep, standing a few feet away.
“What the hell are you doing?” Willow swivels her head back and forth as if she’s looking for someone to tell her this is all an awful joke. That she’s on one of those hidden-camera shows.