I pull my wallet out of my pocket and hand Ashley my license.
The picture’s an old one, taken when Emily was still alive and I was healthy and busty and freshly highlighted. He takes a longer look at it than I’d like. “Camille,” he says. “That’s a pretty name.”
“Thank you.”
His gaze shifts from the license to my gaunt face, the amateur dye job, and I can sense him taking it all in, the before-and-after shots. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—understanding? Pity? Recognition? Please don’t let it be recognition. Whatever it is, Ashley doesn’t verbalize it.
He goes back to packing the knife, and when he’s done, he presents me with the slim box, pressing it into my waiting hands like a gift-wrapped bauble. “Hope your brother bags himself a big juicy buck,” he says.
I’VE DRIVEN EIGHTY-ONE miles to get to step six, which is to be completed at the post office in Ellenville. There’s no script for this step, but there is a costume—the black baseball cap, black wool gloves with the latex ones underneath. Like the rest of this town, the post office is small and unassuming—a one-story building made of stone, with blue painted shutters—and I feel strange and out-of-place here, in my serial killer’s costume, carrying a boxed hunting knife along with the mailing label I made at Staples.
As I approach the entrance, I spot two surveillance cameras glaring down at me. I reach for the door. It flies open and I jump back, gasping, the box gripped to my chest—an overreaction if there ever was one.
“Whoa, sorry!” says a voice. A man’s voice. I don’t know what he looks like because my head is down, my gaze glued to the sidewalk. I don’t want him to see my face.
“No worries.”
I can feel him gaping at me, and my skin prickles.
Believe. Commit. Question nothing.
The post office is small inside, with dark wood paneling and a huge mural on one wall. With the last of my cash, I purchase a padded envelope and, as specified in step six, $14.90 in postage from the sweet-faced elderly woman at the counter. I manage a smile at her as I check the room. It’s too warm and library-quiet, but empty, which is the important thing. I hope it stays that way.
I make for a far corner, where I remove my wool gloves, slip the box into the padded envelope and seal it, affixing the label I made at Staples: that PO box in Burlington, Vermont.
As I complete this step, I peer at the mural above me—a group of Founding Father types standing outside an old-fashioned wooden building, some holding muskets, others raising their arms triumphantly. One of them plays with his dog. All of them seem to be watching me with X-ray eyes, the nuclear heat of them boring into the contents of the package and my latex-gloved hands as I smooth the label. The door opens behind me, a whoosh of cold air rushing in. I grab the wool gloves and put them on before turning around. A young woman approaches the window, a stack of packages in her arms. There’s no telling whether she noticed me in my latex gloves. But I suppose, it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s just a game, after all.
Isn’t it?
In part two of this step, I will dispose of the baseball cap and both sets of gloves at a rest stop twenty miles south of here. And then, at last, it will be time for step seven. I want it all to be over, but also I don’t. There’s a rush in this off-kilter feeling, the thrill of secrecy and potential danger blended with something I haven’t felt in years—a sense of purpose, I think.
As I drop my package in the appropriate slot and head for the door, I could swear that sweet-faced elderly woman is watching me, too, and smiling. Do you know? I want to ask her. Do you understand? Are you one of us?
Eight
A?LAYAN KAYA
PRIVATE MESSAGES
January 16, 10:00 p.m.