I start to move.
“Not so fast.”
I do as she says. Must have seen me speeding. Must have been following me for a while. Or else . . . Oh God . . .
“Do exactly as I say. Place your hands on the left rear bumper. Wide stance. Legs three feet apart.”
They found Kimball. They must have. I feel her gloved hands at my neck, my shoulders, down the length of my back, around my waist. She pulls at my hair, jams her hands in the pockets of my coat. She tells me to take off my shoes.
“What?”
“Kick off your shoes. Do not move your hands.”
Does she think I keep a stiletto in my heel like some James Bond villain? But I say nothing. I do as I’m told, my head bowed, my stockinged feet on the icy road, the cold burning into my bones.
She stands behind me for a long time, saying nothing. I start to shiver uncontrollably. Do something. Arrest me. Read me my fucking rights. I want to say it. To scream it. Flag down a car. Run into traffic.
I feel her moving closer, her boots scuffing the macadam.
Then I hear another sound. The snap of a holster. The release of a safety.
“Please,” I whisper.
She says, “Why did you go to Olivia Weiss’s house?”
“What?”
“Stay still or I shoot.”
My teeth chatter. I can’t form words.
“Why did you go to Olivia Weiss’s house?”
“I . . . I was . . . Her brother . . . I was a wit—”
“We know what you were,” she says. “We know what you are.” And it all comes together, the pieces arranging themselves in my head. We.
“Did you tell Olivia Weiss about the collective?”
I close my eyes. “No.”
“We’ll find out if you’re lying.”
“I swear I didn’t.”
“Then why did you go to her house?”
“I . . . I wanted to . . . I was just . . .”
“What?”
“Curious.”
“Curious?”
A car whooshes by, the sound of it lingering in my ears. Then another whoosh, and another. The roar of silence. My breathing is shallow. Panic attack. Stop. Calm down. Think. “Yes.”
“What the hell were you curious about?”
“Her brother.” My voice quavers. “He lost a child. Like I did. Like we did.”
The trooper doesn’t speak. I keep my eyes shut, holding my breath, until finally I hear the safety clicking back on.
“If you don’t do what you’re told to do,” she says, “it ruins things. Not just for us. But for the memories of our children. All of our children. Do you get that?” I hear her take a step back. “Look at me.”
I do. I turn around and look straight at her, my face stretched and distorted in her fun house–mirror glasses, her hand resting on the holstered gun at her hip. “Do you?”
“Yes. Yes, I get it.”
She watches me for a while, then places my license and registration on the trunk of my car and gives me a sweet, pearly smile. “We’re letting you off with a warning, ma’am.” She thwacks a finger against the broad brim of her hat as I stare at her, frozen. “Please try to be more careful next time.”