I wanted to stay on point. “Anyway, we’re good witnesses, law-abiding citizens. Not even a speeding ticket. We’ll put Milo away forever.”
Dom smiled. “Now you’re talking.”
“We’re great witnesses because we’re a normal family, and on the other hand, because we’re a normal family, we have family and friends. You can’t have it both ways.” My side stitch began to subside. “You can’t get the value of a normal family but not accommodate us. That’s the argument you have to make to your boss.”
“And what do you want?”
“Protect my mother-in-law and Melissa. Get somebody on their street or some cameras, do whatever you do. And tell Melissa we’re in WITSEC.”
Dom fell silent. “It’s up to my boss.”
“What will he say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, you know.”
Dom pumped his arms. “I think we can swing surveillance of your mother-in-law. Maybe the friend. Melissa.”
Thank God. “That would be great.”
“But no message to her.”
“Why not?”
“What if she tells her friends?”
I had made the same argument to Lucinda. “She won’t if you warn her our lives are at stake.”
“Where does this end? How many friends do you want us to notify?”
I could deal with a slippery-slope argument. “She’s the only one. You need to get ahead of this. I know this woman, and she’s connected to the field hockey moms, the lacrosse moms, the choir moms, the drama moms. She’s—”
“The kingpin?” Dom supplied.
I laughed. “Bingo. These are suburban moms. The Vera Bradley Organization.”
Dom burst into laughter. “Tell me about it. My wife’s one.”
“So then you know, and please get it done. It would really help Lucinda. This is killing her.”
Dom wiped his brow again. “I’ll talk to Gremmie.”
“Your boss?”
“Yes, Richard Volkov. We call him Gremmie. The Gremlin from the Kremlin.”
I smiled. “He’s from Russia?”
“No, Cleveland.”
My mood lifted. “One more thing. My employees. I want to pay them severance. I have money in the corporate account. It has to happen this week. I don’t care how.”
“I’ll talk to Gremmie.”
“Thanks.” I hated to have to ask for everything. My father taught me to be self-reliant, and I was. Until now.
“So, Jason, where you from, originally?”
I started to answer, then stopped. “You know the answer already. Why don’t you tell me?”
Dom snorted. “Okay. You grew up on a twenty-one-acre farm in Hershey. Your father, William, was a second-generation farmer—”
“A dairyman, not a farmer.”
“I stand corrected. Your mother died of a heart attack. You were only nine. That must have been tough.”
“It was.” I loved my mother, but didn’t remember much about her. A round face framed with red curls and a sweet smile. A faint warm feeling of soft arms, kisses, kind words, rosewater, and More 100s.
“What was Hershey like?”
“Heaven. I felt like I went to school in a candy store.”
“I bet. I’m a chocoholic.”
“Me, too.”
“You don’t get sick of it?” Dom looked over, surprised.
“Never.”
“I worked in a McDonald’s and never want to eat it again.”
“Chocolate’s different.”
“Agree. Should be a controlled substance.”
I smiled. “Nowadays Hershey has the Medical Center and all, the place is booming. Back then, it was about the company. Every T-shirt I had was an irregular from the company store. We had dish towels covered with Hershey bars. Salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like Kisses.” I thought back, surprised the memories came so easily. I felt my throat catch, for some reason. “My father idolized Milton Hershey. Milton S. Hershey. We all called him MS. To be a dairyman for him was a badge of honor. We had a tiny farm, like only fifty head, but he kept us going. We had a picture of him on our mantelpiece.” I heard myself yammering, my emotions all over the lot. “So tell me, then what did I do?”
“Star linebacker in high school. Majored in political science at Bucknell. Graduated magna. One year at Dickinson Law School, dropped out.”
I hated the word dropout, even if I was. “I couldn’t afford it.”
“Hey, no judgment.” Dom shrugged. “Your father died when your kids were little. You sold the farm.”
“We had debt. I had student loans to pay.”
“Grew your court-reporting business, got licensed as a merit reporter. One of only thirteen in the country chosen to go to Guantánamo Bay. The youngest, too. You got clearance.”
“I did, Top Secret.” I couldn’t help but smile. “No civilian was ever prouder of clearance. You would have thought I was a four-star.”
Dom laughed.
“How about you? I don’t have a file on you.”
“I grew up in West Philly.”
“？‘West Philly born and raised’？”
Dom smiled. “Everybody says that. I never know whether to thank Will Smith or hit him.”
“I like Will Smith.”
“All White people do.”
I sensed I’d stuck my foot in my mouth. I felt momentarily like I didn’t know what to say, or how to act. I didn’t have any close friends who were Black, and only one of my employees was Black.
Dom added, “Relax, I like Will Smith, too.”
I laughed. “So then what about you?”
“University City High, Temple Criminal Justice Program, Quantico. Then, like I say, worked undercover for twelve years. Now, The Babysitters Club.”
“Where do you live?”
“Villanova. I was raised by my grandmother and my Uncle Tig. He had a check-cashing agency at Gibbons and Masterman. I was there every day, working after school. My grandmother hated it. Said it wasn’t safe. She was right. He got held up four times. Never got hurt, luckily. That’s why I went into law enforcement. I saw what he went through.”
“I get that.”
“Still, I loved that job. I felt useful.”
“I felt the same way. It’s a different world in a family business.” I added, “Your own world.”
“You work for yourself.”
“Exactly.”
Dom fell silent a moment. “I don’t know what made me think of that job. I haven’t seen my uncle in too long.”
“It must be hard, away from home for months with us . . . applicants.”
“It’s the job.”
“What do your neighbors think you do? Do you say you’re in WITSEC?”
“No, I say I travel a lot, work in procurement. Nobody knows what that is, and it sounds too boring to ask about.”
I smiled. “Do you like it? WITSEC?”
“In this case, absolutely.” Dom brightened. “Your family’s nice, and you can’t beat the location. Normally I’m in a crappy motel with a sociopath.”