into her chair. I stood above her, looking down at the top of her head. I could see her white scalp through the part in her dark hair. It made her seem very vulnerable somehow. I felt for her.
"Now who got killed?" I asked.
She looked up suddenly, shocked and terrified.
"Last night," I said. "You said you didn't know they would kill him. Who were you talking about?"
She lied in answer without any hope that I'd believe her. She let her head sink again, her gaze on the table. She didn't even bother to meet my eyes. "I didn't say ... I don't remember saying anything like that."
I opened her phone. I laid it down open on the table in front of her, right under her nose. I pressed the numbers. As I pressed
them, they showed up on the readout screen, large and bright. 9.1.1. I held my finger over the CALL button.
"Let me explain how this works," I said. "I'm the grown-up. You're the child. When I tell you to do something, you do it. All right? Now let's give it a try. Answer my question, Serena. Who got killed?"
She didn't answer. I heard her swallow.
I pressed the CALL button.
Her two hands fluttered out together. They seized the phone and snapped it shut. Her head sunk down, she clutched the phone close to her belly as if she were afraid I'd snatch it away again.
"If you call the police, they'll know," she said softly. "They'll know it was me."
"Who'll know?"
"The people. The people who ... did it. They have guys who listen. To the radios. They can get into the computers, too. They'll know if the police find out. They'll know it was me who told them. There's no one else it could be."
She lifted her face to me then, her little-girl face, helpless and sick and pleading. I looked down at her and my heart just sank—it felt like a stone inside me dropping into a well of fathomless darkness.
I could see it now. I couldn't see it last night, but now in the morning light it was obvious. I could see the resemblance between us. I was certain she was mine.
"If you call the police," she said very quietly, "these people—they'll know. They'll know and they'll kill me, too."
Then, crying, she told me her story.
The Great Swamp
It happened about a month ago. Serena was still living at home then. She was out on the town one night, the way she was almost every night, doing the clubs just as she was last night when I found her. She was wild and muddy-minded on Ecstasy and booze—same as last night. And same as last night, she ended up dancing in The Den with the fake flames throwing her shadow up among the other dancing shadows on the fake-rock walls.
She was out on the dance floor with a couple of girlfriends. Soon a guy broke in on them and separated her from the pack. She and the boy convulsed in unison to the Morse-code music and the stampede beat. Their hands waved in the air above their heads; their hips pulsed toward each other across an ever-smaller gap of darkness stroked by whirling colored lights. After a while, the music changed. It got sparkly and slow. Serena ended up hanging off the boy's neck like a pendant, her face against his chest. It was cozy dancing that way. She liked how he smelled. She decided she would spend the night with him.
She never found out his name. He told it to her, but she couldn't hear it over the music. He was a white guy, though; she remembered that. Most of the guys she hung out with were some shade of brown or yellow, some mix of bloodlines. But this guy was as white as she was—which was so white, it sometimes seemed to her a kind of racial nakedness. Sometimes she was vaguely embarrassed by her own whiteness. And she looked down on most of
the white boys she met. But tonight, for some reason, the white of the boy against her whiteness struck her as exotic and attractive. She liked it.
The boy was unusual in other ways, too. Tall and narrowly built, he was disheveled and soft. He wasn't gym-rat ripped like a lot of guys she knew with their heroic pecs and washboard abs. He wasn't
"Now who got killed?" I asked.
She looked up suddenly, shocked and terrified.
"Last night," I said. "You said you didn't know they would kill him. Who were you talking about?"
She lied in answer without any hope that I'd believe her. She let her head sink again, her gaze on the table. She didn't even bother to meet my eyes. "I didn't say ... I don't remember saying anything like that."
I opened her phone. I laid it down open on the table in front of her, right under her nose. I pressed the numbers. As I pressed
them, they showed up on the readout screen, large and bright. 9.1.1. I held my finger over the CALL button.
"Let me explain how this works," I said. "I'm the grown-up. You're the child. When I tell you to do something, you do it. All right? Now let's give it a try. Answer my question, Serena. Who got killed?"
She didn't answer. I heard her swallow.
I pressed the CALL button.
Her two hands fluttered out together. They seized the phone and snapped it shut. Her head sunk down, she clutched the phone close to her belly as if she were afraid I'd snatch it away again.
"If you call the police, they'll know," she said softly. "They'll know it was me."
"Who'll know?"
"The people. The people who ... did it. They have guys who listen. To the radios. They can get into the computers, too. They'll know if the police find out. They'll know it was me who told them. There's no one else it could be."
She lifted her face to me then, her little-girl face, helpless and sick and pleading. I looked down at her and my heart just sank—it felt like a stone inside me dropping into a well of fathomless darkness.
I could see it now. I couldn't see it last night, but now in the morning light it was obvious. I could see the resemblance between us. I was certain she was mine.
"If you call the police," she said very quietly, "these people—they'll know. They'll know and they'll kill me, too."
Then, crying, she told me her story.
The Great Swamp
It happened about a month ago. Serena was still living at home then. She was out on the town one night, the way she was almost every night, doing the clubs just as she was last night when I found her. She was wild and muddy-minded on Ecstasy and booze—same as last night. And same as last night, she ended up dancing in The Den with the fake flames throwing her shadow up among the other dancing shadows on the fake-rock walls.
She was out on the dance floor with a couple of girlfriends. Soon a guy broke in on them and separated her from the pack. She and the boy convulsed in unison to the Morse-code music and the stampede beat. Their hands waved in the air above their heads; their hips pulsed toward each other across an ever-smaller gap of darkness stroked by whirling colored lights. After a while, the music changed. It got sparkly and slow. Serena ended up hanging off the boy's neck like a pendant, her face against his chest. It was cozy dancing that way. She liked how he smelled. She decided she would spend the night with him.
She never found out his name. He told it to her, but she couldn't hear it over the music. He was a white guy, though; she remembered that. Most of the guys she hung out with were some shade of brown or yellow, some mix of bloodlines. But this guy was as white as she was—which was so white, it sometimes seemed to her a kind of racial nakedness. Sometimes she was vaguely embarrassed by her own whiteness. And she looked down on most of
the white boys she met. But tonight, for some reason, the white of the boy against her whiteness struck her as exotic and attractive. She liked it.
The boy was unusual in other ways, too. Tall and narrowly built, he was disheveled and soft. He wasn't gym-rat ripped like a lot of guys she knew with their heroic pecs and washboard abs. He wasn't
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