Page 98 of What Boys Learn

“I can’t send you to California, and I can’t send you to Italy.”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“So? Would you rather earn some money helping Curtis?”

“Yes, if I have no other choice. I’d prefer to go somewhere and see something new and earn some money, instead of just boiling inside our apartment. Of course I would.”

Of course he would. Why had I asked him if my gut told me he shouldn’t go? Maybe I was hoping for an out—an act of resistance on Benjamin’s part, so I wouldn’t have to be the one to say no when Curtis asked again on Monday.

“Enjoy your swim,” I said. “Don’t go too far out.”

“What’s too far?”

“I don’t know. Farther than I can see you.”

He exhaled through his nose, aloof superiority audible in that little puff of air. When he was younger, fart noises were the thing. I missed those playful noises now. Someday, I might even miss moments from this summer, as difficult as it had been so far. Children grow up too soon. Even the challenging ones do.

There was my answer. I didn’t want to send Benjamin away, even if he wanted to go, and even if it might make my life temporarily easier. I couldn’t let him go away with someone I didn’t know well, even if Curtis was well-intentioned. My gut was telling me, loud and clear. I couldn’t afford to make even one more mistake with Benjamin. He would have to be mad at me on Monday, if Curtis offered again and I refused. We’d both live with it.

“Benjamin,” I said just as he stepped away from our towels.

“Yeah?”

“You’re a good swimmer. I trust you. Just be careful.”

After he’d waded into the water, I pulled a folder from my tote bag. Inside it were some FBI technical papers from Robert’s files. All weekend, I’d kept sifting through materials, trying to shake off the inexplicable perception of a continuing threat, even with Weber dead and Veronica Lovell released. That strange line from the news interview came back to me now.Kittens need to catch their own mice. Who were the kittens? Who were the cats?

I read another FBI report, one meant to dispel popular myths. Serial killers, it said, are not always single, dysfunctional loners. Serial killers are not all white males. Serial killers do not want to get caught over time, even though they do tend to get careless following years of getting away with their murders.

I knew those things already.What else?

My next homework assignment was even less pleasant. Curtis had sent me the hypnosis transcript. Squinting at the dim screen, I opened and began reading.

First, it was easy to take in. Curtis had typed everything he’d recorded, even our banter at the beginning of the hour. Within half a page I was no longer on the Zion beach, reading a dim screen. Not in Curtis’s office, either. I was at the forest preserve not far from here, reliving it all again. Age thirteen. With my brother and his friend.Grant. A name I’d rather forget.

I read about getting drunk, needing to vomit, needing to pee. Ewan following me. His taunts and his violence. The way that I accepted all of it and still looked up to him, no matter what he threatened. The way I never knew when he was being serious or simply teasing. Those moments I never saw coming. His hands around my neck, lifting me off the ground.

The transcript matched my conscious memories. The main difference was the level of detail. The sensations hit me like waves. The heat. The sound of cicadas. The smell of the muddy creek.

When I got to the moment when I was walking through the woods to the next trailhead, where I fell asleep or passed out, waiting for Ewan and Grant to pick me up, I saw there were still many pages left to read. My eyes flitted across the screen. A trickle of sweat ran down my neck. These were the parts Curtis didn’t want me to read—until he did.

Dogface. That was Ewan calling out from the open car window.What the fuck. Wake up.

The car stopped. Doors opened. Driver’s side, passenger side, and then a third door, the back passenger door. Grant yelled,Hey!A girl had jumped out.

Get the fuck back here.

Ewan was pulling me to my feet, and I looked and she looked back. I didn’t understand what I was seeing.

She was young, maybe a year older than me, and thin, and pale. Her bare arms and legs glowing in the moonlight. Her beige bra still on, something balled up—maybe a T-shirt—in her fist. But from the waist down she was naked, and her eyes were wide with fright.

Hurry, Grant said to Ewan, who shoved me into the front seat of the car and then climbed over me, so he was in the middle, all the better to yell at Grant.

You better fucking go after her.

It’s all right.

It’s not all right. She’s running straight back to where the cop cars were.