CHAPTER ONEJENNA
PRESENT DAY
“There’s my girl,” Simon says in his chipper morning voice. It’s one of the things Jenna adores about her husband, his unrelenting cheerfulness.
She’s back from running her five miles and feeling every one of her thirty-nine years. She kisses Simon, then sits at the kitchen table across from her stepdaughter Lulu, who’s eating pancakes, her shiny Mary Janes swinging under the chair. As usual, their Labrador, Peanut Butter, is at the five-year-old’s feet, waiting for falling scraps.
Simon stands at the stovetop pouring batter for more flapjacks, wearing the apron that has I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING inscribed on the front.
“I thought you have an early meeting,” Jenna says, noticing that he’s still in his pajamas. He wears the button-up style like a character from a 1950s sitcom.
“I have time. I need to make sure my girls get the most important meal of the day.” He pushes his glasses up on his nose. For most women, the nerdy tax lawyer wouldn’t elicit the rush of whatever chemical or emotion crowding Jenna’s chest. But this boring numbers man, white-bread as they come, fills that part of Jenna that was empty for so long. She knows they’re an odd match. She catches the looks, the whispers, that she must be in it for the money, the gossipers not realizing that Simon isn’t exactly Bill Gates, even if he resembles him. In fact, Jenna’s numbered Swiss account dwarfs their modest savings and Simon’s 401(k).
Her older stepdaughter, Willow, bursts into the kitchen, backpack slung over her shoulder. She’s wearing her high school uniform and customary scowl. The skirt looks shorter than regulation—Jenna’s sure she’s had it altered—but she’s always walking a tightrope with Willow, so she doesn’t say anything.
Pick your battles.
“Good morning,” Jenna says with exaggerated cheeriness that would give even Simon a run for his money.
Willow mumbles something, opens the refrigerator, sighs at some unstated grocery-store failure on Jenna’s part.
“Pancakes?” Simon asks, earnestly. He’s immune to the seventeen-year-old’s morning gloom.
“Can’t. Ride’s here.”
Jenna says, “I can get you some fruit or something for the road.”
Willow gives her a you can’t be serious look before she leaves the kitchen with another mumble and the front door slams.
Jenna gets it. Willow lost her mother. Jenna knows what that feels like. Maybe one day they’ll be able to talk about it together.
Simon sets a plate in front of Jenna. Smiles. He doesn’t ask her what’s on her agenda today. He never does. They met on Match.com, a year ago—three years after the girls’ biological mother succumbed to cancer. They married six months later to the consternation of Simon’s family and friends. To hell with them all, he always says, the rare times he curses. And Willow will come around—just give her time.
Jenna’s not so sure about that.
After breakfast, she kisses Simon goodbye, does the dishes, gathers Lulu’s backpack. At the bus stop, the little girl stays on the sidelines, still too shy to join the other kids huddled on the picturesque block of their affluent village outside Washington, D.C.
Jenna understands. The other moms still haven’t taken to Jenna either. Simon always jokes that they’re intimidated by her looks. She doesn’t think it’s that, but she’ll keep trying. She smiles at Karen, the perfectly named queen bee of the neighborhood moms. The gesture goes unrequited.
Jenna joins the other parents waving to the tiny windows on the yellow school bus, all seeming part saddened, part elated, at the departure of their children for a few precious hours. As the bus disappears in a trail of black exhaust, Jenna notices a woman across the street who seems to be staring at her. She’s not one of the usual bus-stop parents. She has a pretty heart-shaped face, high cheekbones. Someone new in the neighborhood maybe. Too young to be a mom. An au pair? Jenna raises her hand to wave, but the woman turns away. Not even fellow outcasts want to be friends. Jenna watches a long moment as the woman crosses the street to avoid the other parents chatting on the sidewalk.
Back at the house, Jenna contemplates a shower. But it’s SoulCycle day. She’s already done her miles, so she could skip it, but they prepaid a fortune for the classes. Besides, what else does she have to do other than clean the house, which Simon already keeps immaculate? Tax lawyers, she’s learned, are people of precision. Still, there’s dry cleaning to pick up, a run to Whole Foods for Simon’s favorite steaks, Willow’s veggie burgers.
After running her errands, she again considers skipping spin class. Then a text arrives:
See you at SoulCycle!
That’s weird. She’s not meeting anyone at class. She doesn’t really have any friends. The message is from an unfamiliar number. Maybe it’s the next wave of advertising technology. They not only read your mind on your social-media feed; now it’s your texts. Maybe it’s the person she met in class last week who was friendly to her, though Jenna doesn’t recall giving the woman her number.
By noon, she’s rushing into the lobby of the SoulCycle on Massachusetts Avenue, downtown. Though the studio is only seven miles from Jenna’s house, it took forty minutes to get there. D.C. traffic is brutal, but it’s still nothing compared to Shanghai or Kabul. There’s a SoulCycle in Bethesda, much closer to home, but old habits from her single days are hard to break. And Emma L is her favorite instructor.
She smiles at the receptionist, signs in.
In the changing room, Jenna opens her locker. She’s surprised. There’s a cell phone inside. It’s the cheap burner-phone variety. She examines the locker’s door to make sure she’s opened the right one, but it’s her monthly rental. And the combination on the lock worked.
Dread courses through her.
The phone pings. The text is three words:
bathroom second stall
She scoops up the phone, shuts the tiny door to the locker, and heads to the restroom. Class is starting, she can hear music and the instructor’s distorted voice coming from the studio. The restroom is empty. Lowering her head, she peers under the row of stalls. No feet.
She faces the second stall, opens the door slowly, the pulsing beat of the music still vibrating through the walls.
A jolt rips through her. Inside the stall is a woman. She’s sitting on the toilet tank, her feet resting on the seat.
Another lightning bolt to the chest. It’s the young woman from the bus stop. The woman steps gracefully onto the floor and shoves a duffel bag into Jenna’s hands.
“I said I was done with all this,” Jenna tells her. “They said I was free and they wouldn’t—”
“That’s above my pay grade.”
“Please, I can’t.”
The woman shakes her head. “You’d better. For Simon, Willow, and Tallulah’s sake.”
The woman steps past her calmly and disappears.
Jenna’s heart is banging in her chest, sweat forming on her forehead. She steadies herself, then unzips the duffel. Inside, there’s a pair of movie-starlet sunglasses, a wig of flowing black hair, a denim jacket, and a keycard that says, HAMILTON HOTEL. Handwritten on the sleeve, a room number: 1018.
Five minutes later, Jenna slips out of the SoulCycle studio and struts down the street in her disguise. The Hamilton’s only a block away. Her gut is full of butterflies, but her training is coming back to her. Like riding a bike.
She’s not this person anymore. She can’t, she won’t.
But her family.
Inside room 1018, she finds a rifle with a high-end scope on a tripod positioned at the window.
The phone pings again and Jenna reads the instructions.
The bald man at the Capital Grille’s outdoor table won’t be making it to dessert.
CHAPTER TWODONNIE
Donnie wakes to loud thuds on his cabin door. Each pound reverberates through his head like an explosion. He’s on the floor of the tiny room in the belly of the cruise ship. Twenty years ago, he and the band would have been in the concierge suites. He pushes himself away from the vomit puddled on the floor. The ocean is choppy today and it’s making him feel even worse.
The thumping continues and he manages to climb to his feet. Wearing only tighty-whities, he opens the door, and the light from the hallway sends another bullet through his skull.
“Donnie, what’s going on?” Pixie has a concerned look on her face. “Rehearsal started half an hour ago. Tom is pissed.”
Before he responds, Pixie pushes her small frame inside. She makes a face at the stench, looks around, and before Donnie can conceal the evidence sets her eyes on the empty bottle of Jägermeister. The razor blade and rolled dollar bill on the table.
“Oh, Donnie,” she says. She puts her delicate brown hand on his ghost-white bare shoulder.
“I can’t do this right now,” he says, with more edge than she deserves.
Pixie’s new. She joined the band last year—Tracer’s Bullet has only two original members from back in the day, including Donnie. But it’s enough for the Legends of Rock Cruise. Pixie’s the only bandmate Donnie considers a friend. The rest merely tolerate him.
Her downcast expression is the worst. One thousand percent pity. He’s been sober for three months, the longest stretch in a decade. But then he got word last night about Ben. The closest thing he had to a brother. Then he ran into that aging groupie—the one with the same bleached hair she probably had when she raised a lighter to their hit power ballad two decades ago.
“Wanna party?” she’d said, smelling of cigarettes and beer. She didn’t have to ask him twice. He doesn’t remember much else.
“Can you play? Are you okay?” Pixie’s questions return him to the present. “Seriously, I’m worried. Tom seems—”
“Of course I can play.” He climbs into his shirt and jeans flung on the floor. Grabbing the handle to his guitar case, he charges out of the cabin.
“Hurry,” Pixie says, outpacing him. She moves quickly for such a compact woman. “I told them I was going to the bathroom.”
Donnie rushes into the ship’s performance hall and is greeted by several exasperated expressions, the most prominent from their singer, Tom Kipling.
“Sorry, y’all, I overslept,” Donnie says, opening his guitar case and slinging the strap over his shoulder.
“Pfft.” Tom grips the microphone, leaning as if he’s being held up by the stand. Donnie has a brief image of a younger man in the same pose. Even then, Tom was always bossing everyone around. The only thing that’s changed is Tom’s hair plugs, those white Chiclet teeth, and the tighter fit of his leather pants.
“Overslept…,” Tom says, with an audible sigh. “It’s four o’clock.”
“What do you want me to do? I said I’m sorry.”
Tom starts to speak but stops himself. Donnie notices Tom tap eyes with Animal, their drummer. “Let’s just do the sound check,” Tom says, sighing again. He points to the set list taped on the stage floor.
Animal clicks his sticks—a one, a two, a one-two-three-four—and Donnie strikes the opening chord to a song he’s played so many times he can barely stand it. From his Marshall stack comes what sounds like an elephant being slaughtered. His Les Paul is wildly out of tune, thanks to neglect and a popped string.
Tom waves his arms to cut the music. His sagging jowls quiver. But he doesn’t yell at Donnie. That’s a surprise. Donnie’s spent most of his adult life being yelled at by Tom Kipling, so he’s used to it. But this is worse. Tom composes himself, then looks over to their manager, Mickey, at stage right. Mickey gives Tom a nod, and Tom addresses the band.
“Tonight, after the show, you all have a choice to make,” Tom says. He spins around and fixes his gaze on Donnie. “It’s him or me.”
And with that—his aging-rock-star flair for the dramatic on full display—Tom stomps offstage.
Donnie looks at his bandmates. When he sees that even Pixie isn’t willing to make eye contact, he knows it’s over.
Later, after the last encore—they do two every show—Donnie runs offstage drenched in sweat and feeling euphoric. That sensation never goes away. He’s performed well; Tom can’t deny that. Donnie got his guitar freshly strung and went over the set list beforehand to be ready for tonight’s parade of oldies. He even hit all his marks for the ridiculous choreography.
Backstage, amid the high fives and rapture that follows every performance, he thinks things should be fine. Tom will have cooled off. Donnie can explain what happened—that his best friend, Benny, is dead. Not just dead. Murdered. He’ll explain that he’s committed to his sobriety—to the band—and they’ll give him another chance.
After the meet-and-greet—the selfies and poster signing and awkward conversations with drunk people—the VIP room clears out and Tom calls him over.
“You did well tonight,” Tom says.
“Thanks, brother. You were great. You sound like you did when we were kids.”
Tom gives a fleeting smile with that row of too-white teeth on his too-tan face. He’s like an old house with too many layers of paint. He takes a deep breath. “That’s just it, man. We’re not kids anymore.”
“I get it, Tommy. I promise it won’t happen again, I just—”
“I’ve got three ex-wives to support,” Tom interrupts. “My daughter’s in her second year at Berkeley. I need this job, man.”
“Trust me, so do I,” Donnie says. He holds back his resentment at Tom’s tales of financial woe. Tom took all the songwriting credits—at the time the rest of the band didn’t understand that if your name isn’t on the song the money stops. It’s the reason Tracer’s Bullet broke up. Donnie’s the only other member who was desperate enough to come back.
“That’s what makes this hard, Don.”
“Tommy…”
Tom offers a sad expression. “It’s done, my friend. I wish you nothing but the best.”
Copyright © 2023 by Alex Finlay
