The Never List

do you mean?”
    “Come on, Sarah. I’m sure she tells the FBI everything, and they have put us into some massive database of theirs. One day, you can rest assured, they’ll be calling on you to be a secret trained assassin. They’ve probably planted some kind of microchip in our brains. Whatever Jack Derber couldn’t achieve, they probably can.”
    I couldn’t tell if this was Tracy’s attempt at dark humor, or if the world truly did hold more horrors that I hadn’t considered. Ineeded to think about that one later, I decided, and shelved it in some inner recess of my brain.
    Our first stop was Keeler, Sylvia’s town. I wanted to see if she’d been home, or at least what was filling up her mailbox.
    We drove slowly down the street past Sylvia’s house. Nothing had changed. The mailbox was jammed full. The postman had tried to close it, but it would shut only halfway. We pulled up close, and I jumped out, looking around to make sure no one saw me.
    I pulled out a slip of paper from the top. A notice that Sylvia’s mail was being held at the post office going forward. I dug in a little bit farther but found only more junk mail. No letters from Jack, which suggested to me that maybe he knew where she was. Or at least where she wasn’t.
    “Okay, go!” I practically shouted to Tracy as I got back in the car.
    “Is someone after us again?” she said. I couldn’t tell if she was teasing me or not.
    “No, but I need to get away from here. That place creeps me out.”
    Tracy obligingly sped away, and we made our way to visit Val and Ray on the other side of town. I’d arranged for us to have dinner with them, and as we pulled into the driveway of their tidy bungalow, I told Tracy that while we were here, her name would be Lily. She made a face at the name and asked if she could pick it next time.
    Ray was waiting for us in the rocking chair on their front porch. He waved us in. Their house was cheerful and bright, decorated in a soothing palette of soft colors. A pot of stew must have been cooking somewhere in the house, its delicious aroma reminding us we hadn’t eaten anything since the pathetic boxed lunch on the plane.
    I introduced Tracy as Lily, relieved when she didn’t dispute it. Ray made a little joke about how her piercings must have hurt, and she nodded and smiled indulgently. She was on her best behavior at least, I thought, as Val joined us.
    “It was good to hear from you, Caroline,” Val began. I startedat the name my body still rejected. She shook hands with Tracy. “And how long have you been working as Caroline’s researcher?”
    When she was sure no one was looking, Tracy rolled her eyes at me and muttered a pointed “not long” under her breath.
    “And I’m delighted that you can stay for dinner,” continued Val, barely stopping for a beat. “Ray has some things he’d like to show you afterward.”
    After dessert Ray excused himself and returned a few minutes later with a large photograph album in hand. He set it down in front of us with an air of triumph.
    Val giggled. “Oh, he’s wanted to show this to someone for so long. I won’t have anything to do with it. Usually I won’t let him share it with anyone else, in case they think he’s a real weirdo. But we figured you’d be interested.”
    Tracy reached over to the album and flipped it open to the first page. Instead of photos, though, it was filled with carefully preserved newspaper clippings. Next to each one was an index card covered in a fine handwriting that slanted hard to the left.
    “My notes,” said Ray, noticing where our attention had gone. “I took notes based on the TV news reports and then added my own thoughts on the story. I always believed there was more to it. You know, the press only found out so much.”
    I looked over at Tracy. She was transfixed. I had known at the time that the press was covering our story, but I hadn’t seen any reports, mostly because I hadn’t been allowed to read the newspapers or watch television then. My parents had me cocooned at home, sheltered from the media frenzy. All I remember from those days was eating myself sick with the endless plates of food my mother made or that the neighbors brought over in steaming casserole dishes.
    Looking back, I realized I had been almost a prisoner at my parents’ house, patiently lying still on the couch as they stared atme in delighted disbelief for hours on end, offering to get me anything I wanted. New slippers, a cup of