The Plot, Jean Korelitz [read e books online free txt] 📗

own daughter, and the fraudulent identity she was presenting to the world. And didn’t that make for a pretty compelling story of its own? Like, cover of People magazine compelling? In fact, Jake sat for a distinctly enjoyable moment, mentally composing his very first—and with luck, his last—email to her:

Here’s the statement I’ll be releasing if you don’t get out of my life and keep your mouth shut. Any corrections before it goes out?

“In 2012 a young woman named Rose Parker died violently at the hands of her own mother, who then stole her identity, appropriated her scholarship at the University of Georgia, and has been living as her daughter ever since. She is currently harassing a well-known author, but she really ought to be famous in her own right.”

He could smell the soup, and all of those health-giving greens in it. The cat, Whidbey, leapt up onto his lap and looked optimistically at the tabletop, but there was nothing there for him, so he absconded to the kilim-covered couch Anna had chosen, part of her campaign to make his life better. She hadn’t wanted him to go to Georgia, obviously, but when he told her everything he’d discovered she would understand why it had been the right decision, and she’d help him make the best possible use of the information he’d brought back.

He heard the door. She was home with a loaf of bread and an apology not to have been here on his return, and when he hugged her she hugged him back, and the relief he hadn’t realized he was so in need of came sweeping through him.

“Look what I brought,” he said, handing her the bourbon.

“Nice. I’d better not have any myself, though. You know I need to head to LaGuardia in a couple of hours.”

He looked at her. “I thought it was tomorrow.”

“Nope. Red-eye.”

“How long will you be gone?”

She wasn’t sure, but she wanted to keep it as brief as possible. “That’s why I’m flying at night. I’ll sleep on the plane and go right to the storage unit from the airport. I think I can get it all sorted out inside of three days, and the work stuff, too. If I have to stay another day, I will.”

“I hope you won’t,” Jake said. “I’ve missed you.”

“You missed me because you knew I was pissed at you for going.”

He frowned. “Maybe. But I’d have missed you anyway.”

She went to get the soup and brought back a single bowl.

“Aren’t you having any?” Jake said.

“In a bit. I want to hear about what happened.”

She put the bread she’d just gone out to buy on a cutting board, and poured wine for both of them, and he began to tell her everything he’d learned since leaving Athens: the drive north into the mountains, the chance meeting at the general store, the campsite far enough back in the woods that you could barely hear the creek. When he held out the photograph he’d taken on his phone, she stared at it.

“It doesn’t look like a place where somebody burned to death.”

“Well, it’s been seven years.”

“You said, the man who took you out there, he’d been at the scene that morning?”

“Yeah. Volunteer fireman.”

“That’s quite the lucky coincidence.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Small town. Something like that would involve a lot of people—EMTs, cops, firemen. People at the hospital. The coroner turned out to be this guy’s neighbor.”

“And the two of them just sat down with a total stranger and told you everything? It seems kind of wrong, doesn’t it?”

“Does it? I guess I ought to be grateful. At the very least they kept me from poking around all the cemeteries in Rabun Gap with a flashlight.”

“What does that mean?” said Anna. She refilled Jake’s wineglass.

“Well, they told me where the plot was.”

“The plot you sent me the photo of?”

He nodded.

“Look, I’m going to have to ask you to be more specific. I want to be exactly sure I understand everything you’re saying here.”

“I’m saying,” said Jake, “that Rose Parker is buried in a place called Pickett Hill, just outside of Clayton, Georgia. The headstone says Dianna Parker, but it’s Rose.”

Anna seemed to require time to think this through. When that had been accomplished, she asked how he was enjoying the soup.

“It’s delicious.”

“Good. It’s the other half of that batch we had before,” she said. “When you got back from Vermont. The night you told me about Evan Parker.”

“Soup for the raveled sleeve of care,” he recalled.

“That’s right.” She smiled.

“I wish I hadn’t waited so long to tell you about this,” Jake said, bringing the heavy spoon to his lips.

“Never mind,” she said. “Drink up.”

He did.

“So, just because we’re talking this through, what is it you think happened here, exactly?”

“What happened is that Dianna Parker, like hundreds of thousands of other parents, was delivering her kid to college in August of 2012. And maybe, like probably most of them, she had mixed feelings about that kid’s departure. Rose was smart, obviously. She rammed her way through high school and into college in only three years, didn’t she?”

“Did she?”

“With a scholarship, apparently.”

“Genius girl,” said Anna. But she didn’t sound that impressed.

“Must have been pretty desperate to escape her mother.”

“Her terrible mother.” She rolled her eyes.

“Right,” Jake said. “And probably she was very ambitious, just like her mother might have been, once, but Dianna never made it out of West Rutland. There was the pregnancy, the punitive parents, the uninvolved brother.”

“Don’t forget the dude who got her pregnant and then was like: leave me out of it.”

“Sure. So there she is, driving her daughter farther away than either of them have ever been, from the only place they’ve ever lived, and she knows her daughter’s never coming home. Sixteen years of putting her own life aside and taking care of this person, and now boom: it’s over and she’s gone.”

“Without a thank-you, even.”

“Okay.” Jake nodded. “And maybe she’s thinking: Why wasn’t this me? Why didn’t I get to have this life? So when