The Spy Coast

While I resent their invasion of my privacy, anything less than my full cooperation will lead to a search warrant and a deep dive into my past, and that I can’t afford, so I take them on the grand tour. Bedrooms, bathrooms, closets.

On the platform, I see girls in miniskirts, boys in jackets with football logos, all of them thirsty for their next drink. I am stone-cold sober. I never drink before an operation, and that’s what this feels like. Operation Danny. It’s only dinner and maybe sex. And after that? I know how to disappear. It’s my specialty.

Old age confers anonymity, which makes it the most effective disguise of all.

On US Route 1, the coastal road that led back to the village, Jo drove past the curve where a bicyclist fell and fractured his skull last summer, past the cove where a teenage girl drowned. When you live your whole life in one town, you know all the places where tragedy has occurred, because bad memories are as permanent as gravestones.

“What do you do?” I take another swig of water, a pause to cue up my backstory. “I’m an import analyst for Europa Global Logistics.” “Europa? As in Jupiter’s moon?” “Very good. Most people don’t know that.”

Ben is studying me. Reading faces is a talent of his, and he must sense there’s a purpose to my joining them today. I wait until Janine is out of earshot before I ask the men my question.

Ingrid and Lloyd will of course confirm the boring truth: that we met tonight for a potluck dinner and copious wine and a spirited discussion of The Travels of Ibn Battutah. It’s exactly the sort of evening that we retired folks are believed to indulge in. I doubt the police will ask what we are all retired from, because when you are over the hill,

I can’t imagine it had anything to do with me. That’s the biggest lie of all. Of course this has to do with me. What I don’t know is what message the body in my driveway was meant to convey. Is it to terrify me? Or is it a gift, the same way a cat brings you a dead mouse? A way to tell me: We took care of your little problem. You’re welcome. I have

I walk them through the living room, which I’ve furnished in the style of sensible Yankee thrift. The sofa, upholstered in gray wool, was purchased at a discount furniture store in Bangor. The birchwood coffee table, pine end tables, and spindle-back rocking chair were yard sale finds, lugged home with the help of Declan, who’s always ready to lend