“I want to show you something and ask you your opinion.”
“What is it?”
“Wait and see. I don’t want to say.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to prejudice you. Come in.” Christine turned on the light in Marcus’s home office, which he rarely used. One of the benefits to being an infertile couple was that they had a lot of spare rooms, having moved into their four-bedroom in Cornwell expecting to fill it with children.
“Why are we in Daddy’s office? I can’t remember the last time I was in here.”
“Because he has the biggest computer in the house.”
“Wow, it’s so ritzy. Did Greenwich explode in this room?” Lauren glanced around, taking in the neat bookshelves filled with engineering textbooks, job files from work, hardcover biographies, copies of Golf Digest, and an entire shelf of golf books. The window on the right side of the room had green plaid window treatments, and underneath was a strip of artificial turf with a white plastic cup at one end, his Callaway putting green.
“Sit down at his desk.” Christine gestured her into the mesh ergonomic chair at the sleek walnut desk, which boasted the latest-and-greatest iMac, with a twenty-seven-inch screen and retina display. Marcus used it for Excel spreadsheets from work and Madden golf video games, but tonight it was going to serve a more important function.
“Are you guys in a fight?” Lauren sat down, swiveling around like a kid in the chair.
“No.” Christine leaned over, palmed the mouse, and woke up the computer, which showed the landing page of SportsIllustrated.com. She navigated to the CNN website and clicked on the story, which she noted hadn’t changed since the addition of the medical saw. She clicked on the video and enlarged it, without playing it. “I would like to show you a video. It’s the one they played in the teachers’ lounge today, of that serial killer they arrested in Pennsylvania.” Christine could barely bring herself to say the words. “Take a good look at the guy they arrested, a young blond man. Then I want to show you something else.”
“Okay.” Lauren turned her attention to the computer as Christine clicked PLAY. The video began the way it always did, with the police walking forward and out of frame, then came the prisoner.
Christine tried not to react as the blond man ducked into the police cruiser and looked up, which was when she reached over and clicked STOP to freeze the video. “You see that face?”
“Sure, yes.” Lauren nodded.
“Now I want to show you something else.” Christine slid her iPhone from the pocket of her jeans, swiped to the photo of Donor 3319 as an adult, and set it down on the desk. “Now, look at this. This is a picture of our donor.”
Lauren looked down at the phone, but said nothing, her expression impassive and her lips pursed.
“What’s your first impression?” Christine asked, holding her breath.
Lauren looked over at the screen, then back down at the photo, apparently double-checking.
“Well?”
“Well.” Lauren looked up, her forehead creased. “They look alike. I mean, they look a little like each other.”
“Right? I mean, it’s weird, you have to admit.” Christine had to force herself to say the words out loud. “Our donor looks like that serial killer.”
“Yeah, I see that.” Lauren swallowed visibly and palmed the mouse. The computer woke up, with the freeze-frame of the prisoner looking up.
“Let’s compare.” Christine picked up her phone, unlocked it, and held Donor 3319’s photo right next to the prisoner’s face on the monitor. “Please tell me they’re not the same guy.”
“No, they’re not.” Lauren shook her head, then threw up her hands. “I mean, obviously, your donor is not a serial killer. It’s just not possible.”
“That’s what Marcus says, and I know they screen these donors.” Christine’s words raced out, as if they were escaping pressurization. “Our donor is a medical student, and it doesn’t say this guy’s a medical student, but they did find a medical saw in his trunk.”
Lauren kept shaking her head. “It does look a little like him, I know why you’re saying this. But it’s not him. I mean, they could be brothers, for God’s sake. It could be anything. They don’t look exactly alike, for what that’s worth.”
“What difference do you see?”
“I think the guy they arrested has a narrower face. Like his face is thinner. The eyes look a lot alike, but blue-eyed people have those eyes. Round, pretty, blue. Like a doll. Goyische eyes.”
“What?”
“Gentile eyes, WASPY. But, wow, this is scary. You must’ve been scared.” Lauren looked up, her forehead buckling, and Christine could read the sympathy in her expression.
“I’m worried it’s the same person. Marcus doesn’t think so.”
Lauren palmed the mouse. “Wait, hold on. What’s the name of the serial killer?”
“Zachary Jeffcoat.”
“Okay.” Lauren navigated to Google, plugged in Zachary Jeffcoat, and searched under Images. A mosaic of the prisoner’s face flooded the screen, and Christine tried to take in all the faces, photographed from different angles. Most of the photos had been taken after his arrest, shot in the same sunlight, with him wearing the same clothes. Some of the other photographs were of dark-haired men who weren’t him, and there were two black men. But the overwhelming number were the blond prisoner. Something about seeing them all together was nightmarish, as if the parts all added up to the same place, Christine’s worst fear.
“Hold on,” Lauren said, on task. “Let’s look him up on Facebook.”
“Really? A serial killer, on Facebook?”
“Why not? Everybody’s on Facebook.” Lauren logged out of Google and navigated to Facebook, typing in her name and password, then she plugged in Zachary Jeffcoat, and a full page of Zachary Jeffcoats popped onto the screen. Some showed men with families who looked older, some were African-American, but there were plenty of shadowy faces from pages that were kept private.
“All I know about him is he’s from Nevada and that he’s in medical school. I don’t know his hometown or where he goes to school, they don’t tell you that.”
“Hmmmm.” Lauren scrolled down through the thumbnails. “I don’t see anybody from Nevada. Or anybody from a medical school. He’s got to be on Facebook. He’s young and good-looking and a medical student.”
“He might be keeping his settings private.”
“Right.” Lauren logged out of Facebook and navigated to Instagram, plugging in her username and password. “You never know, right? It’s certainly worth checking.”
“Right.” Christine watched, her stomach still tense.
“Okay, so he’s not on Instagram, at least under his name. Let me check Twitter.” Lauren’s fingers flew across the keyboard, and Christine felt a wave of gratitude for her best friend.
“What would I do without you?”
“Without me, you would’ve ended up with a coconut sheet cake, which I know you hate.” Lauren shook her head, eyeing the Instagram search. “I’m not seeing him. Is it odd that he is not on social media? I mean everybody is, especially his generation.”
“Not necessarily. Some people boycott. Not everybody’s a teacher.” Christine wanted to laugh it off. It was a running joke that teachers were more obsessed with social media than teenagers, but they used it for exchanging lesson plans, telling each other new ways to engage students, and sending links to the latest mole in district headquarters, who leaked them confidential info about what was coming from Common Enemy.
“That’s true.” Lauren half-smiled.
“I don’t think it means anything. We know teachers who hide their identities online. They don’t want the administration to know. He might go under ScooterGuy, or Reds fan, or something like that.” Christine was starting to convince herself. “Like, Marcus’s firm has a professional page on Facebook, but he also has a personal page under Golden Bear Posse, for his golf buddies.”