The Map of True Places Read Online Free PDF Page A

it.
    She could follow his thought process. Michael was a game theorist and as famous as Mattei in his own right. He was paid to predict what groups of people would do. As a result, Michael always seemed to know what she would do before she did it, even when (as was so often the case these days) she had no idea herself.
    Don’t answer the phone, she thought.
    She didn’t say it. It would have been stupid. And it would have been futile. As she stood there with him, she felt as if she were the one who was the game theorist. She knew exactly what he would do.
    Michael picked up the phone on the fifth ring. “Yes?” he said into the receiver. Zee could tell that it was Mattei. Then, so she continued to feel his earlier reprimand, he went on, “No, evidently Zee does not answer her cell.” He listened to Mattei for a moment, and then, at her direction, he walked over to the TV and flipped it on. “What channel?” he asked. Then he handed the phone to Zee.
    Zee kept her eyes on the television as Michael changed the channels, settling on the local news, Channel Five.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Zee said to Mattei.
    On the screen several cars were pulled over on the top level of the Tobin Bridge. An SUV with its driver’s door opened sat next to the leftmost guardrail. Police were trying to contain the crowds who were leaning over the side, pointing. The TV camera panned across the blackening water, but aside from a few pleasure boats nothing seemed unusual. The camera cut back to the newscaster, a blonde in a blue top.Pointing the microphone at the toll collector, she asked, “Did you know she was going to jump when she pulled over?”
    The toll taker shook her head. “I thought she was opening the door because she had dropped her money.”
    Another eyewitness leaned into the microphone, vying for camera time. “She didn’t jump, she dove.”
    The newscaster held the microphone out to a man who stood off to the side, staring over the railing. “I am told that you witnessed the whole thing,” she said to him.
    He didn’t say anything but just stared at the newscaster.
    Zee recognized shock when she saw it and hoped one of the medical personnel would treat him for it.
    The woman poked the microphone closer. “What did you see?”
    As if suddenly realizing where he was, the man pulled himself together. With a look of disgust and anger, he pushed the microphone away. “Stop,” he said.
    Zee felt dizzy. She held on to the couch arm to steady herself. A faint beeping sound was still audible from the SUV’s driver’s-side door, near where the key had been left in the ignition. It was weak and failing, but no one had thought to put a stop to it.
    Zee recognized the car.
    â€œHer husband left a message on the service,” Mattei said to Zee.
    Michael stared at Zee, still not understanding what was happening.
    â€œWho was it?” he finally asked.
    â€œMy three-o’clock,” Zee said.

3
    Z EE TOOK THE TUNNEL to the North Shore instead of the bridge. The old Volvo she’d gotten in grad school barely passed inspection every year, and though she seldom drove in town, she couldn’t seem to give it up. The alignment was so bad that she had to keep both hands firmly on the wheel to stay in her lane as she drove.
    Zee hated tunnels—the darkness, the damp, the dripping from overhead, where she imagined the weight of water already pushing through the cracks, finding any weak spot and working its way through. She wasn’t alone. Since the Big Dig tunnel ceiling collapse a couple of years back, most Bostonians were skittish about tunnels.
    â€œWater always seeks its own level,” Zee said aloud, though she was alone in the car and the sound of her own voice seemed wrong. The thought was wrong, too. It only made her more tense. Think of something else, she told herself. She wished she had taken the bridge. At the same