Chapter Thirty-Eight Rory

I’m about to switch off the lamp, put this crazy book about me down. Admit defeat. Because I’ve reread more than half of it with painstaking attention and still have zero clue what’s been nagging me. And I’m exhausted to the bone. But, no. I grab a Coke from the minifridge and strengthen my resolve. I’m an Aronov. I don’t easily give up, not when I truly want something. So I caffeinate and continue reading, and finally my eyes reward my persistence by registering a detail on page 224. Two words.

Operation Kazuka.

I gasp, because suddenly it smacks me, that odd sensation the first time I read the book. And now I can pinpoint exactly what it’s arisen from.

Operation Kazuka.

See, Papa was pretty strict. We always had early curfews, rules about boys and girls mingling unsupervised. I wasn’t in the popular crowd, not too fast, but I had crushes, flirtations. Parties I wanted to go to. Max wasn’t in the partying scene, at least not in high school, but he always backed me up if I needed help. Papa had this system, where instead of waiting up for me, he’d set an alarm clock and leave it in the hallway. I had to get home before it would start blaring, to switch it off.

But sometimes I’d call Max and say, Operation Kazuka. And he’d turn it off for me.

And that one time I threw a party when Papa was out of town—and then discovered he was coming back early—Max was ace. We kicked everyone out, gathered up all the red Solo cups. Filled the half-drunk vodka handle back up with water and prayed Papa wouldn’t notice the dilution.

Operation Kazuka.I forget who invented it, or when… Max and I used to chew reams of that pink Bazooka bubble gum that was popular when we were kids, and one of us was staring at the wrapper when we spun it into our sibling code.

I bolt to a seat, understanding fully now why I found it so jarring on my first read to stumble across that phrase in the book

I didn’t mention it to Ginevra Ex. I know—know—I didn’t. That I wouldn’t. Which means she must have overheard it from Max. But I can’t imagine him offering up that story, either. We pinkie swore on it, vowed sibling code. We were always loyal about those types of things. Especially Max—anything family related assumes Sopranos-level devotion. Only Caro knew what our code meant, impossible to hide it from her, as she was practically an Aronov herself. And anyway, we haven’t used it in years—decades. I’d venture that even Nate doesn’t know Operation Kazuka. Which means the only way I can imagine Ginevra gleaning onto our code—and finding it catchy enough to include in the book—is if she overheard it.

If Ginevra overheard Max using it. Say, to his assistant. I can easily imagine it: No, Ramona. Please tell John that’s in the file for Operation Kazuka.

Is Max involved in something fishy? Dishonest? And so… what, he read the book and knew full well that if I latched onto what Operation Kazuka means, I’d infer the import behind it?

But what the hell? What could my brother possibly be covering up?

Suddenly, sheer dread fills me head to toe, and I wonder if I know.

My brain is whirling, forming links between facts that were previously disparate, innocuous.

How Max is so fast to say work is great, great—but how in the past year at least, Caro’s face does something strange as he says it.

That Max and Caro were arguing at the Colosseum.

That Caro is embezzling from Hippoheal…

That Max’s motive in life has always been to make Papa proud.

So different from me. Sure, I became a news anchor, like Papa foretold. Whether it’s because of him, because I valued his opinion more than anyone’s, or whether he truly saw what was best for me, I’m no longer sure. The chicken or the egg…

But I know that I’ve done things that displeased Papa—moving to LA, smoking weed in college. (He found a stash in my bag when he was looking for mints, and his reaction was as though I’d started a nuclear war. Apparently smoking weed in the Soviet Union was considered on par with shooting up heroin.)

And while I hated upsetting Papa, or disappointing him, it didn’t shatter me like it did Max. Max has always needed more of Papa—been splintered by his opinion. The two of them riling each other up, making little things mean more than they do. And on the flip side—Papa’s approvals could be overwhelming, a torrent of praise and affection. Max always lapped it right up. I don’t know why, but I enjoyed it yet always needed it less.

I sift through all the separate pieces but none of it gels. And Caro took the books, not Max. Unless… could Caro and Max have taken them together… but why? If Max was somehow involved, because of a thing that he needs to conceal, then what’s he covering up? Something with the vaccine? I freeze, as the scene at the Colosseum replays in my mind.

Caro at the edge, Max behind her. Me screaming, running—them both looking my way. Then Caro shaking, practically catatonic in bed.

What am I missing?

Another snippet from the book floats up toward me. A memory Ginevra teased out of me, that she included in its pages. She’d asked if Max had any negative qualities—I suppose because she’d realized that, to me, Max could do no wrong. I’ve always looked up to my brother. Who in the world now wouldn’t? But I told Ginevra that as we got older, Max could have a temper if he felt threatened. And I thought of the Robinsons’ dog next door. Davey. How he was found dead on our street, struck by a car. A hit-and-run. Never solved. Except I had my private thoughts, which I shared with Ginevra in a moment of vulnerability and truth. That I always suspected Max had done it. We lived on a quiet cul-de-sac. Only us and the Robinsons. And Max hated that dog. The feeling was mutual. No one spurred Davey’s barking like Max. Davey was a nothing to me—little, yappy, jumping on you, constantly frolicking out on the street. But Max hates dogs. He was scared of Davey and didn’t like admitting it. Max was seventeen when Davey was run over. Max had recently gotten his license, started driving Papa’s car. I never knew for sure he hit Davey. Told myself I was crazy. But the Robinsons froze us out after that, never invited us again to their annual summer barbecue or asked me to babysit, and I could intuit they shared a similar suspicion to mine.

I didn’t tell Ginevra that story, of course. I told her one far more innocuous. In loyalty to my brother, I even painted over the hard edges of it, too.

Truth was, every once in a while, Max erupted in this scary, venomous way. And you didn’t want to be in his striking path when he did. That’s simply fact, a part of our childhood I don’t dwell upon much and would gladly erase. In the days of Maxie’sTinyOne, Max seemed almost paralyzed by fear and stress, his reactions suspended. Like he was afraid to access them. But in later years, his anger unleashed, flowed free. I remember in middle school, I accidentally shuffled up his important science papers, and he released a torrent. His face shaded red, spit flying into my face, and he raised his hand like he was going to strike my face. For a moment I was truly terrified. He stopped himself, but I can still summon back that feeling—genuine fear of my brother.

If I sift through my memory, there are other incidents. Once I even thought Max was going to hit Papa! He was so angry, mouthing off, spouting vitriol about how Papa didn’t really love him, and Max was the forgotten child. Papa’s crime? Failing to make a Zhitomir salad for Max’s birthday dinner. But Papa had worked double shifts the day before. Max could only see red, though. But most of those times are buried in cobwebs. Things I wrote off as one-offs, flukes. And I never actually witnessed my brother being violent to another person.

My chess set thrown in the lake, okay; but when it came down to it, Max wouldn’t harm anyone. Especially not me or Caro. Right?

I stumble out of bed, throw on sweatpants and a tee. I need to see Caro. Talk this through. I don’t care that it’s the middle of the night. Maybe I’m being crazy, maybe I’m inventing scenarios that don’t exist, but I have this awful feeling I’m missing a big puzzle piece. And that Caro can help me slot it into place.

I burst out my door, then still. It’s quiet in the hall—just the low rumble of the train churning forward. Something about the vacant hall is eerie. No people, no stewards, even, only the cool, almost over-oxygenated air. The dead of night on the Orient Express. I rub my arms, realize goose bumps have sprouted all up and down.

I walk fast toward Caro’s room.