“Do you want to know a secret?” she says, in a whisper now.

Always.

“Yes,” I say.

“Dolly has eyes there.” Her face is full of mischief.

“At the Gas n’ Go?” I ask, thinking now about all the times I’ve stopped to get gas.

Every other Thursday in the months of September through November. Again at Thanksgiving and Christmas, several times during the winter and spring, though not on an exact schedule. For three years in a row, I have been making this trip to see my son. Stopping for gas many times. I’ve always been alone. When Nicole came with me, she reminded me to get gas before we left the school. She liked to fall asleep and not have to stop.

“Yes,” she says. “All kinds of people come there. They’re all heading north to get to the their kids’ schools. They all have a lot of money, so it doesn’t matter if they have to pay when they crash into his truck.”

I think about all the times I stood at the counter, buying coffee, candy for Evan, or a bottle of water. How many times I swiped my credit card. How many times my car sat parked at the pump, with my Connecticut plates. You can find plates on the Internet now. People have hacked DMV records and they sell the information. It happened to one of the parents at Nic’s old school in our town. Someone found her name and address from her plates and tried to break into her house. My car is registered to John’s company. Still, there would be a trail.

Maybe Mick works at the Gas n’ Go. Maybe he owns it. Maybe he knows the owners. He managed to put cameras there. And he has their old microwave oven.

I am stunned, but grateful for this new information.

Alice starts to laugh harder than I’ve ever seen her laugh. “One time,” she says. She laughs so hard she can barely get the words out, just like me and John that day we were skiing. “One time, this man was looking at some sodas in the back . . . and he. . . . and he . . . he picked his nose! Right in front of Dolly!” She laughs so hard her eyes begin to water.

“That is very funny,” I say. I think about how many times I stood right in that spot, looking for a bottle of water.

Her laughter slows quickly, as though she’s caught herself. I can see now that she’s done with this secret because her eyes glance at the camera down the hall and her face grows apprehensive.

I change the subject.

“Do you like lime?” I ask, forcing myself to remain neutral. Normal, whatever that is under these circumstances. I hold the Jell-O pack in front of her.

“No!” she says. “I hate lime.”

Yes, I think. I already know this because she’s told me before.