Page 33 of Joey

“So what’s your real name?” I ask.

“Brooke Alder,” she deadpans back. “That is my legal name now.”

“But you had another name,” Wald says. “What was that name?”

“If I wanted anyone to know that I wouldn’t have changed it, would I?”

Wald frowns. “The Kane family wants to run a background check, Brooke. They’re gonna figure this out.”

“No, they won’t,” she says. “Trust me. It’s been taken care of.”

“By who?” Huck asks.

Brooke smiles at him. “Someone very good at their job.” Then she looks at me. “I promise you. They won’t figure it out. I won’t fuck this up. I know what I’m doing. I’m telling you, meeting me was fate or something. It’s kinda freaky weird too.”

“How?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I came here to put that life behind me. I was very excited about working at Bright Berry Beach. And then… there I was. In that room with you guys. And I was literally the perfect woman for the job.”

“Yeah,” Huck says. “That’s super-convenient.”

“Convenient?” Wald says, raising one eyebrow. “It’s not convenient. It’s because we’re all living in a virtual reality.”

“Don’t start,” I say.

Just as Huck says, “Dude, I can’t listen to your conspiracy theories today. I just can’t.”

Brooke chuckles. “OK. Well, either way, doesn’t matter. They’re not gonna find out about me. There’s absolutely no one left from my old life for them to find.”

“What’s that mean?” I ask.

“They’re all dead. Just like me.” Then she smiles.

“On paper,” Wald adds.

“Sure,” Brooke says.

Which is not really an answer. But I nod. Slowly. “OK. But if you get an inkling that they could, Brooke—”

“I’ll let you know. This is your child, Joey. I’m not going to ruin that.”

“If they did figure out your real name,” Wald presses, “what would happen?”

“To me?” she says, pointing to herself.

“Yeah.”

Brooke inhales deep and then lets her breath out slowly. “They’re not going to find out, but if they did, it wouldn’t mean anything to them.”

“How so?” Wald asks.

Brooke swallows. But other than that one swallow, she shows no other signs of annoyance or discomfort at the discussion. “I mean, that’s the only way I can explain it. Very few people on this Earth give any fucks about me.”

“But there are some,” I ask, “who do?”

“Maybe one or two,” she admits. “But they’re not in a position to mess anything up.”

“They’re dead?” Huck asks.