Chapter 4
Four
Everything after that happens so fast I barely have a second to think.
First they uncuff me.
Then they put me in an interrogation room, where they don’t interrogate me but instead give me water and doughnuts—apparently
that cliché about cops is true. Of course I try to eat too quickly and throw it all up. Once my vomit is cleaned, I try again,
taking small bites until the doughnut is gone, then reach for another.
After that, people come in to talk to me. A beautiful middle-aged Black woman with long, straight black hair pulled to the
right side. She says her name is Detective Hall, and she has a man with her, a tall and skinny white guy with a salt-and-pepper
crew cut wearing a nicely fitted suit. She introduces him as Supervisory Special Agent Grant.
FBI.
Grant looks as if he’s about to say something but thinks better of it. The detective asks me question after question while
Agent Grant watches from the doorway. She asks me my name again, where I’m from, where I’ve been, what I’m doing in DC.
I give her quick, concise lies—keeping track of them as I go along.
I’m nervous at first, but then it starts to feel familiar.
I used to lie to my friends and family all the time.
If I went to a party, I’d tell my parents I was going to a church event.
Then I would go there for an hour first, in case they asked anyone if I was there.
I lied to church friends and school friends, and didn’t tell them I was gay.
Until Frankie. She was the one person who saw who I really was, because she was lying, too. While it felt like we were the
only two gay kids in our grade, we knew it wasn’t true. But we also knew we had to lie. To keep up appearances so we weren’t
tormented incessantly.
Detective Hall asks follow-up questions that I avoid or try not to provide too much information on.
Where are your parents?
Where did you live?
Who did you live with?
How long have you been living on the street?
I don’t want to give an address that could eventually be traced back to my real family and I can’t just make one up. If it’s
not real, that’s a dead giveaway. But if it is real, I’m making some random person a suspect in a child kidnapping. So I act overwhelmed and tell her I can’t remember. When
she presses me on it, which she does over and over and over, I finally say I won’t speak anymore without a lawyer. She tells
me I’m no longer under arrest, but even if that’s true—which it’s not—they could change their minds and tell a judge I was under arrest and chose not to remain silent.
Agent Grant watches, letting Detective Hall do all the questioning. Never once does he ask for clarification or more details. He stands in the open doorway, watching, and because he’s so quiet, he’s the one who scares me most. But then he leaves.
After that, two new officers take me to a hospital, but every time I try to ask what’s happening, they pass the buck to someone
else. The officer tasked with watching me in the emergency room says the doctor will explain. The doctor says the police will
explain. The nurse says the doctor or the police will explain. All while they keep asking invasive questions and doing the tests they do to any missing kid who
turns up out of the blue.
But the longer this goes on, the faster everything moves along. It’s like a speeding train out of control, and I know the
track ahead is out. At some point they’re going to test the DNA in the blood sample the nurse took. Or they’re going to catch
me in a lie. Or they’re going to find out the real Nathaniel Beaumont was found dead two weeks ago and they never got around
to taking down that missing child alert.
This was a huge mistake. No resting tonight; I need to get out of here immediately.
Finally, a little after two in the afternoon, I’m shown to a room in the pediatric ward. Then things start to calm. Once I’m
in the bed and the nurse comes to check my vitals—clipping a pulse oximeter onto my finger and checking my temperature—I realize
I still don’t have my clothes. They had me put them in a plastic bag and change into a gown and itchy, thin pants.
I ask the nurse where my clothes are, and she says she’ll find out for me. When she leaves, I get up and poke my head out
the door.
To my right is the nurses’ station and elevator. The police officer babysitting me is sitting in a chair staring at his phone.
To my left are more rooms, a bathroom, and at the end of the hall is an exit sign.
My way out.
They still haven’t come back to handcuff me, so I am assuming the results of the DNA test they’re doing—or are planning on
doing—haven’t come back yet. As soon as the nurse is back with my clothes, I’ll change and slip out as fast as I can.
My stomach growls again. Now that I’ve eaten something, the hunger pangs are worse. Like my stomach can remember the idea
of fullness and now craves it.
Maybe the hospital will feed me before I run.
No. I can’t risk staying here any longer than I need to. As soon as I have my clothes, I have to get out of here.
So I wait, and wait. The nurse comes back to check on me, and I remind her about my clothes. She says she’s going to find
out, again. Then tells me she’s going to have some food brought up for me.
I’m craving the high-speed way that time was moving only an hour ago. Now I feel stuck. The bullet train to the end of the
line has slowed, but not enough for me to jump off. And it’s agony.
Finally, around four, Detective Hall appears in the doorway with a few others, including a doctor, a woman I haven’t met yet,
and Agent Grant.
And this is it. My blood test came back and they know I’m not Nathaniel Beaumont.
I sit up.
Detective Hall steps to the side of the door while Agent Grant stays outside.
The doctor comes in. I forget her name; she was the third new doctor to come say hello to me down in the ER when they were giving me checkups.
“Hi, Nate,” she says, and it catches me off guard. They wouldn’t be calling me Nate if they tested my blood and found out
it didn’t match Nathaniel Beaumont’s family’s. And she doesn’t look like she’s trying to catch me in a lie. She looks like
she’s trying to be kind. “I want to introduce you to someone. This is a pediatric psychologist, Dr. Zapata.”
She motions to the woman behind her, who steps into the room.
Dr. Zapata is a short woman with fair skin and straight dark brown shoulder-length hair. She wears dark jeans, an untucked
button-down, and a navy blazer. She has a friendly face but her expression stops short of a smile.
“Hi, Nate, it’s nice to meet you.”
They’re still calling me Nate. And they have a psychologist. Which means maybe they think my lies were temporary insanity
and they have the shrink here to talk me through it before cuffing me again. That’s nice of them, at least.
I don’t say anything, and in the silence there’s a commotion in the hallway. Agent Grant steps away from the door and begins
talking to someone. Two someones. There’s a back-and-forth between them, and Detective Hall goes out to join them.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Dr. Zapata’s lips drop to a straight line as her brow furrows. She opens her mouth, but the woman from the hallway shouts
over whatever she was going to say.
“I don’t give a shit, I want to see my son!”
Son.
Shit. No, no, no. They wouldn’t have told this poor family I’m their son without confirming it, right? Like with scientific evidence that
stands up in a court?
Another voice—a man—calls after her. “Val!”
The woman pushes Detective Hall aside, and behind her Agent Grant moves out of the way, looking like this is all getting away
from him. When the woman glares at her, Dr. Zapata looks frustrated but steps aside.
She’s a tall, skinny white woman with wavy brown hair wearing maroon scrubs and a long gray cardigan. And she has eyes the
same shade as mine.
Nathaniel Beaumont’s mother. And from the way she’s looking at me, they definitely didn’t tell her that I’m not Nathaniel.