Chapter 8
Eight
When I wake up, there’s a blanket over me and the sun has set. Panicking, I bolt upright, forgetting where I am.
But then it all comes back.
I’m Nate. And I’m in Nate’s room in Nate’s house with Nate’s family.
Nate’s family, who are talking downstairs. Their voices drift up through the hall, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.
I reach for the phone Valencia gave me and there’s two texts, both from her.
We’re going to order pizza for dinner. Any toppings you want?
Then two hours later.
We didn’t want to wake you but there are leftovers in the fridge if you wake up hungry. FYI the doors and windows on the first
floor have an alarm, which we set every night. You can open your own but keep the rest closed. I’ll see you in the morning!????
She sent that one about an hour and a half ago. The doors and windows are locked and alarmed, and I don’t have the code. My
throat tightens. This is a huge house, but the longer I’m here the smaller it feels. Unlike the house I grew up in, the ceilings
are high and there’s lots of open space. But still the walls feel like they’re closing in on me.
I set the phone down on the bedside table and carefully walk to the cracked-open bedroom door. I hear Marcus’s voice from the kitchen. The chandelier in the entryway is off, but the sconces on either side of the stairwell window are on.
Across the hall, Valencia and Marcus’s door is shut.
Another voice, this one male. It must be Easton.
As I step out into the hallway, the floorboard squeaks, and I put my weight down slowly to keep it quiet.
“—out of nowhere. Where has he been?”
“We don’t know yet.” Marcus again. “The shrink says he might not remember or he might not feel safe enough to tell us.”
Whatever Easton says back is too quiet for me to hear.
“Watch it,” Marcus says. “For now, we’re going to see how he adjusts to living with us and go from there. All we can do is
take it one day at a time.”
“Or you can get a DNA test and be done with it.”
My stomach turns. Easton isn’t as sold on me being Nate as his parents are. Or at least as sold on it as Valencia. Marcus
might be on the fence.
“Enough,” Marcus says. “He’s here. Just be cool, be nice, and we’ll figure everything else out later.”
There’s a long pause, but then Easton speaks again. “What if I give my blood for them to compare DNA?” Marcus doesn’t answer.
“If Mom won’t do it and doesn’t want you to do it, what if I did? I’m nineteen. What’s she going to do if it comes back that he’s not my brother, disown me?” He could
do that. In all honesty, he should do that. Anyone in their right mind would.
So why haven’t they?
“Easton, I said let it be.”
There’s a long stretch of silence before Easton speaks again. “Denial is my favorite family trait. Nineteen years, still going
strong.” His voice is getting louder, and a shadow emerges from the kitchen doorway.
He’s coming up here.
I turn and step quickly back into my bedroom.
Easton’s footsteps reach the staircase, each step creaking beneath him.
I tiptoe back to my bed, trying not to make too much noise. He’s at the landing now. I reach the bed as he ascends the side
stairs to our hallway.
Easton’s footsteps get closer, passing his bedroom. Then the bathroom.
He’s headed here.
I get in the bed, throwing the blanket over me again and shutting my eyes. Blood pounds in my ears as I try to settle myself.
He’s suspicious of me as is; I can’t have him knowing I was eavesdropping. He’s the only one in this house who seems sure
that I’m not who I say I am.
Easton comes to a stop outside my bedroom door.
I peer through my eyelashes and see his silhouette. He holds something in front of him. The door cracks open and squeaks on
its hinges.
He enters my bedroom, walking carefully over to the side of the bed but not trying to hide his footsteps.
Easton puts whatever he’s holding down on the bedside table.
I shut my eyes a little tighter and try to steady my breathing.
“Nate,” he whispers. “You awake?”
I don’t answer. Easton’s body moves slightly, and he says my name—Nate’s name—again, then takes something off the bedside
table. There’s a click.
The phone. I take a chance and open my eyes a little. He’s crouching next to the bed, staring at my locked phone. Thank God
I set up the passcode, because I can’t remember if I cleared the history of my Beaumont search from last night. I close my
eyes as he puts the phone back. Then he stands again, and after a few moments he turns and heads into the bathroom, shutting
the door behind him.
I open my eyes to stare at the door, expecting him to open it again. But all I hear is the sound of running water from the
sink.
There’s a plate on the bedside table. A big slice of pizza with peppers, onions, and black olives on it. Did he bring that
up to eat himself and leave it by mistake?
Easton continues getting ready for bed. Eventually I hear Marcus’s footsteps on the stairs. They come to a stop at my bedroom
and I close my eyes again. The door squeaks on its hinges as he pulls it shut, then crosses the hall to his bedroom.
In the shared bathroom, the water stops running and Easton’s bedroom door opens and closes.
Then the house is silent.
I reach for the pizza. It’s still warm.
And Easton definitely didn’t bring it up for himself because I heard the buzz of an electric toothbrush and him spitting in
the sink.
Which means he brought it up for me.
It wasn’t him being a nice big brother, though. It was an excuse for him to check on what the stranger who conned his parents into taking him home with them was doing. And he did stare for a while.
Maybe it was part nice big brother, part curiosity.
And I am hungry.
I peel the onions off the pizza while I type Nate’s name into the search bar on my phone, then click on the news and filter
it by the newest articles. The last one is still from ten months ago. Which means no news outlets have picked up that “Nate”
has been found.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
Once all the onions are off the pizza, I wolf it down. I definitely want more, but I don’t want to go downstairs in this strange
house alone. I set the plate aside and log into my old email account, which I haven’t checked in months. I check through the
junk, deleting it, then my heart stops when I see Frankie’s email address. And the subject.
I’m sorry.
I stare at it for almost a full minute, then open the email. The body doesn’t say anything else. Because what would it say? Part of me wants to reply and tell her I forgive her. It’s the one thing I take from Christianity—forgiveness. And
I really do believe she didn’t realize how bad it might get for me. Or maybe it was her only option.
But I still can’t trust her. If she goes to my parents or tells them I’m accessible by email, they might figure out a way
to find me. So I leave the email. For now.
Of course, that doesn’t help me feel any more relaxed with these strangers in this strange home.