Chapter 15
Fifteen
My mouth hangs open as I stare at Miles, unsure how to respond. I got too comfortable trying to be me and not Nate. My brain is totally blank.
Miles stares at me, waiting for me to say something.
So finally I say the one thing repeating over and over in my head:
“How . . . how did you know?”
His eyes go wide and he flinches. “Wait. Seriously? I was right?”
Again, my mind goes blank. He was bluffing? Miles straightens up, staring right at me, studying my face.
“No,” I say, trying to sound cool. “I’m kidding.”
“Nice try. You’re totally not Nate!” He’s smiling but his eyes are still wide in shock, or maybe it’s excitement. Like he
really was bluffing but he caught me.
“Yes, I am.” In the moment I don’t know what’s worse about Miles ratting me out: getting arrested and sent home, or destroying
the Beaumonts’ hope that their son is okay.
“Bullshit. I was right. Oh. My. God. I can’t believe this.” He starts to pace around the room with nervous excitement. “I
had a hunch, but I had zero proof, and wanted to see if you’d dig the hole any deeper until I could prove you weren’t him. I was going to make up memories about us as kids and see if you’d tell me you remembered them or not.” He stops and runs over to his computer. “Oh shit, can I record this?”
“No!”
He glances over his shoulder. “You’re in my house, and you know now that I’m recording, so you can choose to talk or not,
but I’m definitely recording this.”
I step around him and grab the microphone, ripping the jack out of the dock.
He holds up his hands. “Okay, hold on. That’s a Sennheiser and it cost a hundred and fifty bucks, so why don’t we put that
down and we’ll talk. No recording.”
I place it on the dresser behind me. Away from any errant USB ports it might accidentally find its way into.
I nod at the computer screen. “It hasn’t been recording this whole time?”
“Unfortunately for me, no. I have journalistic integrity, so I wouldn’t record you without your consent.” He crosses his arms
again. “That being said, what you’re doing is pretty messed up, so even if I did record you without your knowledge, I’m sure
the Beaumonts wouldn’t mind.”
I sit down on his bed because the room seems to be spinning now. My heart beats hard enough in my chest that it feels like
I can’t breathe. I should have known Miles was bluffing. How would he be able to tell I’m not Nate after only speaking to
me three times?
And how do I convince him not to tell the Beaumonts?
“What made you think I wasn’t Nate to begin with?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You’re not the first person to do this.”
I’m not?
He turns around and types something into his computer, then steps away so I can look. I peer at the Wikipedia page of some
guy with a French name. I’m not going to read the whole Wikipedia article, so I shake my head.
“He was a French serial impersonator,” Miles says. “Somehow, he managed to convince the Spanish police, Interpol, the FBI,
and this family he was a fifteen-year-old blond kid with blue eyes from Texas who disappeared three years earlier. Despite,
you know, being French and in his mid-twenties with receding brown hair and brown eyes.”
Okay, at least my eyes match Nate’s. “How did he get away with it?”
“Well, he didn’t.” Miles scoffs. “Obviously, since I’m telling you his story. But they ‘believed’ it for probably the same
reason you’re getting away with it right now. The Spanish cops didn’t want to deal with it, Interpol didn’t want to deal with
it. Neither did the FBI, or the Texas cops. I know Law & Order reruns tell us cops are good at their jobs, but let’s be real. Inaction is the main job description of police in America.
The Supreme Court even says they aren’t required to protect people.
“Most crimes in America go unsolved. The highest clearance rate is fifty percent and that’s for murder—and spoiler, murder
is usually committed by someone close to the victim. A family member or friend. It’s like a cheat code for solving murders.
Pressure the people close to the vic until you find evidence, they mess up, or they confess.”
Maybe eating the Beefaroni in front of the clerk and then running was the way to go after all.
“You know a lot of crime statistics.” In fact, I feel like this isn’t the first time he’s said all this out loud. It feels rehearsed.
“Well, when your primary ADHD symptom is hyperfixation and your best friend disappears without a trace when you’re six years
old . . . yeah. You find hobbies.”
Of course. Miles has spent the last ten years trying to figure out what happened to his best friend. And then I came along.
“So you were really bluffing?” I ask.
“Pressure people close to the victim until they mess up. You messed up, dude.”
I put my face in my hands, trying to cool my burning skin. I’d been so goddamned careful up until now. Maybe I can convince
him to give me a head start before he exposes me. Get away while I can.
“The amnesia was what pushed it over the edge for me,” Miles says. “If we’re being honest. Amnesia isn’t usually contained
to such a specific and convenient time period.”
“The Beaumonts accepted it.”
Miles nods. “Because they were desperate to believe it. Same with the cops. To them you’re a nice little gold star for their
clearance rate. Though if you did convince them, I’m not sure why they’re still tailing you.”
My heart seizes in my chest, and I look up at him. “What?”
He frowns. “You clearly aren’t as used to this street as I am.
” He reaches into the top drawer of his dresser and pulls out a pair of binoculars.
“Don’t get excited, my window doesn’t face anyone remotely attractive, so it’s mainly for picnics on the dog beach.
” He lowers his voice as though talking to himself.
“Lotta shirtless runners in the summertime.”
He motions for me to follow him over to the window and pulls down one of the plastic blinds. I take the binoculars and he
points down the street.
“See the car?”
The sedan is dark blue or black today, not maroon. But it’s parked in the same place as the one I saw when I arrived. I thought
it was one of the neighbors parked in front of their house, kind of like how Gramma Sharon parked in front of the Beaumonts’.
“How do you know it’s a cop?”
“Chardonnay is a wonderful scouting companion,” he says, like that should explain it. “I didn’t recognize the car, so I took
her out for a walk yesterday. It was a maroon car then. First I thought it might be a reporter, someone looking to do a story
on your reappearance. I was hoping if they were famous enough, I’d get them to agree to be on my podcast if I gave them some
information.”
I give him a glare, but he returns it in kind.
“Send that high horse right to the glue factory, bitch.”
Fair point. I look back at the car. There’s someone sitting in it tonight.
“Anyway, it wasn’t the media. Some skinny guy with a cop haircut. He was sitting there with the windows down. I could see
his badge and the gun clipped to his hip.”
So they’re following me. Shit. I couldn’t run even if the house wasn’t securely locked down by apps and instant phone alerts.
Maybe that’s why someone’s out there right now.
Waiting to see me walking down the street with a backpack full of supplies and clean clothes.
Which means even with a head start, I’m screwed.
“Wait.” I turn back to him. “Older white guy?” He nods. “Gray hair, mustache?”
Miles shakes his head. “No, he was younger than that. You’re talking about Grant, right?”
I flinch. “You know him?”
“Yeah, he lives in town. And he’s the only reason anything got done when Nate disappeared. The local cops—again, inaction is the prime directive—weren’t even going to issue an Amber
Alert. They still said that forty-eight-hour bullshit. But I think Marcus knows someone who knew Grant and he got them to
issue the alert. Then when the tip came through from Pennsylvania, he took over the case. Man, he’s someone I’d love to do
a podcast with. Probably has so many cool stories. But I’m too scared to ask him.”
I get it. Grant is very intimidating.
“Anyway, he’s retired now, so it wouldn’t be him out there.”
“He came to the hospital.”
Miles is suddenly very interested. “What did he say?”
“Tried to convince Valencia to get a DNA test to be sure I’m who I say I am.”
He tilts his head. “And she didn’t want to?”
“My blood type matched, and she said that was enough.”
“But she didn’t want a DNA test to be sure? What about Marcus?”
“Both him and Easton said they should.”
He starts to chew his lower lip as if he’s figuring something out. “Then why would she be so adamant about not getting one?”
I shrug and look back at the car, wondering if whoever is in there can see us up here.
“Are you sure I can’t record any of this?” Miles asks, his voice taking on a slightly whiny tone.
“No.”
He snatches the binoculars out of my hands. “Hold on, can you go back to the beginning? How did this all happen? If I can’t
record it for my podcast, at least satisfy my own curiosity.”
I look one more time at the cop in the unmarked car and sigh, then sit back down on Miles’s bed and start from the beginning.
Miles lets me talk the entire time without interrupting. He sits across from me in his desk chair. I watch him carefully to
make sure he isn’t recording the conversation, but it isn’t until halfway through the story that I realize he could have a
camera hidden somewhere. Or maybe he’s wearing a wire and this is all a trap.
But when I finish the story, no SWAT team runs in. There’s no gotcha moment. Just Miles staring at me.
“Shit,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Conversion therapy sucks. I mean, I’ve never been because I have parents who are, forgive me, not assholes.”
“Noted.”
“But I’m sorry that happened. And I’m sorry you had to run.” He pauses as if he’s mulling something over. “But why pretend
to be Nate? Why not make up a name and a whole new story and be that person?”
Because the police would want more information, or they might put out a news report with my picture asking people if they knew who I was. Then people from my hometown might see it and contact my parents. I’d be right back to where I was.
I decide not to get into it with Miles because I’m sure he has plenty of ideas on how to avoid that. Some other case where
a kid showed up and became someone new.
So I go with the real answer. “I was desperate. And I hadn’t eaten in almost three days, so I wasn’t particularly in my right
mind.”
“Clearly.”
“I thought it would be easy. I thought they’d take me to a hospital and do a DNA test and at some point I’d have a chance
to run away before they even called the Beaumonts.”
“But you forgot about your Fourth Amendment right.”
“What right is that?”
“Protection from illegal search and seizure. They can’t take things from your body without your permission or a warrant. The
blood test was something the hospital did as part of your care, so I guess that was enough. If you’d turned out to have a
different blood type, they probably wouldn’t have contacted the Beaumonts.”
“I didn’t think things would get so out of hand.”
Still, the muscles in my shoulders loosen. Telling someone, talking about it aloud, actually feels better. I feel less alone.
I’ve been so lonely for so long. Then the Beaumonts made me feel wanted, though I knew it was fake. Temporary. But confessing
everything to Miles feels . . . not. It feels genuine.
Confession is good for the soul after all.
“So what happens now?” I ask. “Do I get a head start, or are you going to rat me out right away?”
The look on his face says he hadn’t thought about it. But as if catching himself, he turns stoic again and shrugs. “What if I didn’t have to?”
“And why wouldn’t you?” I don’t trust the way he says it.
“Listen, I’m gonna be real with you—I’ve been trying to get the Beaumonts to agree to be interviewed for my podcast for years,
and they’ve always very politely declined.”
“You want me to convince them to do your podcast?”
“No, no. I can’t possibly continue making the episode I want to after knowing you’re an imposter.”
Imposter. I hate the word, but it is apt.
He continues. “Look, at some point you’re going to leave—with any luck, which admittedly has been on your side so far . . .”
If you say so.
“They’re going to know you weren’t really him. I assume you’d tell them the truth in a letter or something so they don’t think they lost their son
twice, right?” I nod. “Okay, so my podcast is going to be about you instead.”
“So you’re going to admit you knew I wasn’t really me?”
His face pales and I can tell he hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. “Oh, yeah. I guess I will. Shit.” His so-called journalistic
integrity won’t let him lie. With a flick of his hand, he waves the idea aside. “I’ll burn that bridge when I’m on it. What
I want from you is some intel. You go over there and find out what you can for me, report back, and I’ll keep your secret.
At least then I can make a few episodes about Nate’s disappearance before dropping the bombshell that I knew you weren’t him.
Maybe people will take pity on you. And me?” He doesn’t sound sure, though.
“What intel are you expecting?”
Again, he bites his lip. I haven’t known Miles that long, but it seems like he does that when he doesn’t want to say what’s
on his mind. So I sit there and wait for him to spit it out.
“I assume you did some kind of research on the person you’re pretending to be?”
“A little.”
“And . . . you probably saw a few theories online. About what might have happened to Nate?”
“Serial killers, serial abductors, sex traffickers, aliens, time travel.” I shrug, waiting for him to tell me which one he
believes.
“Them.”
“The Beaumonts?”
Miles nods. “I think they killed Nate.”