Chapter 20
Twenty
My first weekend with the Beaumonts, they take me to the quaint main street of town. I expect people to stare—watching the
family they all whispered about and the son everyone thought they had murdered—but no one even looks twice at us.
Saturday night, Easton goes out again with JT. He offers to bring me along in front of Valencia, who immediately blanches
at the idea, then looks relieved when I say no thank you.
Instead, I invite Miles over and we hang out on the deck, where we’re safe from Valencia or Marcus eavesdropping. I still
don’t want to tell him about Easton’s lie. It’s not important, and I kind of feel a bond with Easton now. Maybe he’s trying
to make up for lost time, but he’s always checking in with me, asking how I’m doing, asking if I remember anything yet. And
on more than one occasion, he’s asked if there’s anything he can do to help.
Thanks for making me feel even guiltier, Easton.
“Have you learned anything new?” Miles asks once we’re sure we’re alone. He still keeps his voice low.
I shake my head. “I haven’t really had a chance to talk to either of them one-on-one.
They want to do everything as a family.” I’m acting annoyed, but in reality I’m more than okay with it.
For one, it means whoever broke in the other day can’t get me alone—yes, it obviously could be one of the family, but again, we’re not alone so, yay, safety in numbers.
And the supersecret menu item: I enjoy hanging out with the Beaumonts.
Miles nods. “Do you know what you’re going to ask them?”
“What they remember about my disappearance. I start therapy on Tuesday, so I’m going to ask if they remember anything I should
talk about.”
“Hmm.” He seems to be considering whether that will work.
“Well, give me some pointers, then. You’re the true crime nut.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Why not?”
He scoffs. “Because it sounds like I have a problem.”
“I mean, you might. I don’t know your life.”
“Fair point. I prefer aficionado.”
I can’t help but laugh because this whole thing is ridiculous, if I’m being honest. I’m sitting on my fake parents’ back deck
talking with the only person who knows I’m not really Nate, planning an investigation that I have no idea where to start.
“Enough, get serious.” Though I don’t really want to. Miles joking with me makes this all feel a little like pretend. Like
we’re just two kids sitting on the deck playing some game and my life isn’t in constant, imminent danger. Because Miles has
to be scared, too, right? If he’s seen with me enough, the killer might start watching him, too.
“I am serious. True crime aficionado until I decide if I want to become a private eye or investigative journalist.”
“That’s what you want to do with your life?”
He shrugs. “I mean, private investigator sounds like fun, but according to the internet it’s ninety percent sitting in a car taking pictures of people walking in and out
of motels. I don’t think I can be trusted to keep myself entertained.”
“What about a photographer?” I ask.
“That’s just a hobby. I’m not actually good.” I open my mouth to correct him but he holds a hand up to stop me. “My mom embarrasses
me enough with the encouragement as it is.”
“So I guess that leaves investigative journalism?”
He sighs, sounding wistful. “Also more interesting in theory. Especially because most journalism now is posting whatever pisses
off enough people to get clicks. Maybe I should become a hit man. That’s probably fun.”
“You just became my prime suspect.”
“Yes, children are always the prime suspects in another child’s disappearance.”
“What do you think happened? I mean really. You’re the aficionado—”
“I prefer nut.”
“Shut up. What do you think happened to him?”
Miles keeps his smile, but something changes in it. The humor dissolves, and sadness clouds his eyes as he shrugs. Then he
sighs.
“In sixth grade they made us all do this book report. Like, they took us to the school library, almost no guidance on what
we were supposed to write, just pick any book, read it, write a report on it. It was exciting for like three minutes because
we were eleven-year-olds presented with free will for the first time.”
I chuckle but don’t tell him they did something similar at my school.
“I chose The Face on the Milk Carton. You heard of it?”
I shake my head.
“It starts a bit like your story, but back in the nineties, instead of a missing poster, they used to put kids’ faces on milk
cartons? Don’t ask me why. Anyway, this girl finds out she was abducted when she was three and then abandoned with the people
she grew up thinking were her parents. She ends up reconnecting with her birth family in the end. I kind of always hoped that’s
what happened to him. At least then he’s not dead. He might be happy, even. Living his life, not realizing his real family
is still out there. I know it’s silly.” He shrugs again.
“It’s optimistic.”
Miles nods. “That’s because the truth is way worse. Because shit like that doesn’t happen in real life.”
“I dunno,” I say. “I thought what I did never happened in real life, and then you went and told me about that French dude.”
“Well, in that case, you better hope Nate shows up after you leave.” A chill runs down my spine at the image of Nate knocking on the door. Valencia opening it to see him standing
there. How much would we look alike? I try to push the thought away and focus on Miles.
“So do you think he’s still out there?”
Now his smile is completely gone. “No. It’s not realistic.
Something happened to him and he’s either dead or someone .
. .” His voice trails off as he shakes his head, not wanting to acknowledge the truth of the matter.
Because he’s right; it’s not a better outcome, and it is more realistic.
Whatever the truth is, it’s bad for Nate.
“Okay,” I say. “What should I be looking for?”
“No clue, but that’s why you’re going to snoop. I feel like we won’t know what we’re looking for until we find it. And if
we don’t find anything, it’s good news. It means maybe the Beaumonts really didn’t have anything to do with it. If it’s a
stranger who came and kidnapped him, that would explain why the police and FBI weren’t able to find any new clues.”
“Valencia goes back to work Monday. I’ll see if there’s anything I can dig up while she’s out.”
He thinks for a moment and breaks into a grin. “You know . . . I could come help you. Oh my God, I’ve never skipped school
before. You know what, that’s all the motivation I need. I’m gonna ditch!”
“Whoa. A couple days with me and you’re breaking the law. Maybe you should be on my suspect list.”
Miles chuckles and stands. “Text me when the coast is clear on Monday.”
I stand, too, and walk to the edge of the deck with him. He hops off into the grass and stops himself.
“So what do you want to be?”
His question comes out of nowhere and catches me fully off guard. “Sorry?”
“You asked if I wanted to be a PI in the future. What do you want to be?”
I don’t want to answer that truthfully because it feels silly. So I lie. “I guess I just want to be myself again.”
Miles narrows his eyes at me. “Okay. So who are you really?”
Is he asking my name? I’m definitely not giving him that. Miles is smart enough—even if I disappeared tomorrow, he’d be able
to track me down eventually if I didn’t change it. And I have no clue how much work changing my name would be without all
my legal documentation.
So I shrug. “A queer homeless kid from West Virginia.”
He frowns. “Still hiding, huh? Don’t worry, I’ll break you down eventually. Nate.” Then he says good night and I wait until he goes around the side of the house before I head into the kitchen.
Valencia and Marcus are speaking in hushed tones in the living room, so I close the door quietly behind me and tiptoe across
the kitchen tile to the doorway.
“. . . have to pay it back,” Marcus says.
“Then we’ll pay it back. We’ll use the home equity line and pay it back.”
“The rate is variable, Val.”
I realize whatever they’re talking about can’t be all that interesting if it’s about interest rates, so I’m about to turn
back into the kitchen to grab another drink before heading upstairs, but Valencia’s voice stops me.
“Can’t you be happy our son is alive and well and back in our home?”
Marcus’s voice gets a little louder, and I can hear some of the temper Easton mentioned. “That’s not what this is about!”
“Do not raise your voice to me. And yes. It is, Marcus. That’s exactly what all this is about. And I don’t give a shit how
much money we have to pay back. They can have it. At least we have him.”
“We don’t know—”
“I don’t want to hear any more about how much fucking money we owe! We’ll pay it. Do you understand me?”
A long silence stretches between them, and it gives me enough time to try to figure out what they’re talking about. Obviously
me, but what does money have to do with it? And who do they owe it to?
“I’m making myself a cocktail,” Marcus says. His voice is lower now. Calmer. “Do you want one?”
Valencia answers with a huff. “I’m fine, thank you.”
A shadow enters the living room doorway and I turn around and run for the back door. I pull it open quickly, then shut it
loudly to make it sound like I just came in. I’m halfway across the kitchen when Marcus enters. He gives me a quick glance—it
might look a little resentful?—then heads over to the fridge. He already has a crystal rocks glass in his hand, and he pulls
open the freezer to put ice in it.
I go out into the living room and sit down on the couch next to Valencia. She smiles brightly, like she and her husband weren’t
arguing about money and my presence less than two minutes ago.
“Miles go home already?” she asks.
“He had some photography stuff to work on.” I turn my attention to the TV. “What are you watching?”
“Some HBO show about space pirates.” Her voice takes on a playful tone. “You’re welcome to stay, but there’s lots of sex,
so you may not want to watch it with your parents.”
Marcus enters and gives us a side-eye, which Valencia misses.
Then he goes to the bar cart in the corner of the living room and picks up a bottle of gin.
I’m honestly surprised the Beaumonts have their liquor out like this.
My parents didn’t drink, but I figured parents who did would keep stuff locked away so their kids wouldn’t dip into it.
Marcus mixes his cocktail and reaches for one of the tools held in a stainless steel block. He pulls it out but stops, looking
at it. It’s sharp and looks like an ice pick. He’s about to put it back but then puts it in his glass and uses it to stir
the cocktail before placing it back on the cart.
“I think I’ll skip the Space Sex Pirates, but thank you.” I stand. “I’m tired anyway, so I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Painting tomorrow?” Valencia asks.
“Sounds good.”
“Love you, honey,” Valencia says. “Good night.”
“Night,” I say back.
Marcus doesn’t say anything; he just sips his cocktail as he unpauses their show. Whatever they were arguing about, I’ll have
to see if we can find out what it is on Monday when Miles comes to help me snoop.