Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
As I sit outside Dr. Zapata’s office waiting to be picked up after my first session, I can’t help but run my tongue against
my teeth. My cleaning with Valencia this morning was much worse than I was anticipating. My teeth ache, especially the lower
back molars, which Valencia said needed extra attention. I knew it would be bad, but not that it would be this painful after
the fact. I guess that’s what happens when you don’t always get to brush your teeth while living on the street.
At least I didn’t have any cavities. Not yet, is what Valencia said. There was a soft spot on a back molar that she marked to keep an eye on—zooming in on the X-ray and
pointing it out to me. Probably why she dug around so hard back there. But somehow one of my teeth feels a little sharper,
and I keep running my tongue over it.
I can still taste blood.
I check my phone again and there are no further updates from Valencia. After dropping me off, she sent a message that she
had to run back to the office for an emergency and that Gramma Sharon would be picking me up instead.
But it’s now a quarter past three and I’m starting to wonder if Gramma Sharon knows that.
If I were a smarter person, I’d take this chance to make a run for it.
I could disappear and hope they never find me again.
But Miles is right; if I disappeared without telling the truth, it would gain more attention. Then I’ll never be able to hide.
Plus, I have even less than I did when I was arrested.
So instead, I sit on the curb and continue to wait. About two minutes later, Gramma Sharon’s red Fiat pulls into the lot.
She rolls down the window as she comes to a stop in front of me.
“If you don’t tell your mom I was late, we’ll go get ice cream,” she shouts.
Again, my tongue goes to my sore gums and molars. I roll my eyes, pretending to be put out, then say okay and climb in.
“Your mom said you wanted to go to the library, so we can stop there first.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. I wasn’t actually planning on going to the library. I just wanted to leave the house.
She waves a dismissive hand. “I’m looking for something to do, and I feel bad for you being locked up in the house all afternoon.
We’ll go to the library, you can check out some books, and then we’ll stop for ice cream.” Before I’m even buckled in, she
shifts into drive and hits the gas. My stomach lurches and I grab on to the door handle.
She drives like a madwoman.
Gramma Sharon starts asking about my day, but I play it off, saying I sat in Valencia’s office on the computer. Definitely
not on my phone looking up more queer homeless shelters. She nods, unsurprised. “This is why I told your mom I’d take you
out—so you’re not moping around the house the rest of the afternoon. Forgive her; she’s got temporary insanity, I fear.”
“Afraid I’ll disappear again.”
“Precisely.”
“And I’m sure she told you I threw paint on Mar—” I stop myself. I can’t believe I slipped up in front of her and started
saying Marcus’s name instead of “Dad.” She glances over at me expectantly, but my heart is racing in my chest.
Finally she nods. “On your dad’s car. Yeah, she mentioned an accident. You threw it on?”
“No. It was an accident, I just don’t know how it happened because I put the paint on the ground.”
“Ghosts,” Gramma Sharon says. And just like that, the conversation is over and she pulls into the library parking lot.
We walk in and she approaches the front desk, telling them I need a library card. They ask for proof of residency, and Gramma
Sharon reaches into her bag to hand over an ID and gas bill, asking if that’s good enough. She also says I’m her grandson
and I’m staying with her for the summer and to make sure I don’t have any restrictions on the card. She wants me to be able
to check out whatever I want.
Again I think of my own grandmother, and how she used to bring me to the library on the days she watched me. And again I feel
that deep pit of loss in my gut. The one that started the day I came home and found my parents dressed in black from her funeral.
The funeral they didn’t even bother bringing me to. Marcus and Valencia wouldn’t do that. Though maybe that’s only because
they try so hard to look normal. Which is better: The family who shows you who they really are, or the ones who might be hiding
the truth?
“Okay.” Gramma Sharon breaks me from the thought—and good timing, because I can feel the sting of tears in the corners of my eyes. She hands over my library card. “Grab what you want and come find me when you’re ready to go. I’ll probably be kicking around the scary stuff.”
I thank her and head in the opposite direction, toward the back of the library. The young adult section has beanbag chairs
and a bench, so I opt for one of the beanbags and drop into it to stare at my phone. My first instinct is to go to Miles’s
social media.
Even after yesterday’s waste of time, I couldn’t stay angry at him. I mean, I could, but he’s the only person I can really talk to about everything. So I created my own fake accounts but haven’t posted yet.
I followed him—and a few celebrities and influencers so it didn’t look like a total weirdo account—and within minutes he texted
me a screencap of my profile asking IS THIS YOU?!
It’s not my old username, which I’ve abandoned. Instead, my new name is MitoDNAte—and, yes, I was absolutely trolling him.
Also yes, it got the desired effect. He playfully called me a catty bitch—well, I’m 90 percent sure it was playful—and then
he sent me a funny video.
There’s a new one he must have sent during his lunch break. I open the post to watch the video, but out of the corner of my
eye I see someone walking over to me. I look up, expecting it to be a librarian asking if I need help finding anything, but
instead I see Agent Grant.
My mouth goes dry. This is it. They’ve finally figured it out and now he’s coming to arrest me.
I lock the phone in my hands as he stops at the bench across from my beanbag chair. He gives me what I wouldn’t call a friendly look. Maybe something more like curiosity. Like I’m a brightly colored tropical bird that crapped on his freshly cleaned car.
“Are you following me?” I ask.
He gives me a wan smile and sits down on the bench, crossing his leg over his knee. “This is my local library. I was returning
some books and saw you over here. Thought I would say hi. We never really got a chance to speak.”
He’s lying. The YA section is tucked away in the back of the library, with no real sight lines to it. Also there’s a book
drop outside.
What he means to say is we haven’t had a chance to speak without Marcus and Valencia around.
“I don’t think I should talk to you without a lawyer present.”
His face doesn’t change. “Why? Have you done something wrong?”
My stomach is in knots and sweat is gathering at the nape of my neck. Every word I say could get me into trouble. This is
why they tell you to keep asking for a lawyer when you’re arrested. Say nothing else but “I want a lawyer.” Of course they
ask you why an innocent person needs a lawyer, but that answer’s simple. Because they want you to talk yourself into a corner.
To make one mistake so they can get you whether you’re innocent or not.
“It’s not about doing something wrong,” I say. “You’re a cop, and there’s that whole, anything I say can and will be used
against me in a court of law.”
“I’m retired.”
“So this is an unofficial talk?”
He shrugs. “I came here to say hello. I’m a neighbor who just happened to be involved in your case when it was active.”
“Then why did you say you wanted to talk to me without my parents here?”
His eyebrows jump slightly. “I didn’t say that.”
I replay in my head what he said to me and, shit, he’s right. But I try to play it off like I didn’t mess up. “Subtext.”
“I did want to ask you if you’ve seen anyone strange around since coming home.”
That gives me pause. Does that mean Grant doesn’t suspect Marcus and Valencia in Nate’s disappearance?
“Is that why you still have police sitting outside our house?”
He shakes his head, clearly unsurprised that I noticed the cop out there. “You were kidnapped, and your amnesia means you
don’t know who did it.” And, yes, there’s absolutely a note of skepticism in his voice. “We’re worried someone might show
up looking for you. It’s for your protection.”
“Then why are they down the street?”
The side of his mouth twists into a half smile. “Don’t want you to feel like you’re constantly under surveillance.”
“But I am?”
This he doesn’t answer. Instead he reaches into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and takes out a little white card. “I
want you to take my card.” He holds it out to me, his bony fingers steady.
“Thought you were retired.”
“I am.” He flicks his fingers to try and encourage me to take the card. I do. Under his name it says “Private Investigator.”
“But I help out from time to time. Especially on older cases that were still open when I retired.”
“So why did they introduce you as a supervisory special agent?”
He shakes his head. “Habit?”
“You’re a private eye now; who’s paying you?”
“No one.” He leans back and puts his arm across the top of the bench. “Do you have anything that keeps you up at night?” I
don’t answer. “I have a handful of unsolved cases that keep me up. Yours is one of them. So when the cop in DC saw my info
on your report and called me, I showed up.”
“I think you need a better hobby.”
He gives a subtle laugh, air expelling from his nose. “Do you remember anything new yet?”
I shake my head. “Dr. Z says it’s normal.”
He nods slowly. “Can you do me a favor? If you do happen to . . . remember anything at all, give me a call?”
“Why?”
“Because if someone kidnapped you, they’re still out there. And they might try to hurt someone else.” He nods to the card
still in my hand. “That’s my cell. Day or night. Anything you might remember. Even about your . . . family members.”
The air between us goes ice cold, or maybe that’s my imagination, because a chill raises the little hairs on the back of my
neck. The way he says family members. There’s a hint of skepticism there. He knows I’m not Nate. I don’t know how, but he does.
Maybe because he has some of his own suspicions about Nate’s disappearance.
But then why hasn’t he pressed the cops to get a DNA test to prove I’m not Nate?
Now that I know he’s retired and not actively involved in the case, he seems even more dangerous.
Miles was probably right; the police were happy to scratch Nate off their open cases and move on.
But since Grant is retired, he can look into things if they aren’t feeling right to him.
“Can I ask you a question, then?” I try to keep my voice steady.
“Shoot.”
“Why couldn’t you find me?”
He stares at me for a few moments, his eyes icy and unmoving. “Because you disappeared without a trace. No security footage
of strange cars or people in the area, and no one heard anything suspicious or saw anyone strange coming or going, even the
neighbors outside working in their yards or having a cookout.”
No one strange. Just the people who the neighbors would expect to see on a Saturday afternoon. I want to ask him if anyone
mentioned seeing Marcus or Valencia after two p.m.—the time Marcus apparently returned from the grocery store—but I don’t
know how to ask that without raising suspicion. Yes, Grant may know—or think he knows—I’m lying, but I’m not going to confess
that to him. Retired or not, if this is something that keeps him up at night, he’s not going to bother protecting me.
“People don’t disappear without a trace,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No. Usually they don’t.” He stands and nods down at the card I’m still holding. “If you think of anything
at all, call me.”
I nod, even though I’ve already decided I’m never talking to him alone again.
After he leaves, I wait a few minutes, trying to slow my heart rate, but I’m so anxious my hands are shaking.
I run my fingers across the embossed business card.
I need to get out of here. Still, I head over to the YA section and pick out three books at random—though one does pique my interest because the cover is an illustrated picture of a girl in a ridiculous hot dog costume.
Then I find Gramma Sharon and tell her I’m ready to go.
I’m not at all in the mood for ice cream but I don’t want Gramma Sharon to think anything is up, so I let her buy me a scoop
of Purple Cow. After a couple spoonfuls I wince and say it hurts my teeth. Which, honestly, isn’t a lie. Thanks, Valencia.
She insisted on doing the cleaning herself despite being behind on patients. But at least I get to hang out with Gramma Sharon
because of it.
“Listen,” Gramma Sharon says, getting serious now. “How do you feel about me coming over to see you when you’re home alone?
I know your brother’s there, but his friends’ll all be coming home from school soon—save for that burnout JT. But maybe I
can come by and see you when you don’t have anything to do? We can go see a movie or play cards or go to the library. What
do you think?”
I shouldn’t feel like my heart is going to burst, yet here I am. This woman is a stranger to me, but my association with grandmothers
and libraries has gotten the better of me. Having Gramma Sharon here has made me feel safe. Even Former Agent Grant’s stalking
and insinuation that he knows something is up gets pushed aside. Because I do want to spend time with her. So I answer her before the logical side of my brain can interject—the one that’s trying to bust
through the wall I put up.
“I think that sounds good to me.”
But that wall breaks just a bit. Enough for the voice of that logic to whisper through the cracks how wrong this is. How I’m
lying to this woman.