Chapter 12
Caspar put his hand up to block the sun.
Everything was so… bright. The sun, the traffic lights, and the windows for stores seemed to catch all the light and reflect it back, blinding him.
There was the noise, too. The cranking of gears, the tittering of crowds, and heavy foot traffic blended together in a terrible cacophony.
Caspar’s gaze barely left the ground as they travelled.
The city wasn’t as dirty as he remembered, though, so there was that, at least. Toronto really had been cleaned up.
“Here, put this on.” Malek handed Caspar a baseball hat. The logo for the Blue Jays baseball team was embroidered on the front.
“Oh, man. It’s been ages since I’ve thought of them. They ever win anything?”
Malek chuckled as he shook his head. “Nothing too big, no, but José Bautista gave everyone a show a few years ago. Then the team sort of faded.”
“Always the way.”
“You know, I would have thought that the prison would have baseball on more.”
“Pfft. No. More like reality TV all the damn time.” Caspar bent the brim to give the cap some shape before slipping it on.
It blocked the sun like a dream, and he was sure it also added to his disguise.
Before they left the apartment, Malek insisted on Caspar wearing one of the zip-up hoodies Jocasta left for him, along with some inconspicuous jeans and a T-shirt.
Malek had explained how glamour worked in more detail from the other side of the bedroom door as Caspar changed.
Caspar was long dead to the public, which, for a while, would be a blessing and a curse.
A public death meant that the city was thinking about him, which also meant that sightings would be more frequent.
People mourned in all kinds of different ways, and even if Caspar was a criminal, the public had made him a star.
Or notorious, at the very least. If a stranger thought they recognized Caspar, it was best not to react, because it wasn’t a “real” sighting—only someone grieving an image they never really knew.
And grief would always be discounted.
Caspar understood all this intuitively. After his parents died, he swore he saw them in the courtroom each day.
It would have been the best trick in the world, too—showing up to your own murder trial—and seeing them had given Caspar hope.
His “parents” were always revealed to be another Middle Eastern couple, another set of Lebanese immigrants—once it was even two high school kids who had the same eyes as his mom and dad.
Seeing strange things while grieving never mattered.
But until the public mourning and notoriety subsided, Caspar and Malek still needed to go incognito.
“Are we testing the limits by going to the museum?” Caspar asked. He surveyed the amount of people on the street and already felt as if he was being watched. “Shouldn’t we be more careful?”
“Being careful is overrated, especially if your idea of being careful involves staying in one place. That’s called being a sitting duck.
Always hide in plain sight, you know? If anyone reports seeing you at the museum today, it’ll be ignored above all other reports—because of course someone saw you in your old house. That just sounds made up.”
“Whatever you say, man. I suppose you’re the expert here.”
Caspar shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets.
Though the sweater was warm against the spring sun, he quelled the urge to take it off.
After crossing a couple more major streets in downtown Toronto, they reached the subway entrance and soon dipped out of the brightness of the day.
The wind from the trains rushed by Caspar’s skin, familiar and wonderful.
He remembered taking the subway from his parents place in Scarborough, one of the surrounding cities, to his university a couple blocks away from where they were now.
The back-and-forth rides had made him feel like he was flying; he’d loved his parents and the small Scarborough home he’d lived in since he was five, but the feeling of freedom that surrounded him when he finally left for university to live on his own was intoxicating.
It was why he stayed so often through the weekends and into some holidays, even though his parents were always less than an hour away.
When he and Malek got on a subway car, Caspar lost himself for a while in memories—good ones, this time—of his life before prison.
When they arrived, Caspar was struck by how different the neighbourhood was.
The buildings around the station had been built up into high rise apartments that seemed more like cages than residences.
A dozen coffee shops and pizza places had been added.
Several more high rise buildings dotted the skyline for businesses, a school he didn’t recognize was swarming with students, and the only thing that remained the same was a Greek Orthodox church by the corner.
He didn’t see his parents’ old mosque, but maybe it was now hidden by one of the apartment buildings.
Malek led them both down a sidewalk that didn’t seem familiar to Caspar, either.
His legs seemed to want to carry him in a completely different direction, independent of his conscious thoughts.
Each time Malek turned left where Caspar would have turned right, Caspar had to snap his attention back to Malek’s tattooed arms and focus on following him.
“Malek—Malek, wait,” Caspar said, huffing to catch up. “Where are you going? Why are we going this way?”
“We’re going to your house. It’s just around the corner.”
“Oh. Well. Um…” Caspar squinted, but didn’t see any houses. Only shops and businesses. “It is?”
“I know it’s different than before. You’ll get used to it.”
“I know. But…”
“This isn’t the route you took to see them? When you were younger?”
“I don’t think so. I know it’s been a while, but I’m pretty sure I used to cut through a park that was surrounded by houses.
Like, suburbs. You know—a family place. There was a baseball diamond.
Yeah.” Caspar smiled as the memory came back to him in full colour.
“Anthony and I used to play baseball there. Only the two of us, so I suppose it was more like batting practice than a real game. Whenever the streetlights would turn on, we would run through the small forest near our elementary school, then through the mosque parking lot, and get to our places before we broke our curfews.”
“Hmm.” Malek glanced around. He seemed to retrace their steps back to the subway station and then reorient himself to consider this new route. “That makes sense. I was using car directions before to get here, so… tell me. When you ran, whose door did you get to first?”
“Well, Anthony was my neighbour, so I suppose we always got to his house first. Is that what you mean?”
“Yeah. And tell me—is the route you took that night when you came in early to see your parents the same one that you used to take with Anthony?”
Caspar bit his lip. He’d been having such a nice walk down memory lane—one that wasn’t riddled with blood. He closed his eyes and tried to remember.
“You know, I think I did. Of course I did. The bar I usually did my homework at—please don’t ask about that right now—had a baseball game on.
I thought I would be so into it, but the team lost, so I finished my assignment early.
When I walked home, I saw the subway and thought it’d be nice to surprise my parents.
Then I wandered through the baseball diamond because I was still a little tipsy and figured it would be fun.
There were even some balls there, left by some kids.
So I threw them around against the netting. ”
“Huh.” Malek furrowed his brows. “I should have put that in my report.”
“Did I do something wrong? The cops never asked about this, and it seemed irrelevant when I told my story to Anthony and his dad. I just figured it was obvious to them. The baseball diamond was always a short cut, and if there was equipment there, we played. Did I mess up entirely? I–”
“You haven’t done anything wrong. Don’t worry.
Memory is faulty. It’s hard to know what’s important.
And even witnesses to crimes that aren’t years old get big things wrong.
Just do me a favour and tell me everything you remember when you get into the house, okay?
Even if it seems silly and inconsequential, tell me everything. ”
Caspar nodded, though he wasn’t sure what good it would do. How would remembering his father’s morning prayers matter in this investigation? The type of breakfast his mother used to make?
Maybe it didn’t have to be solely about the investigation. Maybe the two of them could just talk, and Malek could listen to him. Caspar liked the idea of someone else knowing his family’s traditions and little rituals—especially since he never got the chance to do much with them while in prison.
“Should I tell you about the bar, too?”
“Probably. What was the name?”
“McGuinty’s.”
“An Irish pub. Really?” Malek tilted his head.
Caspar shrugged. “What can I say? I really liked Guiness while studying.”
Malek seemed to sense he was lying, but didn’t say anything else.
When they turned down Main Street, Caspar’s blood ran cold.
His house wasn’t the first one on the block; Main Street was really a crescent, and Caspar’s house was located in the loop near the end, but listing it as Main Street always sold better. Being a ghoul always sold better.