I rub my lips with my knuckle, thinking. “I understand.”
Harris coughs. “How is Jack? He must be, what? Seven years old?” he asks.
“Eight, if you can believe it.” I shake my head. “He's hanging in there. We have a court-appointed counselor who meets with him every week. She's looking out for him.”
“Good.” Will Harris resumes his professional mode. “Dear, I must rush off. May I offer you a piece of advice before I go?”
“Certainly,” I say. “I'd be grateful.”
“Please, get away from Mitchell Carson. As soon as you can.”
FRIDAY, APRIL 30
The ride back to the apartment is dead quiet. I rest my head against the cool glass of the window and pretend to fall asleep. When the truck stops, I jerk my body to look like I've woken up. Before my dad can ask me anything, I jump out the door, head for my room, and shove the package from Ava under my bed.
I think I hear my name but ignore it. I lock myself in the bathroom, fan running, and water on. Sam's almost asleep, and Dad wants help getting my brother inside and in bed. It makes me feel sort of bad to ignore him, but he's been kind of a jerk lately.
No, really a jerk. And the last thing I want is another fight. About anything. Especially about the box from Ava. Dad can't know about that.
What I need is for Dad to forget about the stuff at Dr. Bennett's office and move on to something else that makes him mad. Someone at the college might do something dumb. Or the guy outside blowing leaves might give him a headache. I can always say I have stomach cramps. Or a fever. Then my dad will get busy calling the pediatrician. And be angry trying to play Mr. Mom.
He'll also take the credit for dragging me to the doctor or handing me a bottle of medicine. He wants everyone to think he does
everythingâeven though Isabel takes care of us around here. Laundry, dishes, beds, vacuuming. Changing diapers still makes Dad gag-vomit. He just thinks I don't notice or I'm not looking.
Whatever works for him. But the truth matters to me. Like the stuff about my grandpa. All of a sudden, he's not dead? I'm still freaked out about that. Trying to tell myself it's real. Trying to make myself believe it.
But, hey, superheroes can come back to life. Superman did it. No one blinks at that. Captain America did too. Marvel Comics killed off his real identity, Steve Rogers, a few years back. The head honcho guys thought the fan world would take it lying down, but boy, were they wrong.
Rogers/Captain America had been around for more than sixty years. He was an icon, a veteran in the truest senseâcreated to help the United States fight in World War IIâusing his combat and survival skills. Yes, he was a character in a comic book. But when the sniper bullet took him out, the world fought back. Captain America was reborn.
A miracle? Maybe. I think it's because people believed in him and wouldn't give up.
So what about real life? What about my grandfather? If I had known he was alive, I wouldn't have given up.
Right now all I know is that I am starving. Headache and stomachache starving. So much so that I can't think. About Grandpa, about Ava or Sam. About anything but food.
Dad's on the phone when I finally come out of the bathroom, and as predicted, he's onto some new crisis. He's pacing around like a caged tiger, eyes crazy. My throat parches and I creep backward, away from him, until my hand finds the door frame of my bedroom. I duck inside the darkness and let my eyes adjust as I stay still and listen for my father.
When he hangs up the phone, he heads for the bathroom and flicks
on the light, bathing the hall in bright yellow. I blink against the glare, rubbing my eyelids while my dad opens and closes drawers, rummaging around. I can tell when he opens the vanity over the sink because the hinges creak. I hold my breath as he rattles pill bottles and pushes around boxes of medicine we keep out of Sam's reach.
While he's busy searching, I tiptoe into the kitchen and ease open the bottom cabinets. Inside there's nothing but filé powder to make gumbo and a yellow bag of shrimp boil seasoning. The cupboard next to it isn't much better.
Holding my arms tight to my body, I step toward the refrigerator and pull gently on the freezer door. A blast of chilled air hits my cheeks. Two long blue trays sit to one side, shiny and full of ice, but otherwise that space is bare too. When I move down to the larger door, my hope for dinner really fizzles, like someone's punctured my favorite balloon. Other than a squeeze-jar of mustard and a box of baking soda, it's empty.
I check the trash. Dad's tossed out every single thing Isabel made us for the weekend.
What was he thinking?
Panicking a little, I look in the pantry. One box of mac and cheese, which may become dinner, unless my dad decides to at least get takeout. I swear the guys at Red Dragon Chinese Restaurant know our weekend order by heart: sweet and sour shrimp, three egg rolls, and pineapple fried rice.
Dad's gruff voice sounds behind me. “Gotta go out for a while, Jack.”
I jump up and whirl around, chest heaving.
His eyes run over me, scanning my rumpled T-shirt, jeans, and bare feet. I wait for him to criticize something about my clothes or my hair, but he brushes past me, reaching over my head.
When I glance up, he's already found what he's looking for, a silver flask among a few tall bottles of liquor. Stuff I'm never, ever supposed to touch.
Keeping his back to me, Dad slides the container inside his jacket pocket. “Watch your brother,” he says, his voice gravelly, turning around to face me. “He's asleep.”
I wrench my eyes away from the bulge in his jacket pocket and focus on his face, the pulse thudding in my veins. “Yes, sir,” I reply quietly.
Dad opens up the closet door, pulls down a tan canvas suitcase. “Put anything you might want or need in there.”
I don't move.
“Jack, get it done,” he snaps. “I have to take care of some things. For the trip.” He pulls at his shirt and straightens his collar. “We leave when I get back. Whether you're packed or not.”
I nod and my robot self clicks on. I inch toward my bedroom. I don't want to wake up Sam. But I need clothes, shoes, and stuff. God, I hate my dad right now.
“Good. Be back soon.”
The door clicks shut behind him. I lock it. My stomach heaves as if it's the
Titanic
breaking in half on the Atlantic. Then a thought hits me. The canisters with flour, sugar, and sometimes a forgotten treat. I haven't checked there. Maybe Isabel left something. I almost sprint to the counter. The tops clink as I pull it up. No food. No cookies. But there's something else. Something cold and hard. I pull it up and take it out.
It's a gun. And I think it might be real.
FRIDAY, APRIL 30
This is the time when an escape route to an alternate universe would come in handy. When you want to run but can't, when you suspect someone is crazy, when you absolutely would rather drink a bottle of wine than deal with the cold, hard truth.
Now I have to call her attorney. On a Friday night. With some serious concerns.
Damn.
I search for Graham's card, find it stuck to some Jolly Ranchers in my drawer. Stained cherry-red on the edges, I can still make out the number. I punch it in and wait.
Voice mail.
“Graham, hey. This is Lucy. Please call me back ASAP. I need to talk to you about Mitchell Carson. I'm worried. It sounds like he's planning a trip awayâand they're leaving tonight. I have no information about where they're going or for how long.”
Pause.
I take a hit from my inhaler.
“Also the older boy has some bruises that are consistent with abuse. His story does not, I repeat, does not match Dad's. Someone's covering up and I don't like it. Dad didn't meet me for his home visit. Not sure if that information made it down the food chain to you yet.”
Another hit.
I clear my throat.
“As a mandatory reporter, I have to contact CPS next. Call me. Grahamâ”
A rattle at the door startles me. Someone is trying to open it. Then a knock.
Bleep.
The voice mail cuts off with a sound loud enough to do hearing damage.
More banging. Louder this time.
“Hold your horses,” I call out. “Don't break my window.”
I almost stumble over my umbrella as I step into the murky hallway and yank open the office door. “It's Friday night. What in the world could be so important?”
A thick hand grabs my neck and squeezes.
FRIDAY, APRIL 30
My body sags when I hang up with Will Harris. I press a hand to the counter to steady myself. My head pulsates with pain. I start walking to get some Advil when the rumble of a motorcycle engine startles me. I rush to the door and peek out. It's Graham on his Harley. In a very wrinkled, dirty coat and tie. He pulls off his helmet and walks up the front steps.
“Got your message,” he says. “Figured it'd be easier to just head over and talk.”
“What happened?” I demand. “You look awful.”
He grimaces, grabs his briefcase and a sack from Miss Beulah's. “My very temperamental bike led to a very temperamental judge.”
“Late for court?” I push open the door and usher him inside.
“You guessed it.” He plops the paper bag on the counter, which smells like heavenâcinnamon, sugar, thick white icing. “I offered to be in contempt so that my client didn't get the short end of the stick. The judge fined me a thousand dollars.”
I gulp.
“Next time I'll set two alarms.” Graham pushes the bag in my direction. “Here, eat up while you tell me what's going on.”
I recount the visit with Jack and Sam, show him the timeline,
and offer my theory about Mitchell running with the boys. “Think about it,” I say. “He took off after his mother committed suicide, and Frank said he was never the same. After Karen dies, he leaves his job and everythingâincluding his fatherâbehind, basically wiping out the past.” I stop and take a breath. “So what's to stop him from taking the boys now and disappearing?”
“Other than it's illegal?” Graham tips back in his chair, considering this. “Although, I don't know if he cares.”
“Exactly.”
Graham drums his fingers on the table. “We can't go accusing someone of just
thinking
about kidnapping their own children.”
“I know.” I frown and cross my arms. “So while I was waiting for you to call me back, I got in touch with Will Harris. Told him what I was thinking about Mitchell disappearing. I asked him if he remembered anything else about Karenâanything weird that happened right before she died.”
“And?”
“She was in his office the morning of the accident. Harris said Mitchell called and demanded Karen come home. He thinks Mitchell threatened to hurt Jack if she didn't come back right away. So she did.”
Graham springs to his feet, starts pacing, but stops abruptly to rub his knee. “Damn. Why didn't Harris go to the cops?”
“I guess he didn't know for sure about the threat. Mitchell would have denied it anyway. What could the police do? Karen was already gone.”
Graham mulls this, head down. “Okay, I get it. What else?”
“There's no way Harris was Karen's boyfriend. No way.”
“Did you ask him straight out?”
“Didn't have to. He's gay. Told me about his partner, Paul. How they went to the funeral together. How he and Paul adored Karen and Jack.”
Graham is shocked. For a second. “Well, tickle me pink. I'll be damned.”
“There's more. Frank called and said he'd found something. So I went to see him yesterday. We had quite the discussion.”
“Hit me.”
I rummage through my papers, yank out the itinerary. Hand it to Graham. “Take a look at this. I made about ten copies, just in case.”
He scans it, rubs his jaw, then hands it back to me. “She wasn't leaving him.”
“Nope.” I slip the paper in my pocket for safekeeping and cross my arms. “It was a surprise. They were going on a trip. Mitchell didn't know anything about it. Still doesn't.”
“All right, partner!” Graham slaps his hands together and rubs them. “Did I mention I could get you a job as a PI?”
I grin at the praise. “Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe I'll go to law school and give you a run for your money, counselor.”
Across the room in Graham's briefcase, his phone starts vibrating. He jumps up from the table but doesn't snatch it up fast enough.
“Dr. Bennett,” he says, swiping at the screen. He attempts to call back, but his phone won't connect. “Come on.”
“Maybe she's leaving a voice mail?” I suggest.
Thirty seconds later, Graham's phone beeps. “She did.” Graham sticks his cell between his ear and shoulder, listening and watching me closely. His forehead wrinkles. “It's not good. Go ahead, listen to it.”
The message is broken up and crackly. I can only catch bits and pieces.
Worried. Away. Bruises. Check on the kids.
I stifle a cry. Then there's a sound, like banging on wood or knocking. Then the voice mail ends.
My body goes numb. “Something awful's happened.”
He nods and redials her number. I bite my lip and pace as he listens.
He hangs it up. “She's not answering.”
“Let's go,” I urge him.
Graham nods, and we race for the door. He hands me my phone as we jog to the Harley. I climb on the back, jam the phone in my jeans, and strap on Graham's helmet.
“Ready?” he yells.
When I squeeze his arm as a yes, he guns the engine to life. In seconds, we're speeding downtown.
FRIDAY, APRIL 30