Agent Williams shrugs and I notice the extra set of wrinkles that seem to have taken up residence in his forehead. “I don’t know. We’ve had agents working this case for weeks and we’ve got nothing.”
“I just don’t understand howno one elseever saw this guy!” Dad’s eyes jump to me when he asks, “How many times did he come see you when we were in the program…three…four times?”
“Four,” I squeak out. “In that coffee shop on Front Street, twice in the laundry room, and once at Pearl’s.”
“Four!” Dad exclaims. I shush him, reminding him that he will wake Teeny, and he lowers his voice a fraction before continuing, “Four times and not one of your guys ever saw him!” And then he turns on me. “And I still can’t believe you never mentioned he was visiting you, even if you thought he was an agent. You didn’t think it was strange?”
This is a conversation we’ve had a ridiculous number of times. Dad always seems to bring this up out of the blue—at the breakfast table, in the car, just before I tell him good night—it’s the one constant question. Why didn’t I tell him Thomas was contact-ing me?
And it’s a question I have a hard time answering. Do I get back into how awful Dad was acting back then—all secretive and silent? Do I remind him that Mom was falling down drunk all the time and my main concern was that she not kill herself with a bottle of gin?
But it’s more than that. And way worse. Every time a suit showed up, I would get nervous and panicked and jumpy, almost like I was allergic to them. But Thomas was so different than the other suits…obviously. He talked to me like I was an adult, not some useless kid. And I felt like I could trust him. That’s the worst part about this. I would have never mentioned him to anyone else because it never occurred to me that I should. He totally played me.
So I never really answer this question because I can’t bear to explain my stupidity.
Luckily, Agent Williams presses forward. “When you called me about the journal and note, I was very concerned that he decided to make contact with Anna. And in such a familiar way. But since it had already been a week and nothing else happened, I was stumped. But now that you have experienced a break-in, probably two, it seems like whatever this is, it’s escalating.” He turns to me and asks, “Where’s the journal now?”
I point to the small book in the plastic bag on the coffee table. The journal I once found so comforting now disgusts me. It was the only outlet I had when we were moved from town to town and it was devastating when I lost it. Agent Williams pulls a pair of gloves from his pocket and puts them on before reaching for it. I didn’t let Ethan or Dad look through the pages, but I know I won’t be able to stop Agent Williams. Or, it seems, Agent Parker—since she’s peering over his shoulder now.
As he flips through, a hole opens in my stomach. I cringe at the thought of all the suits reading what I wrote since most of it is about how much I despised them. And I was particularly unkind in my comments about Agent Parker after my makeover. Every feeling, thought, emotion, bad hair day, and bout with PMS I had while wasting away in the program for almost a year is written about in great detail in that journal. I may as well be walking around naked.
Agent Williams skims the pages, but thankfully closes it quickly. “Where is the note?”
“Folded up in the back of the journal.”
“And you received flowers last weekend as well?” Agent Parker asks.
Could that have been only a week ago—getting dressed with Catherine and Julie and greeting the delivery guy, wielding a huge vase of flowers, at the door?
“Yes. But I threw them out. After I got the journal, I realized they were probably from him.”
“He sent you flowers, too?” Ethan asks. He throws his head back in either disgust or anger. Or maybe a little of both.
I silently plead with him to come back to the couch and he finally drops down beside me.
“Anna, why didn’t you tell me this was going on?” Ethan asks me in a quiet voice.
I lean in close when I answer him back. “I don’t know. I think part of me didn’t want to admit it was really happening.”
This may be the last time I see him—the white, windowless van that moved us from placement to placement is probably gassed up and waiting outside. My hand moves to Ethan’s and I catch Dad’s look. He’s not crazy about how close we’ve become in such a short amount of time. And sometimes it feels weird to me, too, when I realize just how much I don’t know about him. But I still don’t pull my hand away.
Agent Williams pulls out the taped-together note and reads it out loud.
“‘Dear Anna. I’m sure you have questions, and someday maybe I’ll answer them for you. I thought it was important for you to have this back. I hope the nightmares that haunted you are gone. Maybe one day we’ll meet again.’ And he signed it with just a ‘T.’ ‘P.S. Tell your friend the tracker was a clever move.’”
Agent Williams leans back in the chair, letting his head drop and his eyes shut while Agent Parker paces behind the couch. The clock’s ticking seems louder than normal as we watch them.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Just when I start wondering if he’s fallen asleep or something, he sits up in the chair and says, “I’ve debated how much of this to tell you, but it’s time for me to put it all on the table. The reason we didn’t bring a full team is because I believe we have a mole in our program.”
Dad comes in closer but still won’t sit.
Agent Williams takes a deep breath before continuing, “For lack of anything else to call him, we’ll just use Agent X. There’s no other explanation for how Thomas was always one step ahead. Or how he so perfectly impersonated a U.S. Marshal. Or how he contacted your father at his work and knew where to find you.”
“And the little details that were in your personal records, like the daisy tattoo,” Agent Parker adds.
My hand automatically goes to my shoulder where the single daisy sits. Ethan brushes my hand away and rubs his thumb over the spot instead. The pit in my stomach grows bigger and I feel like it’s going to swallow me up.
