I tiptoe back to my bed, trying not to make too much noise. He’s at the landing now. I reach the bed as he ascends the side stairs to our hallway.
Easton’s footsteps get closer, passing his bedroom. Then the bathroom.
He’s headed here.
I get in the bed, throwing the blanket over me again and shutting my eyes. Blood pounds in my ears as I try to settle myself. He’s suspicious of me as is; I can’t have him knowing I was eavesdropping. He’s the only one in this house who seems sure that I’m not who I say I am.
Easton comes to a stop outside my bedroom door.
I peer through my eyelashes and see his silhouette. He holds something in front of him. The door cracks open and squeaks on its hinges.
He enters my bedroom, walking carefully over to the side of the bed but not trying to hide his footsteps.
Easton puts whatever he’s holding down on the bedside table.
I shut my eyes a little tighter and try to steady my breathing.
“Nate,” he whispers. “You awake?”
I don’t answer. Easton’s body moves slightly, and he says my name—Nate’s name—again, then takes something off the bedside table. There’s a click.
The phone. I take a chance and open my eyes a little. He’s crouching next to the bed, staring at my locked phone. Thank God I set up the passcode, because I can’t remember if I cleared the history of my Beaumont search from last night. I close my eyes as he puts the phone back. Then he stands again, and after a few moments he turns and heads into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
I open my eyes to stare at the door, expecting him to open it again. But all I hear is the sound of running water from the sink.
There’s a plate on the bedside table. A big slice of pizza with peppers, onions, and black olives on it. Did he bring that up to eat himself and leave it by mistake?
Easton continues getting ready for bed. Eventually I hear Marcus’s footsteps on the stairs. They come to a stop at my bedroom and I close my eyes again. The door squeaks on its hinges as he pulls it shut, then crosses the hall to his bedroom.
In the shared bathroom, the water stops running and Easton’s bedroom door opens and closes.
Then the house is silent.
I reach for the pizza. It’s still warm.
And Easton definitely didn’t bring it up for himself because I heard the buzz of an electric toothbrush and him spitting in the sink.
Which means he brought it up for me.
It wasn’t him being a nice big brother, though. It was an excuse for him to check on what the stranger who conned his parents into taking him home with them was doing. And he did stare for a while.
Maybe it was part nice big brother, part curiosity.
And I am hungry.
I peel the onions off the pizza while I type Nate’s name into the search bar on my phone, then click on the news and filter it by the newest articles. The last one is still from ten months ago. Which means no news outlets have picked up that “Nate” has been found.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
Once all the onions are off the pizza, I wolf it down. I definitely want more, but I don’t want to go downstairs in this strange house alone. I set the plate aside and log into my old email account, which I haven’t checked in months. I check through the junk, deleting it, then my heart stops when I see Frankie’s email address. And the subject.
I’m sorry.
I stare at it for almost a full minute, then open the email. The body doesn’t say anything else. Because whatwouldit say? Part of me wants to reply and tell her I forgive her. It’s the one thing I take from Christianity—forgiveness. And I really do believe she didn’t realize how bad it might get for me. Or maybe it was her only option.
But I still can’t trust her. If she goes to my parents or tells them I’m accessible by email, they might figure out a way to find me. So I leave the email. For now.
Of course, that doesn’t help me feel any more relaxed with these strangers in this strange home.
