“Or something.” He shakes the mouse to wake up his computer, then unlocks it with a password. There’s a program up with rows of different-colored bars stacked atop each other, and little sound waves across the length of the bars. “I run a highly unpopular true crime podcast. We average twenty listeners a month! That’s down from thirty-five last year, but at least it’s not zero.”
A true crime podcast? I wonder if he ever did one on Nate.
“Cool,” I say.
“It is!” he says, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the desk. “That’s actually how I know you’re not really Nate. So why don’t you tell me who you really are, and why you’re pretending to be him.”
Fifteen
My mouth hangs open as I stare at Miles, unsure how to respond. I got too comfortable trying to bemeand not Nate. My brain is totally blank.
Miles stares at me, waiting for me to say something.
So finally I say the one thing repeating over and over in my head:
“How... how did you know?”
His eyes go wide and he flinches. “Wait. Seriously? I was right?”
Again, my mind goes blank. He was bluffing? Miles straightens up, staring right at me, studying my face.
“No,” I say, trying to sound cool. “I’m kidding.”
“Nice try. You’re totally not Nate!” He’s smiling but his eyes are still wide in shock, or maybe it’s excitement. Like he really was bluffing but he caught me.
“Yes, I am.” In the moment I don’t know what’s worse about Miles ratting me out: getting arrested and sent home, or destroying the Beaumonts’ hope that their son is okay.
“Bullshit. I was right. Oh. My. God. I can’t believe this.” He starts to pace around the room with nervous excitement. “I had a hunch, but I had zero proof, and wanted to see if you’d dig the hole any deeper until I couldproveyou weren’t him. I was going to make up memoriesabout us as kids and see if you’d tell me you remembered them or not.” He stops and runs over to his computer. “Oh shit, can I record this?”
“No!”
He glances over his shoulder. “You’re in my house, and you know now that I’m recording, so you can choose to talk or not, but I’m definitely recording this.”
I step around him and grab the microphone, ripping the jack out of the dock.
He holds up his hands. “Okay, hold on. That’s a Sennheiser and it cost a hundred and fifty bucks, so why don’t we put that down and we’ll talk. No recording.”
I place it on the dresser behind me. Away from any errant USB ports it might accidentally find its way into.
I nod at the computer screen. “It hasn’t been recording this whole time?”
“Unfortunately for me, no. I have journalistic integrity, so I wouldn’t record you without your consent.” He crosses his arms again. “That being said, what you’re doing is pretty messed up, so even if I did record you without your knowledge, I’m sure the Beaumonts wouldn’t mind.”
I sit down on his bed because the room seems to be spinning now. My heart beats hard enough in my chest that it feels like I can’t breathe. I should have known Miles was bluffing. How would he be able to tell I’m not Nate after only speaking to me three times?
And how do I convince him not to tell the Beaumonts?
“What made you think I wasn’t Nate to begin with?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You’re not the first person to do this.”
I’m not?
He turns around and types something into his computer, then steps away so I can look. I peer at the Wikipedia page of some guy with a French name. I’m not going to read the whole Wikipedia article, so I shake my head.
“He was a French serial impersonator,” Miles says. “Somehow, he managed to convince the Spanish police, Interpol, the FBI, and this family he was a fifteen-year-old blond kid with blue eyes from Texas who disappeared three years earlier. Despite, you know, being French and in his mid-twenties with receding brown hair and brown eyes.”
Okay, at least my eyes match Nate’s. “How did he get away with it?”
