“Well, he didn’t.” Miles scoffs. “Obviously, since I’m telling you his story. But they ‘believed’ it for probably the same reason you’re getting away with it right now. The Spanish cops didn’t want to deal with it, Interpol didn’t want to deal with it. Neither did the FBI, or the Texas cops. I knowLaw & Orderreruns tell us cops are good at their jobs, but let’s be real. Inaction is the main job description of police in America. The Supreme Court even says they aren’t required to protect people.
“Most crimes in America go unsolved. The highest clearance rate is fifty percent and that’s for murder—and spoiler, murder is usually committed by someone close to the victim. A family member or friend. It’s like a cheat code for solving murders. Pressure the people close to the vic until you find evidence, they mess up, or they confess.”
Maybe eating the Beefaroni in front of the clerk and then running was the way to go after all.
“You know a lot of crime statistics.” In fact, I feel like this isn’t the first time he’s said all this out loud. It feels rehearsed.
“Well, when your primary ADHD symptom is hyperfixation and your best friend disappears without a trace when you’re six years old... yeah. You find hobbies.”
Of course. Miles has spent the last ten years trying to figure out what happened to his best friend. And then I came along.
“So you were really bluffing?” I ask.
“Pressure people close to the victim until they mess up. You messed up, dude.”
I put my face in my hands, trying to cool my burning skin. I’d been so goddamned careful up until now. Maybe I can convince him to give me a head start before he exposes me. Get away while I can.
“The amnesia was what pushed it over the edge for me,” Miles says. “If we’re being honest. Amnesia isn’t usually contained to such a specific and convenient time period.”
“The Beaumonts accepted it.”
Miles nods. “Because they were desperate to believe it. Same with the cops. To them you’re a nice little gold star for their clearance rate. Though if youdidconvince them, I’m not sure why they’re still tailing you.”
My heart seizes in my chest, and I look up at him. “What?”
He frowns. “You clearly aren’t as used to this street as I am.” He reaches into the top drawer of his dresser and pulls out a pair of binoculars. “Don’t get excited, my window doesn’t face anyone remotely attractive, so it’s mainly for picnics on the dog beach.” He lowers hisvoice as though talking to himself. “Lotta shirtless runners in the summertime.”
He motions for me to follow him over to the window and pulls down one of the plastic blinds. I take the binoculars and he points down the street.
“See the car?”
The sedan is dark blue or black today, not maroon. But it’s parked in the same place as the one I saw when I arrived. I thought it was one of the neighbors parked in front of their house, kind of like how Gramma Sharon parked in front of the Beaumonts’.
“How do you know it’s a cop?”
“Chardonnay is a wonderful scouting companion,” he says, like that should explain it. “I didn’t recognize the car, so I took her out for a walk yesterday. It was a maroon car then. First I thought it might be a reporter, someone looking to do a story on your reappearance. I was hoping if they were famous enough, I’d get them to agree to be on my podcast if I gave them some information.”
I give him a glare, but he returns it in kind.
“Send that high horse right to the glue factory, bitch.”
Fair point. I look back at the car. There’s someone sitting in it tonight.
“Anyway, it wasn’t the media. Some skinny guy with a cop haircut. He was sitting there with the windows down. I could see his badge and the gun clipped to his hip.”
So they’re following me. Shit. I couldn’t run even if the house wasn’t securely locked down by apps and instant phone alerts. Maybe that’s why someone’s out there right now. Waiting to see me walkingdown the street with a backpack full of supplies and clean clothes. Which means even with a head start, I’m screwed.
“Wait.” I turn back to him. “Older white guy?” He nods. “Gray hair, mustache?”
Miles shakes his head. “No, he was younger than that. You’re talking about Grant, right?”
I flinch. “You know him?”
“Yeah, he lives in town. And he’s the only reasonanythinggot done when Nate disappeared. The local cops—again, inaction is the prime directive—weren’t even going to issue an Amber Alert. They still said that forty-eight-hour bullshit. But I think Marcus knows someone who knew Grant and he got them to issue the alert. Then when the tip came through from Pennsylvania, he took over the case. Man, he’s someone I’d love to do a podcast with. Probably has so many cool stories. But I’m too scared to ask him.”
I get it. Grantisvery intimidating.
“Anyway, he’s retired now, so it wouldn’t be him out there.”
