And again, I laugh. Ishouldbe mad at Miles. He doesn’t believe me and calls me a liar. And this was all very clearly filler information for his podcast—though he was kind of upfront about that with me.
Heisthe only person who knows the real me, though. And he’s now the second kid my age I’ve met who is out and queer. Though if my friendship with Frankie is anything to go by, I shouldn’t trust him. And yet...
“So?” I ask, leaning against the island. “Still think it’s all too simple?”
“I think we’re on the right track, but we’ll have to find something more substantial if we want to go to the police.”
We.I have no intention of going to the police. Or helping Miles anymore. But he is right. Marcus has gotten away with it this long. He’s several steps ahead of us. That also means I have a target on my back. He wants me out of their lives before he’s out half a million dollars. Though Miles doesn’t seem to care about that, because all he cares about is getting an interesting story for his podcast. But murderisn’t always complicated, with dozens of suspects. He even said most murders are done by people close to the victim.
“Fine, so it’s not enough to go to the police, but is it enough for you?”
He flinches. “What do you mean?”
“You said you’d help me get away if I got you stuff for your podcast. There’s your compelling theory or whatever. You have plenty to start with; you can figure out the rest on your own. When do I get out of here?” As much as I want to rely only on myself, I need a way to get somewhere fast.
“Oh.” He looks like he’s not sure what to say. “I mean, do you know where you’re going when you leave?”
“I’ll get on a train and go... somewhere.”
“You might not want to go to a train station nearby. It’s easy for the police to go with a picture and ask if they’ve seen you. And do you have money?”
Shit. I don’t. I’ve been so desperate to get out of this situation, I didn’t even think about needing money tobuya train or bus ticket.
Miles takes the look on my face as confirmation. “I’ll buy you a ticket, but we can’t get you out of here until the weekend. I can tell my parents I’m going out with another friend and drive you somewhere a couple hours away. Maybe Virginia. Or Philly.”
My heart sinks. So I’m stuck here for a few more days. With Marcus trying to expose who I really am.
Twenty-Four
As I sit outside Dr. Zapata’s office waiting to be picked up after my first session, I can’t help but run my tongue against my teeth. My cleaning with Valencia this morning was much worse than I was anticipating. My teeth ache, especially the lower back molars, which Valencia said needed extra attention. I knew it would be bad, but not that it would be this painful after the fact. I guess that’s what happens when you don’t always get to brush your teeth while living on the street.
At least I didn’t have any cavities. Notyet, is what Valencia said. There was a soft spot on a back molar that she marked to keep an eye on—zooming in on the X-ray and pointing it out to me. Probably why she dug around so hard back there. But somehow one of my teeth feels a little sharper, and I keep running my tongue over it.
I can still taste blood.
I check my phone again and there are no further updates from Valencia. After dropping me off, she sent a message that she had to run back to the office for an emergency and that Gramma Sharon would be picking me up instead.
But it’s now a quarter past three and I’m starting to wonder if Gramma Sharon knows that. If I were a smarter person, I’d take this chance to make a run for it. I could disappear and hope theynever find me again. But Miles is right; if I disappeared without telling the truth, it would gain more attention. Then I’ll never be able to hide.
Plus, I have even less than I did when I was arrested.
So instead, I sit on the curb and continue to wait. About two minutes later, Gramma Sharon’s red Fiat pulls into the lot. She rolls down the window as she comes to a stop in front of me.
“If you don’t tell your mom I was late, we’ll go get ice cream,” she shouts.
Again, my tongue goes to my sore gums and molars. I roll my eyes, pretending to be put out, then say okay and climb in.
“Your mom said you wanted to go to the library, so we can stop there first.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. I wasn’t actually planning on going to the library. I just wanted to leave the house.
She waves a dismissive hand. “I’m looking for something to do, and I feel bad for you being locked up in the house all afternoon. We’ll go to the library, you can check out some books, and then we’ll stop for ice cream.” Before I’m even buckled in, she shifts into drive and hits the gas. My stomach lurches and I grab on to the door handle.
She drives like a madwoman.
Gramma Sharon starts asking about my day, but I play it off, saying I sat in Valencia’s office on the computer. Definitely not on my phone looking up more queer homeless shelters. She nods, unsurprised. “This is why I told your mom I’d take you out—so you’re not moping around the house the rest of the afternoon. Forgive her; she’s got temporary insanity, I fear.”
“Afraid I’ll disappear again.”
