“Precisely.”
“And I’m sure she told you I threw paint on Mar—” I stop myself. I can’t believe I slipped up in front of her and started saying Marcus’s name instead of “Dad.” She glances over at me expectantly, but my heart is racing in my chest.
Finally she nods. “On your dad’s car. Yeah, she mentioned an accident. You threw it on?”
“No. It was an accident, I just don’t know how it happened because I put the paint on the ground.”
“Ghosts,” Gramma Sharon says. And just like that, the conversation is over and she pulls into the library parking lot.
We walk in and she approaches the front desk, telling them I need a library card. They ask for proof of residency, and Gramma Sharon reaches into her bag to hand over an ID and gas bill, asking if that’s good enough. She also says I’m her grandson and I’m staying with her for the summer and to make sure I don’t have any restrictions on the card. She wants me to be able to check out whatever I want.
Again I think of my own grandmother, and how she used to bring me to the library on the days she watched me. And again I feel that deep pit of loss in my gut. The one that started the day I came home and found my parents dressed in black from her funeral. The funeral they didn’t even bother bringing me to. Marcus and Valencia wouldn’t do that. Though maybe that’s only because they try so hard to look normal. Which is better: The family who shows you who they really are, or the ones who might be hiding the truth?
“Okay.” Gramma Sharon breaks me from the thought—and good timing, because I can feel the sting of tears in the corners of my eyes. She hands over my library card. “Grab what you want and come find me when you’re ready to go. I’ll probably be kicking around the scary stuff.”
I thank her and head in the opposite direction, toward the back of the library. The young adult section has beanbag chairs and a bench, so I opt for one of the beanbags and drop into it to stare at my phone. My first instinct is to go to Miles’s social media.
Even after yesterday’s waste of time, I couldn’t stay angry at him. I mean, Icould,but he’s the only person I can really talk to about everything. So I created my own fake accounts but haven’t posted yet. I followed him—and a few celebrities and influencers so it didn’t look like a total weirdo account—and within minutes he texted me a screencap of my profile askingIS THIS YOU?!
It’s not my old username, which I’ve abandoned. Instead, my new name is MitoDNAte—and, yes, I was absolutely trolling him. Also yes, it got the desired effect. He playfully called me a catty bitch—well, I’m 90 percent sure it was playful—and then he sent me a funny video.
There’s a new one he must have sent during his lunch break. I open the post to watch the video, but out of the corner of my eye I see someone walking over to me. I look up, expecting it to be a librarian asking if I need help finding anything, but instead I see Agent Grant.
My mouth goes dry. This is it. They’ve finally figured it out and now he’s coming to arrest me.
I lock the phone in my hands as he stops at the bench across from my beanbag chair. He gives me what I wouldn’t call a friendly look.Maybe something more like curiosity. Like I’m a brightly colored tropical bird that crapped on his freshly cleaned car.
“Are you following me?” I ask.
He gives me a wan smile and sits down on the bench, crossing his leg over his knee. “This is my local library. I was returning some books and saw you over here. Thought I would say hi. We never really got a chance to speak.”
He’s lying. The YA section is tucked away in the back of the library, with no real sight lines to it. Also there’s a book drop outside.
What he means to say is we haven’t had a chance to speak without Marcus and Valencia around.
“I don’t think I should talk to you without a lawyer present.”
His face doesn’t change. “Why? Have you done something wrong?”
My stomach is in knots and sweat is gathering at the nape of my neck. Every word I say could get me into trouble. This is why they tell you to keep asking for a lawyer when you’re arrested. Say nothing else but “I want a lawyer.” Of course they ask you why an innocent person needs a lawyer, but that answer’s simple. Because they want you to talk yourself into a corner. To make one mistake so they can get you whether you’re innocent or not.
“It’s not about doing something wrong,” I say. “You’re a cop, and there’s that whole, anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law.”
“I’m retired.”
“So this is an unofficial talk?”
He shrugs. “I came here to say hello. I’m a neighbor who just happened to be involved in your case when it was active.”
“Then why did you say you wanted to talk to me without my parents here?”
His eyebrows jump slightly. “I didn’t say that.”
I replay in my head what he said to me and, shit, he’s right. But I try to play it off like I didn’t mess up. “Subtext.”
“I did want to ask you if you’ve seen anyone strange around since coming home.”
That gives me pause. Does that mean Grant doesn’t suspect Marcus and Valencia in Nate’s disappearance?
