“Is that why you still have police sitting outside our house?”
He shakes his head, clearly unsurprised that I noticed the cop out there. “You were kidnapped, and your amnesia means you don’t know who did it.” And, yes, there’s absolutely a note of skepticism in his voice. “We’re worried someone might show up looking for you. It’s for your protection.”
“Then why are they down the street?”
The side of his mouth twists into a half smile. “Don’t want you to feel like you’re constantly under surveillance.”
“But I am?”
This he doesn’t answer. Instead he reaches into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and takes out a little white card. “I want you to take my card.” He holds it out to me, his bony fingers steady.
“Thought you were retired.”
“I am.” He flicks his fingers to try and encourage me to take the card. I do. Under his name it says “Private Investigator.” “But I help out from time to time. Especially on older cases that were still open when I retired.”
“So why did they introduce you as a supervisory special agent?”
He shakes his head. “Habit?”
“You’re a private eye now; who’s paying you?”
“No one.” He leans back and puts his arm across the top of the bench. “Do you have anything that keeps you up at night?” I don’t answer. “I have a handful of unsolved cases that keep me up. Yours is one of them. So when the cop in DC saw my info on your report and called me, I showed up.”
“I think you need a better hobby.”
He gives a subtle laugh, air expelling from his nose. “Do you remember anything new yet?”
I shake my head. “Dr. Z says it’s normal.”
He nods slowly. “Can you do me a favor? If youdohappen to... remember anything at all, give me a call?”
“Why?”
“Because if someone kidnapped you, they’re still out there. And they might try to hurt someone else.” He nods to the card still in my hand. “That’s my cell. Day or night. Anything you might remember. Even about your... family members.”
The air between us goes ice cold, or maybe that’s my imagination, because a chill raises the little hairs on the back of my neck. The way he saysfamily members. There’s a hint of skepticism there. He knows I’m not Nate. I don’t know how, but he does.
Maybe because he has some of his own suspicions about Nate’s disappearance.
But then why hasn’t he pressed the cops to get a DNA test to prove I’m not Nate? Now that I know he’s retired and notactivelyinvolved in the case, he seems even more dangerous. Miles was probably right; the police were happy to scratch Nate off their open cases and moveon. But since Grant is retired, he can look into things if they aren’t feeling right to him.
“Can I ask you a question, then?” I try to keep my voice steady.
“Shoot.”
“Why couldn’t you find me?”
He stares at me for a few moments, his eyes icy and unmoving. “Because you disappeared without a trace. No security footage of strange cars or people in the area, and no one heard anything suspicious or saw anyone strange coming or going, even the neighbors outside working in their yards or having a cookout.”
No one strange. Just the people who the neighbors would expect to see on a Saturday afternoon. I want to ask him if anyone mentioned seeing Marcus or Valencia after two p.m.—the time Marcus apparently returned from the grocery store—but I don’t know how to ask that without raising suspicion. Yes, Grant may know—or think he knows—I’m lying, but I’m not going to confess that to him. Retired or not, if this is something that keeps him up at night, he’s not going to bother protecting me.
“People don’t disappear without a trace,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No. Usually they don’t.” He stands and nods down at the card I’m still holding. “If you think of anything at all, call me.”
I nod, even though I’ve already decided I’m never talking to him alone again. After he leaves, I wait a few minutes, trying to slow my heart rate, but I’m so anxious my hands are shaking. I run my fingers across the embossed business card. I need to get out of here. Still, I head over to the YA section and pick out three books at random—though one does pique my interest because the cover is an illustratedpicture of a girl in a ridiculous hot dog costume. Then I find Gramma Sharon and tell her I’m ready to go.
I’m not at all in the mood for ice cream but I don’t want Gramma Sharon to think anything is up, so I let her buy me a scoop of Purple Cow. After a couple spoonfuls I wince and say it hurts my teeth. Which, honestly, isn’t a lie. Thanks, Valencia. She insisted on doing the cleaning herself despite being behind on patients. But at least I get to hang out with Gramma Sharon because of it.
