I nod while I anxiously pull at my fingers under the table. “I’m sorry. I won’t go into your room again without permission.” I’m kind of banking on the hope that he doesn’t know I also went into his office.
He nods and looks down at the gun again. “We bought it after you disappeared.”
That’s something I notice about Marcus and Valencia. They both keep saying I disappeared, not that I was kidnapped. Easton is more up-front about it, like he doesn’t think it’s awkward to talk about.Maybe because he understands it’s best to confront things head-on while Valencia and Marcus are more cautious around my supposed traumas.
“We installed the alarm then, too,” Marcus adds. “Your mother got paranoid and became overprotective of Easton. We all went to family therapy a couple of times—it was when Easton was a teen and he wanted to be able to go out and do normal things that teens do. Your mom was scared to let him go to dances, after-school events, hang out with his friends. Eventually she found ways to deal with her anxiety, but I can see the patterns repeating.”
Patterns? What kind of things did she do to Easton to keep him home? And would she go as far as creating trouble—gas leaks, paint vandalism, killing her plants—to keep me trapped in the house? But that would fly right in the face of her saying she understood about my go bag.
“I get that all this is new and scary for you, but I still think respecting our privacy is healthy, and Dr. Zapata would agree. But feel free to let me know if she has other thoughts.”
“Okay. And I’m sorry again.”
He picks up the gun and holds it in his hand, staring at it. “When Easton was fourteen, I took him to the range and taught him how to use this safely. I should probably do the same with you.”
Is this some father-son bonding moment? Are we supposed to go to the gun range and shoot a few targets and talk about girls?
I shake my head. “No, thank you. I’m a little freaked out by guns.”
He places it back in the shoebox and puts the lid on. “That’s how you get not freaked out. By learning how to safely use it.” With that,he says he’s going to go to bed. He stands and walks behind me, then stops at the doorway.
“Listen,” he says. “Your mom’s trying. Earlier I mentioned the repeating patterns, but sheistrying. So be patient with her, okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
He pauses and thinks for a moment. “With me, too. I know you don’t remember my parents, but they weren’t as...” He grins. “Direct as Gramma Sharon.”
I laugh. “Is anyone?”
“No.” He comes back and puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently, like he’s trying to tell me something. Maybe a warning? But then he kisses the top of my head. “Night, kiddo.”
“Good night.”
I listen to his footsteps go up the stairs to their bedroom.
Twenty-Nine
Marcus decides that the best way to spend our Saturday morning is to have Valencia shop for the barbecue while he takes Easton and me to a gun range. Father-son bonding over guns? It’s very heteronormative and I already hate it.
My real parents never had a gun. And knowing this one is even in the house—with someone who may have killed the real Nate—terrifies me. In fact, this whole trip feels more and more like an intimidation tactic.
When we arrive at the gun range, Easton presents the person behind the counter with his ID—I don’t need one since I’m a minor and Marcus is responsible for me—and chooses a handgun to rent. They charge him for a box of bullets, then hand over ear protection and a target, and tell him he can go to the range, where someone will meet him to go over the rules.
Marcus tells them we’re hanging back because he’s going to show me how to properly handle a weapon first. Then he puts a locked box on the counter and the guy behind it watches as he unlocks it, then shows him the gun inside—the one I found in a Cole Haan shoebox even though this box exists somewhere—and that it’s not loaded.
The guy reminds him not to load it outside the shooting area andMarcus nods and buys a second box of bullets and a target. I take the orange plastic ear protection the clerk hands over and Marcus leads me to a seating area where another man is cleaning a big, terrifying rifle.
“Don’t worry,” Marcus says. “I’m not the hunting type, so you don’t have to worry about those.”
I must have shown my thoughts on my face. “I don’t really like guns period.”
“Well, you shouldn’t,” he says as he unlocks the handgun’s trigger. “Guns are dangerous. We only have this one because it helped your mother feel safer.”
“How bad was she? When I was abducted, I mean.” I want to see how Marcus reacts to my question. Because he should look at me skeptically if he knows I’m not really Nate. Right?
But he doesn’t even flinch as he sets the trigger lock down on the table between us. “How bad do you think? She’s your mother and you disappeared. She could only hope for the best for so long before she had to fear the worst.” His eyes drop to the gun in his hand. He pulls the top back and clicks something with his fingers. Then he pulls it forward and the top of the weapon slides off.
He looks at it, then at the rest of the disassembled gun in his hand, and blows into it before putting the top back on. It’s like a nervous tic. Something he’s doing to distract himself from what he’s saying because he’s uncomfortable.
