Clay, on the other hand, has gone a little less inconspicuous in a flannel layered over a tee. At the end of tattered jeans, hisboots tap against the ground in time with the drumming of his thumbs on the steering wheel. I’m struggling to remain as calm as he appears, my fingers curling into the hem of my hoodie. I press my forehead to the cool glass and exhale slowly. This isn’t a rescue mission yet. It’s just recon. That’s what I keep telling myself in an effort to slow my pulse, although it doesn’t work.
Every step closer we take to finding Rhys’ mom, the more real she becomes. Not just a figment of imagination or a ghost he has to live with, but an actual human being he can interact with, and finally get some answers. This could be the start of rebuilding whoever Rhys wants to be, or it could be the undoing of him. Only time will tell, but we have to see it through. We’ve come this far.
The sun climbs higher, burning through the last of the morning chill in the air. Spring is in full effect now, hints of an impending summer starting to show in the form of tiny flowers breaking through cracks in the walls and pavements.
Eventually, the novelty of counting those tiny yellow flowers wears off and, out of sheer boredom, I do the thing I’ve been avoiding all this time. I pull out my phone and plunge into the student forum, scrolling back to read everything that's been said about my absence. A huge mistake, but at least some cyber sleuth who has been tracking the paparazzi around campus alerts me to their presence. They're still lingering on campus, hunting for a story that doesn't exist, although there's only a handful left.
“Well, this is painful,” Rhys groans into the mic clip on his sweater and slams his head back on the headrest. “Someone talk about something before I walk to the nearest shooting range and blow my brains out.” Clayton shares a look with me in the rearview mirror, which can loosely be translated as,"Dramatic much?"
“Okay, fine,” I start, leaning forward between the front seats. “If I were a worm, what would you guys do with me?” There’s a beat of silence. Then Rhys exhales slowly and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“The fuck kind of question is that?” he mutters, voice rough with impatience. A grin breaks across my face as I shrug.
“You wanted to talk, so let’s talk.” Angling his body inwards, Clayton’s onyx eyes land on mine. He considers me seriously, as if I’ve posed a legitimate philosophical problem.
“Are we saying if you were turned into a wormnow?” he asks. “Or have you always been the worm?”
“If I turned into one now.”
“I’d put you out of your misery,” Rhys comments dryly. My mouth drops open as he picks a coin from his pocket and rolls it between his fingers. “Something quick and painless, like the stamp of a shoe. Or just a knife through the middle, cut you clean in half. Whichever seems more humane.” I can merely blink at the side of his face.
“I’m concerned with your lack of hesitation,” I state, although quietly grateful for the distraction and that the odds of me actually turning into a worm are beyond current-day advancements. I hope.
“How do I know the shrinkage into a worm’s body isn’t causing you phenomenal amounts of pain?” Rhys twists in his seat to look at me, one eyebrow lifting. Clay lets out a low grunt, somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “Alright then, lover boy,” Rhys jerks his chin toward him. “What wouldyoudo with her?”
“I’d get a glass tank,” Clayton replies easily. “Fill it with soil and leaves to make her comfortable and drop her crumbs of bread when she’s a good girl.”
“A good–” Rhys tips his head back, staring at the ceiling like he’s searching for divine patience. “She’s afucking worm?—”
“Guys,” I hiss, hand already lifting as I peer past them. “Shush. Look.”
Across the street, a car rolls into view. It eases toward the clinic, the wheels coming to a slow stop by the side of the road. The vehicle itself is unremarkable, a sedan in a dark color designed not to be remembered, but the man who steps out of it doesn’t fit in with his surroundings.
Even when he’s supposed to be somewhat incognito, Mr. Kavanagh stands tall in a fine suit and shining dress shoes. Unlike Klara and her mom, his skin is an olive tan, a dark shadow of stubble present and his hair artfully stuffed back. There’s no mistaking that he’s here for business as he looks around, oozing an air of superiority amongst the working class.
My spine straightens, humor evaporating as instinct snaps into place. “Holy shit. He’s actually here,” I whisper. I realize now that I hadn’t fully anticipated being right. Catching myself frozen in place, I fumble with my phone and pull up the camera. My hand shakes slightly, but thankfully, Clay takes the phone and balances it on the dashboard to keep the footage steady. I don’t know what we’re going to capture, but I have a sneaking suspicion it should be documented.
Adjusting his jacket, Mr. Kavanagh checks the watch on his wrist. His impatience is evident, even from across the street.
“What is he waiting for?” I mumble just as Clay holds up a hand. A second car rolls into view, this one a Nissan which has seen better days. Rust freckles the doors, and the exhaust coughs like it’s on borrowed time. It pulls in crookedly, parking at an angle that suggests the driver either can’t drive well or doesn’t care about the inconvenience he’s causing other drivers. The driver's door is pushed open, presenting a man so familiar that the world tilts. I don’t breathe, and I’m certain Rhys doesn’t either.
Phillip Waversea stands before us in open daylight, that’s all I’m certain of. His clothes are casual, baggy even, his sneakers scuffed. Grey peppers his dark hair, which falls scruffily over his forehead. Despite all that, his posture is the same, tall and assured.
Striding to the clinic door, he doesn’t even greet Mr. Kavanagh as he punches in the keycode and storms inside. His suited companion pauses long enough to drag a briefcase from his sedan and enters in after him, the building swallowing them both whole. Rhys sits deathly still beside Clay, his hand curled into a fist so tight, I hear the pop of his knuckles.
“What. The. Fuck.” he seethes, although it lacks venom. I don’t remember reaching for Rhys’ arm, but suddenly my fingers are locked around his sleeve like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality. His face has gone slack, all the sharp edges stripped away, replaced by something hollow and stunned. Confusion wars with fury in his eyes, the familiar hatred tangling with something far more destabilizing. “What the fuck is he doing here?!” Rhys tries again despite his disbelief.
Clay doesn’t answer, but his shoulders shift with unease. I remain clinging to Rhys, unsure if it’s providing any comfort, my mind racing. I don’t understand why Mr. Kavanagh would travel here once a month, just to meet with the man he has regular dinners and business meetings with. And why did Phillip look like that? Was it part of the ruse, to hide in plain sight? If so, he’s not doing a very good job. I recognized him instantly.
Ten minutes pass, then fifteen, with our eyes trained on that door until it opens again. Phillip and Kavanagh don’t interact publicly. Dropping into their respective cars, they part ways, heading in opposite directions. Clay turns the key, bringing the truck to life beneath us.
“What are you doing?” I ask, although I still retrieve my phone, shift back into my seat and secure my belt.
“Following him,” Clay replies quietly as if speaking too loudly would give us away. Rhys says nothing, his eyes locked on the clinic we are gliding past. I stare at it too, hunting for cracks in the exterior as if the secrets might spill out if I know where to look.
“But…what if Della Mae is in there? What if they were checking up on her?” I scramble to make sense of what we’ve witnessed, what we know. Turns out, we’re still as lost as ever. Clay briefly meets my eyes in the rearview mirror, his expression steady.
“Then we know where to return. The bigger mystery is what Phillip is up to, playing peasant in a clinic he used to own.”
