“No, she is, technically,” he says, shaking his head like he misspoke before. “But she didn’t live with us. I’ve actually only met her a few times.”
“Why?” I ask.
“I’m not sure.” He looks sideways at me, offering a shrug. “I think she hated my dad too. She wanted to be far away from him.”
“What happened to his first wife?” I ask.
“She died.”
My lips form an O of surprise, but I don’t respond. I don’t want to bring up the fact that Jackson’s father has two dead wives.
Jackson backs away from me and goes over to the couch. It’son its back, tipped over, so he perches himself on the arm, sighing heavily. He takes out his phone and tells me he’s calling Quentin again.
“Mind if I look around?” I ask. He tells me to go for it.
I search for clues, some idea of why his home has been turned inside out. There are dirty dishes in the sink, so it wasn’t exactly spotless to begin with, but it also means Quentin was still living here when it was tossed. I turn back toward Jackson, hoping Quentin will answer, but instead Jackson jabs his finger at his phone screen, hanging up.
The cupboards have all been emptied, and I step over smashed plates. The drawers are half-open or lying on the floor. Whoever did this was thorough. For a moment, I wonder if it was Anton or Petrov, considering how close we are to the academy. But I can’t imagine either of them doing something so… pedestrian. Burning up girls in an incinerator, sure. But they wouldn’t get their hands dirty flipping over furniture or dumping out Jackson’s trash.
“I think they’re looking for your dad,” I say suddenly, turning toward Jackson. “I bet the corporation did this, and they’re looking for your father.”
Jackson looks around slowly. And then in a flurry of motion, he’s dialing on his phone again. I wait quietly, watching him gnaw on his lip. After a few moments, he lowers the phone and turns to me.
“My dad’s not answering,” he says. He pauses. “Not that he necessarily would if he saw my number. He might be dodging my call.”
“Why?” I ask. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
“When I was in the hospital for my leg,” he replies. I wilt slightly, the topic of Jackson’s hospital stay a bit of a sore spot between us. “He came in, asked what happened. I lied, obviously,” he continues. “He called me an idiot, and then he left.”
“We’re going to have to find him,” I say, walking back into the living room. “Jackson… your dad is an investor in Innovations Corporation. He’s why… He’s part of why this all happened to us. But what I don’t get…” I’m confused, thinking it over. “I don’t get where the money came from. Mr. Goodwin, he was rich—like,deep pockets. Does your dad have that kind of money?”
“No,” Jackson says with a laugh. “We’ve scraped by. Couldn’t afford university, which is why I was putting myself through community college. We definitely don’t have millions stashed away somewhere.”
“Or maybe he does,” I say. “He just didn’t… share it with you and your mother.”
His expression falters. “My mother supported our family,” he says. “She worked tirelessly, so if he had all that money and just…” He curses under his breath and turns away.
Again, I don’t bring up what’s starting to look more obvious. Two dead wives. Hidden money. I look out the window and see that the sun has set.
“Let’s go to his house,” I tell Jackson. “I think we should talk to him as soon as possible.”
“I really don’t want to involve you in this, Mena,” he says, sounding pained. “I think I should handle this.”
“I think I’m already deeply involved,” I tell him.
Jackson steadies himself on his crutches and pulls his car keys out of his pocket. He must have found them when he went back to the bedrooms. He takes a deep breath and one last look around the house. “Damn,” he says. “I really liked this place.”
Jackson motions toward the door and then starts that way. I follow him out and help him yank up the rickety garage door. His car is waiting.
Jackson gets into the driver’s seat, and I see a sliver of a smile on his lips. He runs his hand over the wheel before starting the engine. We ease out, not bothering to close the garage behind us, and Jackson pulls into the street and speeds away.
The streets are quiet as we drive. Jackson’s father lives about twenty minutes away. I take out my phone to check in with the girls. Immediately after I text Marcella, my phone rings with her number.
“Hello?” I answer, ready to hear her voice.
“So flying is the worst,” she says. And then offline, “Brynn, take a right up there. Sorry,” she adds to me. “We just picked up our rental car and we’ve circled this airport about a hundred times. We’re hoping to drive by the investor’s house before it’s too dark. Although someone in the airport told me it stays light in Portland until nearly ten.”
“Isn’t that fun?” Brynn asks in the distance.
