“You don’t get to ask me questions,” I say. “The only reason you aren’t still gagged in that motel room is because you have information I need.”
He scowls at me, but I keep my face blank.
“Fine,” he says. “You gonna interrogate me here, next to adumpster?”
I don’t want to. I want to get as far away from the motel as quickly as possible. But I want answers more. Fighting the trembling in my voice, I say, “Why are you searching for my mother?”
He licks his lips. “Look, maybe we should get out of here first.”
He’s stalling, or trying to, but not knowing is definitely worse than whatever he’s not saying. I know my mom. Her “mistake” can’t be as awful as the dread that’s slowly devouring me. When I don’t move, he sighs.
“Does the name Derek Abbott mean anything to you?”
I shake my head.
“His mother, Emily Abbott, is the one searching for your mom. The police could devote time and resources for only so long. After her husband passed away, Mrs. Abbott committed her fortune to funding a private manhunt—and she offered a reward to whoever locates and apprehends your mom.”
A breeze kicks up, icy and stinging. It slaps against my face and pierces needles through my clothes. Denial catches in my throat when he says the words I’ll never forget.
“She’s wanted in the death of Derek Abbott.”
“No.” The word breaks off from my mouth. “That’s not possible.” I take a step backward, then another; Malcolm doesn’t move. I want him to make a grab for me, to do something that exposes the lie I know he’s just told me, but he doesn’t.
“All parents have secrets,” Malcolm says with a shrug. “Mine did.”
“But my mom doesn’t!”Not big ones,I amend to myself. “She would never—”
“Lie to you your entire life, abandon you in a motel, tell you next to nothing about what’s happening? Why do you think she changed her name?”
“What?” I suck in a scrambled breath.
“So you didn’t know that either. Awesome.” He shakes his head back and forth before looking at me again and sighing. “Melissa Reed doesn’t exist. Her real name is Tiffany Jablonski.”
Something scuttles across my brain. Tiffany. I had a doll named Tiffany. Mom gave her to me when I was little. I remember she had dark-brown yarn hair. “Tiffany.” When I say it out loud, it doesn’t feel like my mom’s name, not like Melissa does. “That can’t be right.” My brain is screaming at me. None of this makes sense, least of all that she killed someone. I think about the mistake Mom mentioned. Killing someone isn’t a mistake.
“Are you sure?” Malcolm says, “ ’Cause I’ve seen the police report. Derek’s autopsy—”
“Stop!” I say, my voice veering dangerously close to a shout. “You don’t know anything. Not about me, and not about my mom. I don’t know who Derek Abbott was or what my mom has to do with him, but she didn’t kill anyone.” There’s a kind of calm that comes over me from just saying these words out loud. “What I do know is that you were with the man who came after me and that you had a picture in your pocket that used to hang in our stairway.”
He lowers his gaze, and I can’t tell if it’s shame or merely a facade. Whichever it is, he stares straight at me again when he starts talking. “I took it when I was in your house on Friday night.”
My gut twists at his admission. The last time I was in our house, I was teasing my mom about an awful first date and worrying that she’d figure out I’d snuck Aiden into my room.
Aiden doesn’t even know what happened to me. Or what could still happen to me.
My gaze darts over Malcolm, his hoodie and jeans. I’d cut him loose without checking all his pockets. “Do you have a phone?”
“Sure,” he says. “That guy wanted to make sure I could call for help in case it got too stuffy in the trunk.”
I ignore his sarcasm and draw his attention back to the weapon I’m holding. “Get back against the wall.”
“Go ahead and search me.” He stands and tries to spread his arms but only gets the left one halfway up, hissing a breath through his teeth. “Don’t get too cozy with my left side, though, yeah?”
There’s nothing to do but get it over with. A phone could be the least potentially dangerous item in his possession. I place my makeshift knife on the ledge of the dumpster in case I need to grab for it; then I step up next him. “If you try—”
“You’ll hurt me real bad. I remember your last threat. Hurry up and cop a feel so I can sit down.” He shifts more of his weight against the wall and watches me.
I tilt my head. “Is this fun for you? Some kind of game? We had to flee my house that night, and we barely got away before people broke in—including you. Now, my mom is gone and whoever did that to your face is hunting me.” I step closer. “Make your jokes. Go ahead.”
