Malcolm and I are inside the motel office. He’s hunched over the computer while I chew my lip and peer outside at the manager unscrewing the busted hinges on the door to room 5.
“Here,” Malcolm calls, backing away from the desk and motioning me over.
When I join him, I see a video cued up of a reporter standing in front of a run-down metal Airstream surrounded by other similarly neglected trailers. Malcolm taps a key, and the pretty woman with deep-bronze skin, gleaming white teeth, and black hair starts talking.
“Coworkers say seventeen-year-old Tiffany Jablonski took an instant and obsessive interest in Derek Abbott when he started coming into the coffee shop where she worked. They say she wouldn’t let anyone else take his orders, and she wrote increasingly inappropriate messages on his cups.”
Mom is young in the school photo on the screen, probably around my age. She looks dim somehow, sad. In contrast, the photo of Derek Abbott is a vibrant, laughing candid of him sailing. He’s handsome, with sun-kissed hair and skin. The reporter shows more photos of him, describing him as warm and friendly, painting a portrait of a young man with a bright future cut tragically short.
“Derek’s parents told police the infatuated teenager didn’t take it well when their son failed to return her feelings. They say she broke into his family’s house one night when he was there having dinner, and was found waiting for Derek upstairs in his old room—in his bed.” Footage is shown of the grand Abbott estate, where the incident took place. “Derek asked her to leave, and she refused. His parents threatened to call the police, and she grew enraged, demanding that Derek admit he invited her there. When he denied it and tried to move her away from his parents, she attacked him and pushed him down the stairs. The coroner’s report says he died instantly. Tiffany Jablonski fled the scene.”
My stomach bottoms out, and I’m ready to click the video off when it cuts back to a live shot of the reporter standing in front of the Airstream, identified as Mom’s childhood home. The door bangs open, and a man with shaggy gray hair and deep bags under his eyes emerges.
“Get the hell off my property!”
The reporter’s eyes light up, and she pushes her microphone into his face. “Mr. Jablonski, did you know your daughter was obsessed with Derek Abbott?”
My fingers rise up to cover my mouth. That’s my grandfather. He died just before I was born, so I’ve never even seen a picture of him. Mom always said there was nothing about her childhood she wanted to remember. But now he’s right there. Or he was, I remind myself. For a moment, I feel an ache because I never knew him, but I shove it aside.
He makes a failed grab for the reporter’s microphone, but she nimbly dodges him and returns it to his face.
“Have you been in contact with her since the night Derek died?”
“She didn’t do anything wrong. You condemned her because some rich boy’s family pointed a finger. You can rot in hell, every last one of you.”
“So you didn’t think it was wrong for her to—”
“Seen enough?” Malcolm’s arm reaches around me to stop the video.
“What? No. That’s my grandfather. He doesn’t think she killed him. He—”
But Malcolm has already closed the browser, and a few keystrokes later, the check-in software is back on the screen. I’m pushing to get back in front of the computer when the bell above the front door chimes and the disgruntled manager walks back in with his toolbox. He halts when he sees us behind the desk.
“Hey, you can’t be back there,” he says, a slight waver in his voice betraying his unease.
In a flash, I remember the easy smile Mom slapped on for Mr. Guillory, and I quickly hitch one onto my own face. “Oh, I’m sorry. There was no one here, so we were just looking around in case there was a note on the computer or something.” I might have been able to sell that story if I’d been alone, but with Malcolm’s face looking like he just went twelve rounds with a battering ram, beads of sweat begin to dot the manager’s bald head, and his feet shuffle ever so slightly backward.
I shift so that my torn jeans and cut hip are facing away. Then, impulsively, I lean into Malcolm, linking my arms around his waist. I feel him wince. “Jake is an amateur boxer, welterweight, and believe it or not, he actually won tonight.” I brighten my smile at the manager.
Malcolm slings his arm over my shoulder and drops a kiss on my forehead. “Baby, with you, I always win.”
My smile falters for a split second when his lips touch my skin, reminding me of Aiden. Aiden, who has no idea where I am—because of Malcolm. I want to fling away, to grab for my knife and make a threat I could actually follow through on. Instead, I force my smile back to its full wattage and pray that the manager buys our story, that he can’t see how tightly I’m gritting my teeth.
The manager’s gaze darts between us a couple more times before his shoulders relax and he sighs. “I don’t give discounts. I don’t care what you won. Now get out from behind my desk.”
We move quickly, and I’m careful to still keep my hip facing away.
“Rooms are sixty-five dollars.”
Before I can think of something to say, Malcolm leans forward and lowers his voice. “Hey, man, you sure about that discount? ’Cause I’ve only got fifty on me right now.”
With a flat expression, the manager invites us to get out.
I make good on my earlier desire to fling myself away from Malcolm the second we’re out of sight. And it’s only the ashen color that sweeps over his face from the abrupt movement that keeps me from pulling out my weapon.
“Don’t do that again,” I say.
He’s panting a little and leans some of his weight on a nearby car. “Do what? Follow the act you started and convince that guy not to call the cops?”
