Think.
I leap a good foot off the floor when the door beside me swings open and Malcolm rushes in, panting.
“We have a problem.”
I stop worrying about the two women above us who are still chatting without seeming to even notice the hushed conversation between Malcolm and me.
“What exactly is the Memory Care Ward?” I ask. But I know, and what’s left of my fingernails stab into my palms as my fists clench.
“He has dementia. Stage six, according to his chart. Once I found out where he was, I dug up his records. That’s what took me so long.” Malcolm takes in my fists and the way I’m biting my lip. He swallows, starts to reach out a hand to my arm, then rethinks the gesture. “He might not be able to tell you anything. You get that, right? There’s only seven stages, so the odds—”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, rounding on him and dimly registering the fact that my voice has raised enough for the woman above us to break off midsentence. When I reach for Malcolm’s arm, I don’t hesitate or second-guess the impulse. “He’s the only one who knew her, who saw her and talked to her that day. There must be a reason he thinks she’s innocent, and I need—” My voice cracks.
“Okay,” Malcolm says. “Okay, then we’ll try.”
I could kiss him when he tells me that. I settle for hugging him and saying a thank-you that gets muffled in his shirt. When his arms come up around me, the memory of standing with Aiden as I tried to hurry him out my window jolts through me. At the time, I’d thought Aiden was brave, if slightly reckless, for taking precious seconds to hug me and even darting back to steal that last kiss. True, he’d been risking my mom’s considerable wrath, but nothing more.
Malcolm snuck into Silver Living with me knowing full well what might happen if we were caught. And even now that we’ve just learned it might all be for nothing, he said okay when I insisted we go find my grandfather anyway.
He didn’t have to do that.
I can feel his heartbeat. It’s fast, and he’s twitchy, scared, I realize, but still helping me.
I pull away, because if I can feel his heart, then he can feel mine. Whatever happens with my grandfather—and I’m still fiercely holding on to hope—if there’s some way I can help Malcolm without betraying Mom, I vow right then that I’ll findit.
Malcolm went above and beyond during those few minutes he spent in that office. Not only did he locate my grandfather’s room and get the passcode to his floor, but he looped the camera footage in the hall outside. It doesn’t matter who is monitoring the feed; they won’t see anything as Malcolm pushes the door open for me and we step inside.
I see him right away, and it makes my breath catch and my chin quiver, because from the light pouring through the window he’s sitting in front of, I can see that I look a little like him: it’s the shape of our eyes, the slope of our noses. I want to laugh and cry and rush at him all at once. The only reason I don’t is because he stares at me without any hint of recognition.
“Mr. Jablonski?”
His bushy gray brows pinch together. “I don’t want to go to crafts, and I don’t want to eat any more of that awful slop they serve in the cafeteria.”
“Oh, no, we don’t work here.” I take a step toward him, and when he doesn’t seem concerned by my proximity, I take another. “My name is Katelyn. Can I?” I gesture at the empty chair beside the lounger he’s sitting in, and he gives me a gruff nod.
“And what doeshewant?” my grandfather asks, eyeing Malcolm.
“He’s a friend of mine who gave me a ride. Um, Mr. Jablonski?” I wait for his narrowed gaze to leave Malcolm and return to me. I try not to be discouraged by the fact that it stays narrowed. “I was hoping to talk to you about your daughter.”
“I don’t have a daughter.”
“But you do.” I lean forward to snag the framed photo of Mom that I spot on his dresser. “See?” It’s maybe the only personalized item in the entire room. I angle it toward him, and I can’t stop myself from running a finger over Mom’s smiling face. This is the photo they should have used in the news story. My mom can’t be more than twelve in the picture, and she’s sitting in the grass with a pair of sunglasses pushed back to flash a grin at the camera.
She looks happy.
She looks like my mom.
The frame is jerked from my hands. “Where is she? Where’s Tiffany?”
“I-I don’t know. I was hoping maybe you’d talked to her.”
“Tiffany!” he yells. “Get in here right now!”
“No, no. She’s not here. She had to go away—do you remember? It was a long timeago.”
“Tiffany!” he calls again.
I cast Malcolm a panicked glance.
