Will raises himself up in bed, leaning back against my wall with all my favorite quotes taped up—about love and hope and freedom. I think of my mom all those years ago, so young, doing something bad enough that she could be blackmailed for it. There must have been a reason. I’ve learned a lot about her that I never would have thought was true, but she’s not a bad person. I know she isn’t.
Will snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Hey, you okay?”
“Oh, sorry, yeah,” I say, feeling irritated by the snapping, overly so. I’m wound so tight. “Blackmail about something she did. But it doesn’t say what.”
“Who are the texts from?”
“I don’t know. My mom didn’t know, either, I don’t think. Somebody who knew her in that place she grew up in.” I try to ignore the heavy feeling in my chest. “I think I need to go up there and ask around.”
“Are you sure?” Will looks worried. “That sounds … kind of dangerous.”
Do I want him to offer to go with me? I don’t know; maybe. But that’s not a good idea.
“I’ll be careful.”
He laughs. “Cleo, come on. How can you be careful? You have no idea what you’re walking into.”
This isn’t untrue, unfortunately. But that doesn’t make it any less annoying.
“I don’t really have a choice.”
“Of course you have a choice, Cleo,” he says, his voice softer. He reaches out a hand and lays it on my cheek.
He’s bare-chested and beautiful as always in the pale morning light. But—and I don’t know if it’s his being in my little bed or maybe the way I am looking up at him from below—all those quotes I have taped up look so young now. And naive.
“There was something that happened back there to my mom, or with my mom. Somethingshedid,” I say. “I need to find out what it was before I can involve the police. Otherwise, my mom could get in trouble herself.”
“But none of that will matter if something happens to you, Cleo. And I care about that,” Will says. “I care about you. Don’t go, please.”
Will’s tone is still sweet, his hand warm as I gently removeit and close the laptop. And maybe he’s right that going up to Haven House is a crazy idea. But my shoulders feel tight. I need him on my side.
“I know, I get it,” I say. “But I have to go. I should, um, get ready. It’s a long train ride.”
“Ah, okay. I can take a hint.” He looks wounded as he gets out of bed and starts pulling on his clothes.
“I’m sorry, I’m …” And maybe it’s only because I know he’s right, but I really do want him to go.
“It’s okay,” he says. But he seems a little pissed off. “Iamonly trying to help, Cleo. Because I care about you.”
When the door closes behind him, I brace myself for a wave of regret, for the urge to race after him. But there’s only me, alone again in my quiet, empty room.
The Uber driver is full of questions on the ride from the train station to Haven House: Where am I from? What am I doing in New Haven? What do I think about this new thing where they want to charge you for bags at the grocery store? Why does no one in New York City say hello on the sidewalk?
“Because there are too many people,” I offer as I stare out the window at the bleak downtown. “You’d be saying hi all the time.”
I’m trying not to think about the text I got from Wilson on the train.I think we should talk, Cleo. I’ve got some concerns—about you.
I didn’t reply. I don’t want to know about her concerns, not when I’ve got so many of my own. Starting with the decision to go to New Haven by myself. I do feel I need to be there—like I said to Will. But that doesn’t mean I’m not nervous, or that I haven’t had second thoughts about not telling Wilson. I did take screen shots of those threatening texts my mom got. And I didthinkabout sending them to her.
We’re a world away from Yale’s stone and ivy as we sail downempty streets past boarded-up houses and abandoned cars. The area around Haven House is even more grim. I can’t imagine a place like this exists still, but growing up there? I’ve taken so much for granted.
“Never too many people on a sidewalk to say a simple hello,” the driver goes on. I don’t jump to the city’s defense like I ordinarily would. He can criticize, as long as he keeps talking. I can almost pretend everything is normal so long as I’m not alone with my thoughts.
But when Haven House finally comes into view, I nearly tell the driver to turn around and take me back to the station. The faded brick building is massive and menacing against the gray sky. Angry-looking fencing rings the roof. A prison. My mom grew up in a prison.
And for the first time, I feel more than nervous. I feel scared. Really scared. I send Wilson the screen shots of the anonymous texts my mom has been getting. It’s not the same as telling her I’m up here and might need help—but it’s not nothing, either.
I regret not asking the Uber driver to wait as I enter the building. It’s cool inside and cavernous, with stone floors and tall arched windows, not unlike an old church. It even has that church cardboard smell. Except it’s steeped in foreboding.
