“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“Few days, maybe a few weeks.” He shrugs. “Just left.”
“Just?” I ask, looking up toward her dark windows again. “As in suddenly?”
He busies himself with sweeping the sidewalk. “I didn’t say that.” He sounds wary now.
“But was she … scared, do you think?” I ask.
He stops sweeping and looks up at me. “And who are you, exactly?”
There’s a jingle when he shifts the broom between his hands—the keys on his hip. He could have the keys to Jules’s apartment.
“Babysitter,” I say, my voice rising at the end like it’s a question, not an answer.Crap.“I left a book and I really need it for this big test I have … tomorrow.”
Even I don’t believe me.
“Oh yeah?”
Pivot.I can almost hear my mom’s voice in my head.Pivot.The truth. It’s the only way to go. It’s what my mom would do. I feel sure of it.
“Sorry, that’s not true. I’m not the babysitter. Jules worked with my mom,” I say. “My mom is missing. And I’m so worried, and then Jules texted me about some kind of danger I might be in, people in cars that might be following me. But she didn’t get a chance to explain, and I really need her to.”
“Who’s your mom?” He still sounds skeptical.
“Kat McHugh.”
His body uncoils. “Ah. Kat. Yes. She’s a good one. Jules always says she’d do anything for Kat.” He leans toward me, lowers his voice. “There was a car,here,today, with two men asking for Jules. That’s why she left.”
Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe.
“I’m really, really worried about my mom,” I choke out. “Can you help me, please?”
A minute later, I’m trudging up the stairs behind him. He unlocks the door to Jules’s apartment and steps back.
“Take your time. I will be downstairs with my wife. Knock when you’re finished and I’ll lock up.”
It’s a typical railroad-style apartment. The furniture in the living room is mismatched and dated—a bright yellow couch with a crocheted blanket folded across the back, a pair of faded tan Naugahyde wing chairs. It’s sweet, though, homey. There are framed photographs on a wall of Jules, her daughter, and people who look like the other members of a very large, warm family—vacations, holidays, lots of hugging and smiling.
In the area Jules uses as a dining room I spot a file box in a corner beneath the tall front windows. It’s labeledBlair, Stevenson.
I sit on the floor in front of the box and lift the lid.
Inside are manila folders, all labeled with black Sharpie in clean, careful letters and lined up neatly inside hanging folders.Research, Impact Statements, Expert Reports, Court Filings: Jane Doe et al. vs. Darden Pharmaceuticals.That last folder contains copies of a complaint in a lawsuit related to some drug. I don’t see my mom’s name anywhere, and her law firm isn’t listed as the defense attorney on the complaint. But then I find a file labeledMDL Certification.The new law firm on these documents is Blair, Stevenson.
At the far back of the box there’s a correspondence folder. Inside are emails from somebody who worked at Darden, claiming the company knew that there were problems with the drug. Doesn’t look good for them—but how is Jules involved?
And then I get to the last email in the folder, addressed to my mom, dated a few weeks ago. More accurately, it’s the beginning of an email.Dear Kat, Where to start …But then that’s it. That’s the whole message.
There’s a loud bang downstairs, maybe the front door. I stand, the box in my hands. I suddenly feel very nervous in here alone.
I step out of Jules’s apartment, resting the box against my hip so I can quietly close the door behind me. I stand at the top of the stairs, listening. Silence. Could have been someone heading out instead of coming in.
Still, I start down carefully, one flight, then two. It isn’t until I round the last turn that I can see a figure at the bottom, leaning against the wall near the door. Detective Wilson.
And she doesnotlook happy. “Care to tell me what the hell you were doing up there?” She eyes the box.
“Not really,” I say.
