The rest of the day, if I’m not worrying about that text, I’m wondering what Nathan was talking about. In study hall, some art kids surround me. For the most part I recognize their faces but I can’t remember half of their names. The ringleader is Oscar Sanchez. He hasn’t come out, but he’s fabulous, all Goth glam style. With a full coif, black nail polish, eyeliner, and a spiked collar, he’s clearly going for a particular vibe.
“You didn’t even wait for us when you left Visual Arts,” he complains. “And you vanished when I was looking for you at lunch.”
So this is Morgan’s social backup system?
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“I figured you’d want to hang out more, now that your circumstances have changed.” Oscar makes it sound like Liv has moved away and cut Morgan loose. At long last.
“Be nice,” one of the girls chides. She’s wearing a black latex dress, ripped fishnets, and combat boots.
“It’s fine,” I say with Morgan’s inscrutable half smile.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Oscar protests.
The teacher comes in and shushes us. I pass the period reading for American Lit, as little of my homework can be completed sitting at a desk. I have some research to do for Sociology, and two projects already assigned in my two art classes. I’d always thought art must be a blow-off specialty, but I’m already learning how badly I misjudged Morgan’s workload.
After school, a Frost Tech employee is waiting for me out front in a logo-bearing hatchback. I’ve already been delegated. I don’t know the man behind the wheel, but since he’s waving, Morgan must. Crap. He’s not wearing a security badge. Pretty soon I’ll be reduced to saying things like, Hello, name, how is your family and/or significant other? Then when people give me that look, I’ll tell them I’m practicing to be a robot for an avant-garde art show. I’m sure that’ll work.
Somehow I choke down a semi-hysterical laugh. This is so dangerous. Since I don’t know everyone Morgan would, a kidnapper would have the easiest time playing me. He’d just have to say that Mr. Frost sent him and I’d be afraid to question it, afraid if I do, it’s a mistake, and I’ll be found out.
Then … what? They’ll perform an exorcism? Honest to God, I can’t even conceive of how anyone would react if they did suspect. Maybe they’d write off any inconsistencies—it’s a result of stress or whatever, she’ll be fine in time—sort of thing.
The Frost Tech guy lowers his hand, crestfallen. “You don’t remember me.”
“Sorry,” I say with a shrug and a smile.
“Well, your dad sent me. You can call to confirm if you want. He’s in a meeting but he’ll pick up for you.”
I’d rather have Mr. Frost think I have a bad memory than get in a car with someone who might make me disappear, especially since I know Morgan’s been keeping secrets and it seems like she’s being blackmailed. Clay’s words resonate with me: “… this will eat you alive, along with everything else.” Does he know what’s going on?
Without wasting any more time, I switch on my phone, half expecting another sinister message. Nothing new. Good. I call Mr. Frost to check this guy’s story. He picks up on the second ring. “You okay?”
I can hear a low hum of voices behind him. “Fine. Just making sure this tall blond guy is really my ride.”
“Flint’s driven you around before.”
“You think I pay attention?” I manage a sweetly teasing laugh, not identical to Morgan’s but close enough.
“True. You’re always on your phone.”
“See? But I’m being careful. Points for that?”
“Definitely.” Mr. Frost doesn’t even say bye before hanging up on me.
“All set?” Flint asks as I climb into the front seat.
“Yeah.”
In the car, I try using reverse lookup, but the site only tells me that it’s a mobile number, registered in Renton, and “low risk” for fraud or spam. I need to know who’s after Morgan, but I have no idea how to find those answers. The scientist in me wants to come up with a hypothesis, but this is the kind of shit that’s damn near impossible to corroborate.
I exist. I am Liv. I am not dead.
Yeah, I can’t prove any of that.
Or figure out who’s out to get Morgan. I curse beneath my breath.
Otherwise, I don’t speak except to thank Flint as I climb out. My side hurts like hell, even in flats, so I pause in the kitchen to take some pain meds and scrounge up a snack. There’s a note on the fridge letting me know that the housekeeper is at the market and I should text her if there’s anything special I want her to pick up. That means I’m alone here, nobody to interrupt or ask what I’m doing. So I eat quickly, then head upstairs as fast as my wobbly legs will carry me.
It feels like burglary when I open Morgan’s dresser drawers. At first, I find only meticulous clothing. Like, I’ve never seen anything so neat and organized. The T-shirts are all folded into perfect squares and then, instead of lying flat, they’re pressed upright vertically in two neat rows so you can tell at a glance what’s there, by color, at least. I marvel at that before moving on to her desk, where I find about what you’d expect: old movie tickets, stubs of charcoal and pastels, ink pens and pencils, a few ragged-looking hair accessories, a handful of coins from various European countries. I dig deeper and find a birth control wheel, about half the pills missing.
This isn’t exactly a surprise, though Morgan didn’t tell me much about her sex life. I knew she wasn’t a virgin, though. She did it for the first time when she was a freshman, some guy in Venice, she claimed, and said it was no big deal. I was still in junior high then, and she seemed so amazingly grown up. That means Clay will probably expect you to sleep with him, sooner or later.
Great, another problem.
I lift a tray full of paper clips and other office oddments to find an unmarked manila envelope. Since Morgan was prone to doodling, that seems noteworthy. I pull it out and dump the contents onto the desk. First I pick up some candid photos of Morgan and a guy I don’t know. He seems older but these are black-and-white, taken in a strip of four at one of those stupid booths, so I can’t be sure. These are not exactly high-res.
In the first pose, she’s sitting on his lap while he nuzzles her neck. The second one shows them full-on kissing while the third is mutual sly smiles, and the last is her head on his shoulder. I flip the photos over and see that she’s written Step one in Sharpie on the back. What the hell? From any normal teenage girl, you’d be more likely to find hearts and the guy’s name. But Morgan is a law unto herself. And I’m only now realizing how much she kept hidden.
But where does this leave Clay? Maybe she dumped this other dude?
The next thing I find is a broken friendship bracelet; this thing is filthy and smells faintly of blood. When I pick it up, a wave of horror floods me, and I drop it on the desk. Yet to look at it, this is just frayed blue and green yarn woven together with plastic beads bearing faded letters that spell 4EVER. I don’t touch it again, just nudge it aside with the envelope and go on digging through her stash of incomprehensible secrets. There are two receipts, one for a convenience store near the school, and one for a shop I’ve never been to, mostly since it’s in Paris. I have no idea why these two things were important enough to save. There’s also a Post-it with six numbers and a scrawled, gate code. I memorize that since it might come in handy.
Finally, I pick up a blue film. I stare at it for a few seconds, trying to process what I’m seeing. This is a freaking ultrasound. I immediately slap my hands over my stomach. Is Morgan … am I pregnant?