Chapter Nineteen

It’s one o’clock in the morning, and I’m hiding in my kitchen using the Internet on my dad’s cell phone. It’s not my finest moment. But I’m grounded from everything except going to school and using the bathroom, so I don’t have much of a choice—unless I want to risk the possibility that someone is tracking my phone or laptop and will see what I’m up to, which I seriously don’t. Yeah, I am totally that paranoid now. And determined, thanks to Maggie’s little challenge on the stairwell.

Sadly, Julien’s cyber trail is pure as driven snow. There are dozens of news clips from her life in Ridgeview. Her volunteer work at the senior center and a bunch of stuff on different academic awards she’s won over the years, but, funny enough, not a single thing from San Francisco. It’s like she fell headfirst into the San Andreas Fault.

My own phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it up, surprised to see Maggie’s number and a text message.

You asleep?

Nope. I’m researching.

A second passes, and my cell phone rings. I answer it with a laugh.

“Me too,” Maggie says.

I grin and wait her out. She wouldn’t be calling if she wasn’t helping.

“I found an address for the M-Millers.”

“The PO box, right?”

“No, a real one. And guess what? It’s not in San Francisco. It’s in San Diego. I mean, it could be someone else, b-but with the initials I and Q?”

Iona and Quentin. Miller is a common enough name, so I never even thought to try. Maggie gives me the address and the name of the nearest high school. I shake my head, amazed.

“I don’t know how you found it, but you’re a genius. I’ve got to call Adam.”

Maggie takes a breath on the other end of the line. I hesitate, frowning. “What’s the sudden silence? You want to say something, don’t you?” I ask.

“No. Yeah. M-maybe.”

I sigh, dropping onto one of the kitchen stools. “So what’s stopping you?”

“Nothing. I j-just think you should be careful.”

“Careful with Adam.”

Her silence confirms it. I roll my eyes. “You know, you’re starting to sound like my mother. The guy isn’t Hannibal Lecter, okay? I mean, maybe he’s had some trouble—”

“It’s pretty big t-trouble,” Maggie says, interrupting me. “Has he ever talked t-to you about it?”

“No. But I’ve never asked. So what if he made some mistakes? Haven’t we all?”

Maggie’s quiet for a moment, and I can tell she’s treading carefully. “Just ask him, all right?”

“Will do.”

“I need to g-get some sleep.”

“Mags, wait,” I say, before she can hang up.

“What?”

“Thank you. It’s been…really good to talk to you.”

She pauses before she hangs up. I know she’s not ready to say the same. But she’s thinking about it, and that’s something.

I put down my phone and stare at the browser on my dad’s phone, wondering about Adam’s so-called crimes. But juvenile records aren’t public record.

He’s been nothing but good to me. Good and honest and there. I don’t have a single reason not to trust him.

Except for Maggie’s advice.

I chew on my bottom lip and think long and hard about calling him. I could just ask. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, would it?

In the end, I snap my dad’s phone back on the charger on my way up to bed.

***

Adam finds me in the lunch line again. He must actually be hungry today because he grabs an orange and a club sandwich and sets them on my tray. “Exactly how long are you grounded?” he starts.

“Until my thirtieth birthday,” I say. “You gathering more food to dump into a trash can?”

“Not this time. I’ve got a hot date.”

I take a granola bar, feigning disinterest. “In the Ridgeview High cafeteria. You’re secretly a player, aren’t you?”

“I just ooze cool,” he says, handing over another ten-dollar bill to pay for our lunches.

I open my mouth because I don’t need him to do this. I’ve seen where he lives. And somehow I doubt working as a part-time janitor has him rolling in extra cash.

“It should be my treat this time,” I say.

His face pinches a little, but he covers it with a smile. “Don’t judge a book by its shit-hole apartment.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

He shrugs it off, but I feel like a schmuck. I nudge him with my elbow, looking up at him. “Am I really in the doghouse already?”

“Nah,” he says. “Unless of course, you’re going to try to get out of our date.”

“No chance.”

“Then your chariot awaits,” he says. He puts the tray in the return area and tucks the sandwich and orange into his coat pockets.

I follow suit, grateful I went with granola and yogurt instead of the massive salad I was eyeing.

Then he slips out of the cafeteria without looking to see if I’ll follow. We’re allowed off campus for lunch, so I don’t get his secrecy. But I follow him anyway, slipping through the parking lot until we’re hunkered down in the front seat of his old Camaro.

We eat lunch with the radio playing as softly as the snow that’s drifting down around the car. After I push my empty granola wrapper into my yogurt cup, Adam pulls my feet into his lap and starts fiddling with the laces on my shoes.

I have no idea how that’s sending goose bumps up my legs, but it is.

“Did you get your pre-calc review back?” I ask, trying to act casual as I lean against the passenger window.

He shrugs. “Yeah. I did all right. You?”

“A minus. And I hate to break it to you, but you don’t really understand the meaning of all right.”

“I don’t?”

“Nope. All right indicates an average score, and you don’t do average anything.”

His hands are climbing up to my ankles now. And I don’t know if it’s the way he’s looking at me from under those dark lashes or some secret drug coming out of his fingertips, but he’s making me dizzy.

“I’m average at plenty of things.”

“Oh, please,” I say, pulling my feet off his lap with a smirk. “Let me guess. You probably mean you got like a ninety-seven.”

“Ninety-six,” he corrects me.

I gasp, hand at my throat as I scoot closer on my knees. “You are slipping.”

“I must be distracted,” he says.

He grabs my legs, right under my knees, and pulls me toward him on the bench seat. And then his lips are trailing along my jaw and I couldn’t spell distracted if someone paid me it feels so good. We kiss until we’re running dangerously close to second base during school hours. We ease up with a glance at the clock on his dashboard and the school in the distance.

“We’re awfully good at this for being so new at it,” I say, scooting back to my own seat.

“You’re only surprised because you can’t remember how we looked at each other for the last several months.”

I make a face at my wild reflection in the mirror, trying to finger comb my hair.

“It’s no use,” he says. “You’re going to look hot no matter what.”

“I do rock the kissed-senseless look,” I say. “So there were heated looks between us, huh?”

“Left scorch marks on our flash cards.”

“So tell me already. When did this all start?”

He thumbs his chin, looking pensive. “October. Mrs. Malley’s class.”

I feel my face scrunch in confusion. “Mrs. Malley? She was my fourth-grade teacher.”

“Our fourth-grade teacher,” he says.

I shake my head, laughing. I barely remember him being in my class. He was just a dark-haired boy, always carrying a skateboard and lost in a series of faded T-shirts. Adam tucks some of my hair behind my ear and gives me a little smile that promises more to the story.

“You punched Ryan McCort on the playground. Do you remember?”

I nod. I can still practically feel that moment; the sharp, shocking pain in my knuckles and the sickening feeling that went through me when Ryan’s nose spurted blood. I can still hear Ryan mocking Maggie. “M-m-miss m-m-me, M-m-maggie?” He’d laughed. Mags cried. I punched.

“He had it coming,” I say.

Adam nods. “He did. Hell, Ryan usually has something coming, but that day he picked on the wrong girl.”

“It’s a simple speech disfluency. She’s not stupid,” I say, unable to shake the defensive edge in my voice.

“You don’t have to tell me. Maggie stomped my ass in AP English last year,” he says, smiling wider. “But who knew you’d lay him out next to the swing set. He had six inches and forty pounds on you, easy.”

“I guess I’ve always been a fan of justice.”

“I guess I’ve always been a fan of you,” he says.

And there isn’t a thing I can say to that. Not a single thing. I brace my hands on his shoulders and lean in until our foreheads are together.

“Are you honestly telling me you’ve had a crush on me since the fourth grade?”

“Scout’s honor.”

I laugh. “You were never a Boy Scout.”

He laughs back, and I kiss away any reply he might be tempted to give. And any questions I ever meant to ask.

***

When I arrive home from school, the house is empty. Not surprising. Mom works a lot of overtime for Christmas money and it’s November. She’s got the Thanksgiving grocery list on the fridge and everything.

I’m halfway through a slice of Colby jack when I see Mom’s note on the table. My name flows across the top in her pretty, slanting hand.

Chloe,

I thought you should see this. This isn't a judgment. It's information. I know you'll make the right choice.

Behind the note is a copy of a newspaper clipping. I check the date in the corner. Two years ago. The crime beat.

I feel a rush of rage so strong I’m surprised I don’t crumple the soda can in my hand. But as much as I hate it, it’s not just anger running through me. It’s curiosity too. I want to know.

I scan the copy, spotting a penned circle around one section.

I close my eyes and let out a long sigh. I think about Adam in the car today, his long fingers on my shoelaces, his smile so easy and comfortable I could curl up in it for a nap. I don’t want to give that up.

But I don’t want to be in the dark. Not ever again.

I square my shoulders and start reading.

Youth injured while breaking into a local pharmacy. The perpetrator escaped on foot but was arrested later. Police confirm that the investigation is still ongoing, but the pharmacy owner states that stolen medications have yet to be recovered.

I set the paper down, placing my note on top. I turn it just as it was turned before, as if I never read it. As if I never even saw it lying here.

But I did see it. And I remember the rumors anyway. The halls were wild with crazy talk about Adam robbing a bank or killing a guy or whatever, but I never thought anything of it. I mean, I knew he got arrested, but he was back in school pretty fast, so how bad could it be? I always figured it was a fistfight. Or maybe street racing. The idea of breaking and entering never crossed my mind.

And he didn’t rob a bank. He robbed a pharmacy. For drugs.

I push out mental images of him counting out pills or—God—reeling out of his mind on some nameless high. It doesn’t feel possible.

I back out of the kitchen, wishing I’d never come in here, wishing I could turn back time and somehow unsee what I just read.

But I can’t.