9- the visitation experiment
Surely this isn’t healthy behavior. I am at my kitchen table, partly doing homework, mostly peering out the window at the house next door. Reece and I got home about fifteen minutes ago, and the only thing he’s done is collect the mail and go inside. I turn my attention to my physics homework and eat an apple slice. The only two living things who can see what I’m doing are Roger, who is snoring on the floor next to me, and the white-feathered crow cleaning itself on the other side of the window.
I’ve started thinking of this one as “my” crow, and there’s no getting around it—all the crows at the Fernandez house are more than just crows. That’s not a pleasant truth to acknowledge. It makes it even more imperative to learn Reece’s secret.
Movement draws my attention up from my notebook. Reece has come outside as two little kids run up the driveway, backpacks swinging behind them. I snatch up the binoculars from the counter next to me and focus on the little group. Reece kneels down for hugs. My chest tightens to see them throw arms around him and hug with such force, he tips over backward. I can hear their shrieks of laughter from here. He’s so cute like this, being a good big brother, that some of my annoyance with him and his secrets thaws. The kids toss their backpacks on the lawn, and one of them digs a soccer ball out from behind a bush. A three-way passing game ensues, with lots of wayward kicks and more laughing. Seeing this, it’s hard to imagine this family is anything other than what they appear. But I know better.
It’s a perfect time to take Roger for a walk. I scoop up the leash. The sound of the clasp jingling propels the dog from sound sleep to prancing at the door in under three seconds. I throw on a hat and an old coat—what I always wear for walks with Roger—and pop earbuds in my ears for good measure. We start down the driveway. Roger’s good on the leash, but today he hears the noise of children from his old home, and his nose is raised, feverishly smelling the air. I slow down only a little as we pass Reece’s house. It’s enough to give Roger encouragement to pull toward the children and for them to notice him. Which is what I want.
“Look!” A little girl with warm brown skin points at us. “A dog! Hi doggie!” She runs toward us, waving, followed by the boy. Trailing behind them both is Reece.
“Easy, Fiona,” he calls out. “Remember what to do around dogs you don’t know.”
If Fiona hears him, she’s pretending she can’t. She does, however, approach the wiggling Roger with caution. She looks up at me with a sweet little smile. “Hello, I’m Fiona. May I pet your doggie?”
I can’t help but smile. “Of course,” I say, half smitten with her already. I crouch down, get a good grip on Roger’s collar in case he decides to show his affection too enthusiastically. “He’s very friendly. Sometimes, too much so. You may get kisses.”
“That’s okay.” She pulls off a glove and extends one small hand for Roger’s inspection. He complies as respectfully as he can, but he can’t resist licking, which sends her into a peal of giggles. “That tickles! What’s his name?”
“Roger.”
She peers up at me from beneath thick lashes. “Are you Angie?”
“Um, yes. That’s me.” I’m a little surprised but manage not to show it. This kid knows my name?
She leans forward, cupping a hand over her mouth. “My brother talks about you,” she whispers conspiratorially.
“Oh.” Well. That answers that. “Really?”
She giggles again. “Yup.” Just then the little boy joins us. “Look! That’s my other brother, Paxton.”
Paxton is a pale, blond, serious-looking boy who appears to be about the same age as Fiona. He greets Roger without smiling, presenting his hand to be sniffed, but he lets out a laugh when his fingers also get a lick.
“Very nice to meet you, Angie,” says Paxton in a formal, important voice.
I can’t help but grin at him. “Likewise, young sir.”
“This is Roger,” Fiona informs him. “Angie said we could pet him.”
Reece jogs over then, as I expected. White teeth flash in a quick smile. “Hi, Angie. I’m sorry about these two. Are they behaving?” He uses a serious voice, but his lips twitch in amusement. “Using manners?”
I’m still eye level with the children, and it’s them I address. “You two are the most well-mannered kids I’ve ever met. Roger here thinks you’re great, too. He loves new noses to kiss.”
Fiona wrinkles her nose and brings it close to Roger, then rears back when he tries to lay one on her.
Paxton scratches Roger in the rolls of his neck, exactly where he likes it. “May we please play with him?”
I hesitate, look up at Reece. This is exactly what I want—a reason to loiter around this house. To observe and see if anything seems off. Roger, who is a good judge of people, is clearly telling me everything is fine, but I’m determined to find answers. “I can let him off the leash, but it’s up to you. We were headed for a walk in the woods, so he might leave a present on your lawn.”
Reece shrugs. “That’s okay. If you’re sure he won’t run away.”
Perfect. “He won’t.” I unclip Roger’s leash, and he bounds across the frosty lawn in unbridled joy. Paxton runs to the garage and returns with an old tennis ball—which was probably originally Roger’s—and hurls it as far as he can. My dog leaps after it, gloriously happy.
“They’re your siblings?” I ask.
“Yeah. We’re adopted.” He says it in an automatic sort of way, probably used to curiosity about the differences in skin color between the children. He watches the children fondly. “There’re five of us including our older sister, Brooke, and our little brother, James.”
My brows go up. “That’s quite an age range.”
“It is,” he replies. “It’s been hard since our dad passed away.”
“When did that happen?”
“A few months ago.”
His words—the remote coolness of them—scratch through me like flat notes in a song. As someone who has lost a parent, I know there’s no way to not have feelings about it. If his father died a few months ago—even if the man was a monster—discussing his death would evoke something. But Reece’s voice is hollow. His words sound rehearsed. No emotion, but I’ve seen Reece with emotion and he’s quite expressive. I’ve seen him frightened and sad and angry and surprised. I’ve seen him confront a creature with a mouthful of bees and a face that transforms every thirty seconds or so. So I’m not sure I believe him, and that’s an uncomfortable thought, considering my own history.
I eye him closely, searching for a physical tell to reveal sadness, hidden grief, something, but there’s nothing. No slight pinch of the mouth, no tightening of the hands. Not a glimmer of the grief he revealed the first time we met at the bus stop. His voice sounds painfully empty. Painful only to me, apparently, as he seems perfectly at ease. I swallow heavily, searching for the right response. I won’t call him a liar—that’s just unthinkable.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say quietly.
“Thank you. Everyday life is the hardest part. Just…going through the motions of it all.”
Now that was the only part that felt like the truth. The rest of his words sounded like poorly delivered lines, read from a script. The implication that he’s not telling the truth about the death of his father makes me a little light-headed. Why would someone do that?
“Is it?” I’m seriously questioning the wisdom of coming here. Who is this boy? Who are these people? I may not want these answers. Whatever illusion I had been weaving about this being a normal family can’t be true. This is a family, yes, but one putting on an elaborate show to appear to be something they are not. “Everyday life can’t be so bad,” I say lightly, eager to change the subject before I start luring myself down a hole. “You have a beautiful home, a nice family. You’re popular at school. Kiera Shaw certainly likes you.”
He turns his gaze to me, slowly. “Kiera Shaw? You think I like her?”
“I don’t know what you like.” I don’t blink. I don’t look away. “I know only what I’ve seen.”
Reece leans close, gently entering my personal space. Close enough to put me on edge, but not close enough to intimidate. His voice is silk on gravel. His narrowed eyes glitter down at me. “And what, exactly, have you seen, Angie?”
Shivers race up my skin. I want to defuse this so badly, but I feel like this is a challenge I can’t lose. “I’ve seen and heard things that don’t make sense. Things I can’t understand.” I shift my gaze to my crow sitting on a branch above my head. It watches me with an intensity that would scare me if I wasn’t accustomed to it. “Tell me about the crows.”
He shakes his head. “Sorry. Either you know about them or you don’t.”
My jaw tightens, even as I step toward him. I can feel his body heat. His clean, guy scent fills my senses with a unique magnetism that draws me close. Closer still. “I will find out.”
His gaze sweeps my face, lingering on my lips. “I hope not.” His breath warms my temple, sending a shiver under my skin. “There are worse things out there than a few watchful birds.”
“Like what?” I’m breathless, damn him. My words are barely audible.
His lashes fan low over his eyes. The narrow space between us crackles with tension. “Oh Angie, you don’t want to know.”
It’s exciting, frustrating, and exhausting, this coded language we speak. Worse, I may be the only one speaking it, and it’s hard to keep my thoughts coherent when he stands so close. The boy is overloading to the senses, but maybe that’s his intention—to get me so flustered I can’t ask the questions I want. Of course, I really can’t ask many questions, since Angie Dovage wasn’t in the parking lot behind The Strip Mall on Friday night. That was Sparo, who is cool and arty and free of the baggage that Angie carries around. Sparo, whom he finds attractive. Sparo, whom I want to claim so badly, I have to clamp my lips together to keep from blurting out my secret.
“Reece!” Fiona calls out. “Roger pooped on the patio!”
He steps away from me slowly, hands spread. Cold air replaces the zinging warmth on my face. “Duty calls,” he says, backing away.
“This isn’t over,” I hiss, to remind him that his charm hasn’t zapped all my wits. If anything, I’m more determined than ever to figure out what his deal is.
“Yes, it is.” His voice is low and edged with frustration.
I whistle and Roger runs from the back of the house toward me. Except, he doesn’t come to me, he goes to Reece, bumps his head into the boy’s hand. Reece pets him, scratching behind one floppy ear. He considers me. I know my jaw is jutting, my expression mulish.
“Leave it alone, Angie. I don’t want to see anyone get hurt when it can be avoided.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No.” His eyes widen in surprise. “It’s… I just want you to stay safe.”
“I see.” I run my tongue over my teeth. “Message received.” But I’m not leaving this alone. I feel like I’ve stumbled into an altered world, and I won’t spend the rest of my life wondering what I saw, what I know I saw.