I’m ten minutes early for the meeting.
The blackmailer will know Morgan on sight, but he or she hasn’t given me anything to work with in terms of a description. I take a seat near the window. Georgette’s Diner has delicious pancakes, decent patty melts, and mediocre iced tea. I order the latter since the first two are off the table. This place has a retro vibe with checkered flooring, red vinyl booths, and an actual jukebox at the back. This seems like an odd place to meet up for clandestine business, but I wouldn’t have agreed to something like, “the quarry at midnight, come alone.” Each time the bell jingles, I eye the door with chills crawling down my back.
A bearded guy in his forties seems a likely suspect, but he strolls past me, directly to the washrooms. Five minutes go by. Ten.
Now this asshole is late.
I check out the people who were here when I arrived. Two elderly couples are nursing coffee after dinner while other booths are occupied by people from my high school. With a wince I recognize Oscar Sanchez, but oddly, he’s alone. He stares at me for a full five minutes, then he finally comes over and slides into my booth.
“I see you got my message.” His face is dead serious, and I have no idea what’s going on.
Trying to imagine how Morgan would react, I say, “If you need to borrow money, I can probably help you. Forcing me will get you nowhere. Go ahead, send my dad whatever.”
His eyes ice over. Grabbing my glass, he swigs half of my tea like he’s proving a point. The silence builds, until I can hardly stand it. What, exactly, does Oscar know? Somehow, we’ve started a staring contest, and neither of us is willing to look away.
Finally, he grins. “How far are you going to take this?”
Oh my God, is this a drama thing? An improv piece they were working on?
“You seemed pretty committed to the bit,” I say coolly.
“Props for playing along. But if you wanted to hang out, you could’ve just said so. No need to be melodramatic.”
I point out, “Drama is like cake to you.”
Relief swirls through me. Finally my luck has broken the right way. Oscar might have a terrible sense of humor, but at least I’m not being blackmailed.
I wonder why Morgan purged Oscar’s contact information, though. His name and picture should’ve come up if they messaged each other regularly.
Did she think someone was spying on her? Given what I’ve uncovered about her secret life, it’s not the most outlandish theory.
“You make a good point. I know I’m not supposed to talk about the pictures, like ever, but I can’t help wondering what happened with that old guy.”
It clicks for me then. Since Morgan couldn’t have taken the photos I found on the cloud, a third party had to be involved. I never would’ve guessed she’d be working with Oscar, yet photography is one of his hobbies. He’s always popping up with a camera, and his specialty is unflattering candid shots. Hypothetically, if Morgan had gotten Oscar’s text, she would’ve recognized the number and realized he was making an oblique reference to a secret they shared.
“It’s kind of hard to explain,” I mumble.
“Try.” By his tone, I can tell he’s let this slide before but curiosity must be getting the best of him. If I don’t give him something, a blackmail prank could turn into the real thing.
I can’t open the Pandora’s Box of I think he killed my mother, therefore I’m Humbert-Humberting him. So I come up with a story that I think Oscar might believe. Adopting Morgan’s faintly scornful expression, I say, “Have you seen any of his campaign ads? He promises family values and honesty yet you know how easy it was to get him to abandon those principles? I’m waiting for the next election and then I’ll leak those photos. With some judicious face-blurring on my end, of course.”
Oscar tilts his head, obviously unconvinced. “There are dishonest politicians all over the place, Morgan. What makes you so eager to bring this guy down?”
“He’s giving my dad a hard time.” That’s kind of the truth, though it’s more that he’s pestering him about supporting … I’m not sure what; I just remember something about an influx of capital and that Mr. Frost isn’t on board with the project.
Comprehension dawns. “I can see why you’d fight to keep some old bastard from chopping down your money tree.”
It seems like Oscar thinks Creepy Jack is threatening Mr. Frost’s business, and I roll with that assumption. “You’d do the same in my shoes.”
“Maybe,” he allows.
It’s good that Oscar is appeased without knowing too much. There must be a reason why Morgan trusted him enough to ask him to take those photos. The fact that he hasn’t posted them says volumes about how much I can trust him, even if he has a caustic personality and a twisted sense of humor.
“Want something to eat?” I ask. “It’s on me.”
“That’s more like it.” He grins and opens the menu.
Oscar orders a patty melt and a chocolate shake. The best thing about him is that he seems able to carry on a conversation with minimal input from me. He rambles about a project he’s working on for Visual Arts and I make interested noises until his food arrives. Then I try not to drool while watching him eat.
“It’s been a while,” I say, hoping he’ll fill in the blanks.
He nods. “Almost three months. We haven’t hung out since school ended last spring.”
“Sorry about that.” Maybe Morgan wouldn’t apologize but he seems to appreciate it, based on the smile I get in reaction.
“You’ve been busy with Claymore the Elder since you came back, I get it.”
“Plus, I’m bad about keeping up with anyone during summer break.”
Fortunately he takes the bait. “How was Europe?”
This is one area where I can shine, as I spent hours listening to Morgan recount her adventures. I muster some animation and repeat a couple of stories. He likes the one about the hot musician busking on the tube platform, and he cracks up over the pickpocket chase scene at Camden Market, too. This carries us through the meal at least.
“I need to get back,” I say eventually. “My dad doesn’t even know I took the car out, so there will probably be a reckoning.”
If he knew Morgan as well as Clay did, Oscar would object to this, but he nods. “Call me when your old man cuts you loose.”
“It should be better once the stitches are out. I really can’t blame him for feeling overprotective right now.” That’s the most honest thing I’ve said in this conversation.
He sobers. “Yeah, about that … I’m sorry about Liv. I didn’t know her well but she seemed like a cool person.”
No matter how many times I hear that, it never gets easier. Not because my old life is gone but because I’m living a lie and nobody suspects a thing. It’s heartbreaking for both of us—for Morgan, that I could slip right into her life and nobody can tell the difference—and for me, because not a single soul, no matter how much they loved me, senses that I’m still here.
It’s like people are LEGOs, and everyone is replaceable.