Chapter Two
The Delaware River is rowdy, bucking and slapping the pile of rocks on its bank. I sit on my favorite rock, writing in my journal. The dark clouds above promise to dump rain soon, but I don’t care. This is our place. Dalton, Dad, and me. And I miss Dad. I want him back.
I need him back.
Three months. Such a short time, yet an eternity.
Three months. The last time I saw his face, his expression frozen, covered in makeup to look alive, his linebacker body completely filling the coffin.
Three months.
This is where he died. In our place. An aneurysm. We were hiking the rocks, and he collapsed. In our place.
Our place.
It was him and me. Dalton had gone ahead. He never could wait for us. Dad collapsed, and I froze. I did nothing. To this day, I don’t know how long I just stood there. When we didn’t show up to the part that sticks farther out into the lake, Dalton doubled back. He called 911.
The doctors said there wasn’t anything I could do. He died instantly, but that doesn’t stop me from doubting them and wondering if it was my fault.
The wind makes the tears on my face cold. I swipe them away with the sleeve of my hoodie.
I take out Dad’s 1950s vintage Ronson pocket lighter. It doesn’t work, but it’s a part of him, so I keep it with me. His father gave it to him when he was a boy. Probably should give it to Dalton. He’s his real kid, after all. I click the igniter off and on.
Off and on.
I’ll give it to him eventually. Right now, I need it. Besides, Jane gave Dalton a bunch of Dad’s things, so he’s all set.
Though he was my uncle, my mother’s brother, he’d become Dad. Strong and protective. I felt safe with him. How could a little vein take Goliath down? Leave him crumpled on the ground as if the world was done with him. But I’m not done. I need him. There’re so many words left unspoken and too many moments lost.
Off and on.
He left us alone with her.
My aunt doesn’t fit into the mother role. A neurosurgeon, Jane is always busy. Dalton is her biological son, and I’m the forced-on-her daughter.
Footsteps sound behind me. I know who it is without turning around. Before he can see the lighter, I shove it into my pocket.
“I thought you’d be here,” Dalton says.
There’s nothing to say, so I don’t respond.
“Analiese Grace Jordan, are you ignoring me?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not talking to you.”
He stops at my side, picks up a rock, and throws it. The stone skips across the water before plunking under waves. “You know, Mom would be mad if she found out you came to Fishtown on your own.”
I jut out my chin.
“Really? You’re seriously not talking to me?” He picks up another rock and throws it. This time the rock plunks under the water without skipping, and it takes all my effort not to tease him about it.
“On Dad’s soul, I swear I didn’t do it.”
That’s big. He’d never risk lying when Dad’s soul is at risk. I finally break my silence. “Then who?”
Another rock. Skip. Skip. Skip. Plunk.
“Don’t know. Probably Rod.”
I close my journal then slip it and my pen into my backpack. The journal is where I write my memories of Dad. I don’t want to forget anything. And it’s therapeutic. Makes me feel connected to him, helps me deal with the dark hole inside me.
I also use it to keep a record of my panic attacks for my psychotherapist, Dr. Herrera. She wants me to jot down what starts it, how long it lasts, and how I feel during each one. There aren’t as many entries for them since I started taking my meds. Usually, I have an episode when I forget to take several of my scheduled doses in a row. But now I have them set in my phone’s alarm so I won’t forget.
I’ve always had them. The attacks are just more intense since Dad died.
Dad. His name was Eli. Never played favorites with Dalton and me. He treated us equally. Loved us the same.
Like a festering blister, the wanting to know my real parents is painful. It was Dad who brought them to life for me, telling me stories behind the many pictures in the rows of albums lining one of the shelves in his home office. There’re many tales of him and my mom growing up together. She got him into trouble a lot. My mother was assertive and excellent at math. One trait I have, the other I’m working on.
I capture all that in my journal, too.
“You know,” Dalton says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Technically, you have to do dishes for a month.”
I hug myself, trying to fend off the chilly spring breeze. “No, I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do. You threw down the glove before Freak Frog woke up.”
“Seriously?” I slide a look at him that says he better rethink his statement.
He flashes me the-hard-to-resist Dalton smile—all toothy and dimply. “Too soon?”
I’m not going to budge. He wants me to, but I’m not. That look of his isn’t going to win this time. I press my lips together but can’t stop the corners of my mouth from lifting and betraying me.
“I knew you weren’t mad at me.” He hops off the rock. “You want to get a latte?”
“Sure,” I say, giving in. Shaking my head, I let my smile win. It’s Dalton, after all. How could I stay mad? He’s all I have.
My thoughts turn in my head, and it’s as if I’m walking in a haze, ambling along the river beside Dalton. “The incident with the frog was no coincidence,” I say. “Not to mention the moths. How could someone even get that many? And why?”
Dalton wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Whoever set up that prank better hope I don’t find out who they are.”
“Even if it’s Rod?”
“Yes, even him.”
“You’re so tough.” I laugh, feeling the tension of the day loosen from my shoulders. It was just a prank. Dad would tell me to pretend it was no big deal—don’t give the culprit the satisfaction of a reaction.
I bump Dalton’s shoulder with mine and smile up at him. “I saw the mail. Congratulations. First place, huh? Your sculptures are going to make us millions one day.”
He pulls on the back of his neck. “Yeah, if I live through high school. That mythology final is going to kill my GPA.”
“If you let me out of the dishes tonight, I’ll help you study for it.” I live and breathe mythology. Our dad was a history professor, and that was our thing. I know the obscure gods and goddesses, not just the ones made popular by comic books and movies.
“Deal.” Now he bumps my shoulder, but it has his weight behind it and makes me stumble a little. He chuckles. “Graceful.”
The streets are crowded with rush-hour commuters. Across the way, some old man wearing a black newsboy cap and a camel-colored overcoat stands in front of the coffee shop we’re heading for. His eyes follow our approach, causing a shiver to prickle up my spine. I keep my eyes on where my feet are landing to avoid catching the man’s gaze.
The scent of freshly ground coffee beans fills my nose. We spent many Saturdays in this shop after our hikes with Dad. Back then, we were only allowed to drink hot chocolate while he sipped an Americano.
A crash sounds behind Dalton and me, and we spin around. An SUV and a small red car are mangled together. The tires of a black sedan squeal as it speeds in our direction.
It’s as though it all happens in slow motion. The sedan jumps the curb, and someone shoves me out of the way and into Dalton. We land hard on the sidewalk. One tire of the car rides the curb until coming off to join the other on the road. The driver weaves around a few cars before disappearing around a corner.
I scramble to my feet and glance back. The old man in the newsboy cap lies on the sidewalk. Blood trickles down the side of his face.
“Call 911,” I tell Dalton and drop to my knees beside the man. The gash in his head is deep. I search the crowd now forming around us. “Someone get a towel or something. I need to compress his wound.”
A woman removes her scarf and hands it to me. I take it, and I’m about to press it against the gash in the man’s head when his gloved hand catches my arm.
“Don’t touch me,” he says. “I’m dying.”
I push my eyebrows together. “You’re not going to die. The ambulance is coming.”
“My bag,” he says weakly. A worn-out leather satchel lays on the sidewalk a few feet from him.
I snatch it up and lift it for him to see. “This one?”
He nods, his lids half closed over soft blue eyes. His face scrunches up in pain. “That’s it.” He keeps his voice low. “Take it to my grandson. Don’t let anyone see you have it. You’re in danger, Analiese. Run. Don’t stop.”
My heart drops like a stone in my chest, and the case falls from my hands, slapping against the concrete. “How do you know my name?”
A fire truck and an ambulance pull up to the curb.
“Wh—” His eyes close, mouth slackens. I don’t know why I believe the man, but I do. I slip the strap to his bag over my shoulder, stand, and back away into the crowd beside Dalton. So many faces stare down at the man. Unknown faces. And one could belong to whoever this man feared.
Paramedics rush a stretcher and medical bags over to the old man. A woman places an oxygen mask on his face while another assesses his injuries.
“What are you doing with his bag?” Dalton asks.
“He wants me to give it to his grandson. Maybe his number or address is in it.” The man saying I was in danger made me nervous. I search the faces in the crowd again. No one looks menacing or suspicious. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” I sprint-walk down the street and away from the accident.
Dalton keeps step with me. “That’s stealing. Taking the bag.”
“No, it isn’t. He gave it to me.”
“What’s in it?” he asks.
I dart glances at the people and cars passing us. We have to get off the street. I spot an ice cream parlor and dash inside with Dalton close behind me.
My gaze goes to the window. Sitting behind the large panes of glass making up the front of the store is like being in a fishbowl—trapped and exposed.
“Get us each a scoop,” I say, nodding to a table in a back corner. “I’m going to sit over there.”
The chair screeches across the tiled floor as I drag it away from the table. I sit, and it wobbles a little on its legs. The tiny buckles on the straps of the old man’s satchel are challenging to undo. The smell of leather oil clings to the bag.
The man’s injuries looked fatal. The driver who caused the accident never stopped. Had to be some drunk afraid to face the police.
You’re in danger, Analiese. Run. Don’t stop, the man told me, his sad eyes haunting.
How did he know my name?
I’m worrying too much. No one from the street can see me in my seat in the back corner of the parlor. And there probably isn’t anyone following me. The old man had to be delusional.
The accident was real, though. I’m still shaken up from it, because my hands are trembling as I remove items from the bag. My stomach’s doing that dip-and-fall thing it does while riding the monster roller coaster at the amusement park.
There are many objects in the bag, along with a tattered notebook—a ring, envelopes, keys, and other various things. I pick up the ring and spin the wheel with letters of the alphabet etched into the round steel. There’re two other wheels. One with numbers and the other with symbols.
A decoder ring? I pause a moment, wondering why the man would have one, before returning it to the bag. The envelopes have what I believe is the old man’s name and address on them.
Adam Conte. “He lives in Lancaster,” I say out loud, which causes the girl at the next table to look at me. I give her an awkward smile and tuck the envelopes back into the bag. Avoiding eye contact with her, I flip open the cover to the notebook. The first four pages hold a list of names. Many of the names are crossed out. I run my finger down the column.
Dalton returns from the counter, holding two cups with a mound of Oreo ice cream in each.
On the third page, I stop at a name with a line drawn through it—Alea Bove Jordan—my mother. Beside her name, written at an angle in pencil, is Jake Jordan, my father. He’s like an afterthought. A line runs across his name, too. Underneath them is my uncle, Eli Bove. His name is also marked off. I turn the page and gasp. Halfway down the list, written in thick black ink strokes, is Analiese Jordan.