Chapter Nine
Maybe he just got my day mixed up with someone else’s.
Shona’s words wake me. I stare at the night sky that Dad and I painted on my ceiling when I was eight. We added those glow-in-the-dark stars on my tenth birthday. I tug the covers up to my chin.
Someone else’s birthday.
I can totally tell which clouds I painted and which ones Dad did. Mine are less realistic. His are works of art.
“But whose birthday,” I mutter to my dark room.
Marek texted me earlier. He found the birthdays of everyone on the list—some were crossed out, too. None of them spelled anything coherent. Some were close, but then one letter wouldn’t work.
Why does it matter? I’m done chasing the answers to that list.
So what? My name’s on a list. Some old man followed me. But that old man’s dead now and can’t stalk me anymore.
We should have painted Van Gogh’s The Starry Night on the ceiling. Seeing it on the postcard brought back a memory. Jane and Dad had replicated it at a night of wine and painting class once. Dad’s was nearly perfect. Jane’s was a disaster.
Van Gogh.
I pop up, snatch my phone from the nightstand, and text Marek.
I Google it.
it’s March 30, 1853
As if he needs to know the number for March, I text it.
3/30/1853
I wait, staring so hard at my phone my eyes water.
Wait.
“Come on, answer,” I order as if he can hear me.
Still no response.
I fling myself back on my pillows and groan. “He’s killing me.”
My phone chimes. It’s a message from Marek.
will do
As though staring at my screen will make him go faster, I can’t pull my eyes away.
it worked
A yelp escapes me. I want to call him. Should I call him?
Imagine Dragons play on my phone, announcing a call. Marek’s name flashes on the screen. I smooth down my hair as if he can see me, then answer it.
“Hello?” I sound somewhat croaky, so I clear my throat. “Hi.”
“Rome,” he says. “It spells Rome.”
“That’s it? No specifics.”
“It’s only a few numbers. I checked the list, and there’s an Angelo Michels, Antonia Rossi, and Dane Connor in Rome. And addresses and phone numbers are by their names. Maybe we should call them.”
Angelo Michels sounds familiar to me.
“I guess,” I say. “But what if they don’t speak English?”
“That would be a problem.” He exhales a long breath. “I’m going to try. I’ll call you back.”
He hangs up before I can answer him. I glance at the clock. It’s just past two in the morning. Dalton and I are leaving at nine for camp. I’ll have to sleep on the bus. A yawn overtakes me, and I hug my pillow.
Come on. Call back already.
He must be reading my mind. Marek’s name flashes on my screen again.
I don’t bother saying hello. “What did you find out?”
“Angelo’s number doesn’t work. The other two didn’t answer.”
I think of the name again. Angelo Michels. Something hits me. Mr. Conte had used Van Gogh for the first clue.
“He switched the name around to hide it. Michelangelo,” I said. “Try decoding the numbers in the address and maybe the phone number for Angelo Michels.”
“I’m impressed,” he says. “Good catch. Hold on a sec.”
I push up against my headboard and cross my legs. An eternity goes by, and then goes around again before Marek returns on the phone.
“It spells Sistine Chapel,” he says.
I uncross my legs. “As in the Sistine Chapel in Rome?”
“Looks like it. Some of Michelangelo’s works are there.”
“I don’t get it.” I glance at my suitcase packed for camp. The mystery behind the list will have to wait until I return. “Is this a game? What was your grandfather doing?”
“Whatever it is,” he says, “it was important enough for him to hide it and leave me clues.”
“So what can you do? It’s not like you can go to Rome and see if you can find another clue there.”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“You’re going to Rome?”
“Yeah, there are heaps of money in that safe and a passport with my name on it. I think it’s what my grandfather wanted me to do. He wasn’t an impulsive man. This has to be big. Important enough for all the expensive spy shit he has.”
I’d probably do the same thing if it were my grandfather. “Will you let me know what you find?”
“Sure.” He falls silent, and all I can hear is his heavy breathing over the phone. “Thanks for the help. Enjoy the bereavement camp.”
I laugh. “How does one enjoy a bereavement camp? I bet everyone will be crying most of the time.”
“Well, bring lots of tissues.” Now he laughs. “Good night.”
“Night.” I push the end button and fall back on my pillows. Like the shadows surrounding the corners of my room, a smile creeps across my lips. I can’t help myself. There’s just something about Marek that makes my skin goosepimply and causes twinges in my stomach.
It’s going to be difficult to sleep. What’s in the Sistine Chapel? And why did Mr. Conte have to use clues? Marek was right. His grandfather went to a lot of trouble to hide them. A person does that for something of importance. Not just for a game or for something trivial.
I Google Michelangelo’s artwork in the Sistine Chapel. Many of the frescoes have naked people in them. I scroll through each one without knowing what I’m looking for.
There are his famous works like The Creation of Adam. Everyone in the world has seen the image of a nude man and an older man with a white beard reaching toward each other, almost touching fingers. And there are so many lesser-known paintings in the Sistine Chapel, too.
One catches my attention, and I stop on it. A woman with red hair pulled loosely up. It’s the original of the reproduction in Shona’s apartment. It has to be the next clue. But what is it? Are the two connected? Had Mr. Conte been in Shona’s apartment? And if he had, why didn’t Shona say so? I have so many questions, and I doubt I’d get any answers to them.
I text Marek the information and attach the link to the website. He messages me back, telling me he’s going to Shona’s later in the morning to investigate the painting. I’ll probably be on the bus heading for camp before he finds out anything.
My head sinks into my pillow, and I continue staring at the clouds on my ceiling. Not able to sleep. Not able to think of anything else but that list and the clues. And definitely not able to erase all the thoughts troubling my mind.
Imagine Dragons going off on my phone again tells me I did fall asleep at some point in the night. It’s my grandparents in Israel. My birth father’s parents. We Facetime every Sunday morning. Saba and Safta used to come out and see me when I was younger but had to stop when Saba had a stroke. I fly over there to visit now, but I haven’t seen my grandparents in almost a year.
I answer it, and both of their faces appear on the screen, heads together, smiles big and warm. It’s three in the afternoon there. Safta is always put together well. Her hair changes colors frequently from dark-blond to light, depending on how my aunt does it. Today it’s somewhere in between. In old photographs when she was younger, her natural color is as dark as mine. Saba’s hair is almost completely silver now, but he looks healthier. They’re on a new health thing. Exercise and no processed foods.
“Hello, Ana’le,” Safta says in that same voice she uses for my baby cousins. It sounds extra special with her accent.
My birth father’s family is big. There are a lot of them in Israel. It’s a little overwhelming when I do visit. It takes a few days to get used to things after I arrive, but I do enjoy participating in all the Jewish ceremonies and traditions. It makes me feel closer to a father I never knew.
Saba clears his throat. “You get bigger each time we call.”
Meaning every Sunday, I’m either taller or wider.
Safta frowns at him. “What do you mean? She looks the same. A little bed tousled, but the same.” She turns a smile to me. “Are you all packed and ready?”
I glance at my bag as if she can see it off screen. “Yeah.”
“You’re not happy.” Safta can read me even on a small screen. “It’ll be nice. You can talk out your feelings.”
I’m tired of going over the last few months with strangers. But it’s not something I can say to her. She and Saba paid for the camp. For both Dalton and me, which is sweet, since he isn’t their blood-relative. I know they’re worried about me.
So I lie. “I’m looking forward to it. I’m just tired. I was on the phone late with a friend. His grandfather died recently. He’s not really a friend. We just met. Dalton and I witnessed Mr. Conte getting hit by a car.”
“Conte?” Saba’s eyebrows push together. “Eli’s friend?”
He calls my uncle by his name so as not to confuse him with his son. Or maybe to remind me who my birth father was, but I can never forget. I think of him and my mother all the time. It takes a few beats for me to get past him calling my dad that before the context of what he said sinks in.
“Wait. Conte? Adam Conte?”
By the look Saba is giving me, he notices the panic in my voice. “Yes, his name was Adam. He visited us after Eli’s… A few months back.”
Could it be the same Adam Conte? It has to be.
“Do you know where he lived?”
“Outside of Philadelphia somewhere,” Safta says. “What’s wrong, Ana’le? Do you think it’s the same man?”
That’s why he painted me. He knew my dad.
I ignore her questions and ask my own. “What did he want?”
Safta’s face is all scrunched up with concern. “He was in our area and brought something Eli had of your father’s.”
“What was it?”
Saba rushes off.
“He’s going to get it,” Safta informs me in case I can’t tell what he’s doing and I’m worried he won’t return.
When he does return, he holds up a black onyx sculpture of a cat, a thick necklace around its neck, wearing a gold hoop earring. It’s the goddess of protection, Bastet. Just like the one in the Conte’s house.
My throat clogs, and I can’t speak. Adam Conte carried that statue all that way to give to my grandparents. By how Saba needs both hands to hold the thing, it must weigh a lot. There’s something there. I’m not sure what, but Mr. Conte wanted to protect my grandparents. How did he even know how to find them? How is he connected to my family? Before I worry Safta and Saba, I need to get off the phone.
“Listen, I have to get ready.” Which I do. “Don’t want to be late for the bus.”
“Oh yes, Ana’le, we don’t want to make you late.” Safta smiles, and it’s as comforting as warm chocolate chip cookies. “Will we see you for Hanukkah?”
“With Eli being gone,” I say, using Dad’s first name out of respect for them, “it’ll be Dalton’s first Christmas without him. I think I should stick around here and come out for New Year’s.”
Safta smiles. “Yes, of course.”
“Then we’ll make plans for you,” Saba says with an understanding nod.
“Okay, love you both.”
“Love you, Ana’le,” they say together.
I end the call, throw my legs over my bed, and just sit there. Not sure what to think about Mr. Conte visiting my grandparents. Why would Eli give a possession of my father’s to the old man? Why not to me? Or why not mail it? I’ll never know, because everyone who knew the answers to my questions is dead.
…
It doesn’t surprise me that Jane can’t take Dalton and me to the bus station. Her work is demanding, and she’s the only one providing for us. I get that. But there has to be some sort of balance. If not for me, then for Dalton.
The station is crowded. It seems as if everyone is going somewhere this morning. I push my suitcase along, rushing beside Dalton, the wheels clacking against the tiles.
I told Dalton everything that happened the last two days. When I mentioned the Bastet statues, he showed me the one hidden up in Jane’s closet. Since I don’t snoop like him, I never saw it before. He doesn’t say much, just that it’s bizarre. That’s it. Bizarre. He always downplays things, or maybe he isn’t sure what to think. I know I don’t.
“I wonder if there’ll be any hotties at this camp,” Dalton says, struggling with his suitcase, the right wheel of it sticking every few steps.
“If there are any, you can have them all,” I say. “Which gate are we?”
A wide grin pushing into his cheeks makes me wonder what he’s thinking until he says, “A bereavement camp is the perfect place to get two strong, comforting arms wrapped around me.”
“Oh, please,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I just hope they don’t make us sing around a campfire.” Last time I sang in public was in elementary school for a Christmas pageant. It’s cute to be out of tune when you’re six, not so much when you’re seventeen.
“Did you remember your meds?” he asks. “You know what happens when you forget to take them.”
“Of course—”
Two men and a woman watching us from where they stand under the bus monitors distracts me. They’re unusually beautiful, with perfect bone structures and muscles sculpted over their bodies. One man is dark and tall, one man shorter with red hair, and the woman lean yet curvy.
Dalton glances at where my eyes are set. “Damn. Talk about winning the gene pool. Those three are definitely models.”
“Don’t turn around.” Marek’s voice comes from behind us, and I gasp. “Keep walking. Go to the bathroom. I’ll meet you there.”
Dalton leans closer to me. “Who’s the guy? He’s delicious, isn’t he?”
“He’s that old man’s grandson,” I whisper, scanning the terminal for the bathroom. Once I spot the women’s sign, I cross the rushing traffic of people.
“Should I come?” Dalton hurries behind me. “I’m not sure I trust that guy.”
“Me neither,” I say over my shoulder.
A woman gives Dalton a strange look as she’s exiting the restroom and we’re entering. Her eyes practically bulge out.
“I’m gay,” Dalton says to her. “Nothing in here interests me.”
The woman hurries out, passing Marek, who’s rushing in.
“Is there anyone else in here?” Marek asks.
“Yes.” A woman’s voice comes from the stall at the end. “This is the women’s restroom, not the men’s.”
“We know,” Dalton says a little too loud. “We’re helping my sister with an issue. You might want to leave. It’s not going to be pretty, and it may be somewhat stinky.”
I glare at Dalton. “Thanks for that.”
A wide grin stretches his lips. “Hey, just ad-libbing.”
We wait at the sinks until the woman flushes and washes her hands, then she gives me a pity smile before exiting.
Marek pushes the trash can up against the door, his grandfather’s satchel slung over his shoulder.
I face him. “What are you doing here?”
“You have to come with me,” he says, riffling through the bag.
“I can’t.” I toss Dalton a sidelong glance, hoping he’ll back me up. “We’re on our way to camp.”
Marek finds what he’s searching for and holds it up. “It’s about these.”
“Passports?”
“You have to see this,” he says, opening one and showing me the inside. “The name on it is Olivia Martin, and the photo is…” He taps it with a finger.
My stomach drops as if it’s falling into a bottomless pit—down, down, down.
It’s me.