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“A photo of you, dated and with clean metadata from one of our outings,” he says.
I think I remember which one. They took several photos of me from different locations and using different smartphones. They tossed each device in bins on the other side of the city after they uploaded the images to an online server. They have been exceptionally careful about hiding their tracks, from what I’ve noticed. I’m actually impressed with how thorough and well-organized they are—not just with me but with the club and their business activities. I know they deal with shady people, too, but it’s a means to an end, according to Sky, and they make sure never to leave a paper or data trail behind.
“It’s been weeks,” I sigh deeply.
“They’re looking for you in all the wrong places. We manipulated the image’s original metadata for that specific purpose,” Raylan replies. “Believe it or not, Ariana, you are safer here with us than you ever were with your father.”
It might sound absurd, or it might be Stockholm Syndrome talking, but I actually believe him. I feel guilty for not missing my father more, yet this whole time that I’ve been away, I’ve put it to good use. Thinking. Revisiting past moments and seeing them in a different light, especially after everything that the guys have shown me. The truth may be somewhere in the middle. I’m not sure anymore, but I am sure of one thing—it’s not how Dad said it was. That task force of his is starting to sound increasingly more ridiculous.
“Come on, get dressed,” he says. “We’re going somewhere new today.”
“Another tour of the Knights’ noble activities?”
“No.”
But he doesn’t give me any details. He simply walks out and waits for me in the hallway while I put on a pair of jeans, a dark blue hoodie, and a matching ballcap, making sure to keep my red hair pulled back in a tight, not-so-obvious bun resting on the back of my neck. Once I’ve got my boots on, I join him and we go downstairs and grab a quick coffee before we leave.
The ride through the city feels different this time.
I look around, holding on to Raylan as his bike rumbles down the streets of Everton, wondering what the people are thinking and if anybody recognizes me. My face has seen more screen time over the past few weeks than it did my whole life before I was kidnapped, yet I still take my helmet off and find myself surprised that no one is quick to gasp or point a finger my way, saying, “Oh, my God, you’re Ariana David!” or something along those lines.
I never wanted to be famous, but I’ve become a walking missing persons poster, for heaven’s sake. Yet I walk in and out of the city like it’s nobody’s business.
Then again, Raylan said something not that long ago that made sense—my face isn’t on TV as often as my father’s. He has held press conferences and done late-night interviews, going from one channel to another to talk about his distress about his torment over his missing daughter. He’s the one getting the most screen time while political pundits have begun talking about his future run for senate, mentioning sympathy votes and similar points that get extra ratings after 8 p.m. It has left a bitter taste in my mouth.
It’s a reminder that absolutely everything is political where Henry David is concerned—including his missing daughter.
“Just wondering, did you tell him anything when you sent him proof of life?” I ask Raylan once we pull up in the parking lot of a pristine-looking residential ensemble in the heart of the city.
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
He nods once and takes his helmet off while I put my ballcap back on. “Only a note saying we’d be in touch with our demands. We didn’t want him to think you were dead, nor did we want him to think we were rattled in any way by his supposed manhunt or task force. Right now, he’s wondering why we’re taking so long with that ransom demand, which is good. We need him stewing for as long as possible before we communicate again.”
“Why?”
“You’ll find out soon enough, I promise,” he says, then looks at the building in front of us. “What do you think?”
I glance up and take a moment to admire the architecture. It is striking with its white façade, minimalist design, black-metal-frame windows, and sloping roof. The front is decorated with a Japanese garden and an elegant glass fence, while stone-paved alleyways snake between the different buildings that are part of the same residential complex. “It’s pretty. What are we doing here, Raylan?”
“This used to be Sweet Mother of Mercy,” he says quietly.
I’m speechless for the longest minute as I wrap my head around the view in front of me. “The orphanage,” I whisper.
“That’s right. This whole block was leveled, and this was built in its place,” Raylan replies. “It was supposed to be a community center, but city hall said that Everton already had one.”
“My father was a councilman at the time.”
“Yes, you know the story. I wanted you to see for yourself, though. I wanted you to see the effect that Henry David’s decision had on the entire neighborhood,” Raylan says. “How many of these apartments do you think are occupied as we speak?”
“I have no idea.”
My heart is breaking all over again because I can see the pain in Raylan’s eyes as he talks about it, as he remembers the kids he got so attached to—the kids he ultimately lost to the foster system after my father broke his promise and convinced Raylan to support the city’s claim on the entire property.
He assured Raylan that he would move heaven and earth to see a second community center built here, complete with emergency housing for the Mercy orphans. They would only be in foster care for a year or two, tops, and they’d be moved back into the new building once it was completed.
All lies. All bald-faced lies.
