Page 92 of Play Dirty

“Shit, I had to pull favors for this one. Someone really wanted these people to stay unknown.”

“What? Why? Why do you say that?”

“Because, OK, look. I got their names. Nathan and Marie Thompson.”

“OK?”

“And the kids are Chris, he’s the teen boy. Then Rylee, the small girl. And Abbey, the baby.”

“Right.”

“But it’s Marie Thompson I had trouble with.”

And this is when that feeling comes back. “Why?” I ask.

“Because I couldn’t find her real name. Like, she changed her maiden name before she got married. But I had a hunch her new maiden name was her old middle name, because it was Sara. Marie Sara. So I went digging for Marie Sara’s old name. And bingo. Got her.”

“Who is she?”

“A very troubled girl, from what I can tell. Sealed juvenile records. Like sealed up motherfucking tight, ya know?”

“Shit,” I say.

“But I got a judge to open them,” he says. “And I got a picture. Sending it now.”

I stare at my phone, waiting for the ding of a message.

I know what she looks like. At thirty-five, anyway. Because I saw the pictures before I dropped them off at Law’s office weeks ago.

But what I really need to know now is… what did she look like at seventeen?

“There he is!” my father says as I walk through their front door. I can smell dinner. Smells of my childhood. Roast chicken, and potatoes, and a hint of spicy seasoning that’s probably my mother’s homemade salad dressing.

He claps me on the back and says, “Did you have a nice day off?”

“Well,” I say, walking into the large open kitchen area where my mom is cooking. She turns and looks over her shoulder at me, smiling as she wipes her hands on her apron.

My mother is classic upper class. By that I mean the old-school kind. Not modern-day I-can-have-my-cake-and-eat-it-too. Not at all. Janet Wells made a choice back when she was twenty-two, and that choice was to be wife to Jack Wells and mother to yet-to-be Jordan Wells. That was her choice, and even though I’d often look at Ixion’s mother and think, God, she’s different—always going places, always involved in things, always… missing when it came to Ixion, which is why his house was the perfect place to hang when we were smaller—I used to think, That’s not my mother. She doesn’t look like my mother in any way.

My mother is Barbara Bush classy. She wears tailored suits and dresses. Pearls and subdued makeup.

Ixion’s mom… let’s call her Melania. She was flashy. Maybe a little bit slutty, if I’m being honest. Not that she wasn’t a lovely lady. She was. Just not the same kind of lovely as my mom.

Ixion’s parents were always loud. They argued like it was a sport. Like the winner got prize money at the end. It was a lot of swearing, and arm-flailing, and dramatic accusations.

My parents… I don’t think I’ve ever heard my parents argue.

“It’s so nice to see you, Jordan,” my mom says, placing both hands on my cheeks and giving me a kiss. “What have you been up to?”

“What have I been up to?” I mumble, looking at my father. He’s got his back to me, grabbing us drinks from the bar.

“What’s that?” my mom asks.

I look down at the folder in my hand and wonder…

“Here,” my father says. “Come sit down and have a drink while your mother finishes with dinner. Leave the boy alone, Janet. He’s working hard, that’s what he’s been up to.”

I’m looking at my mother when he says that, her smile falling a little further with each word. But then she rallies and the smile is back. “Go have your drink. Dinner is almost ready.” She rubs my arm and then the smile is real. Just for a moment, it’s real.