Page 51

I sink back into the bed and pull my sketchbook from underneath the mattress onto my lap. A pristine, blank page awaits me.

I draw a single line tentatively, then another. A sleeve begins to form. Then a cuff—soft folds, gentle pleats fanning out. Little round buttons, pale as bone. My breathing eases; the scratch of graphite against paper is louder than my fears.

I never hear the car pull away.

I keep telling myself it was all in my head, because the only thing worse than fear is knowing someone might really know where I live.

And I’m not ready to think about that yet.

5

Adrien

Kamden has been sorting cans of soup for 43 minutes, and I’m fairly certain nobody at this grocery store told him to.

He crouches in front of the bottom shelf, knees tucked close together, blond head bowed as he removes cans, examines them, then places them back in an order only he understands.

I’m standing near the end of the adjacent aisle with an unopened bottle of water in one hand and a box of crackers I have no intention of buying tucked beneath my arm, pretending to compare pasta sauces while watching John’s son through the gaps in the shelving.

This is not how I expected to spend my Saturday.

It also isn’t how I expected Kamden to look.

The surveillance photographs didn’t capture enough detail. They showed me blond hair, a skinny body, a frightened face, and enough of John around the eyes to knock the air out of my lungs.

In person, there’s a lot more to notice.

He’s relatively tall, though you almost wouldn’t know it from the way he’s always making himself smaller.

Five-ten, according to his license, but he carries himself as if every inch over five feet is something he needs to apologize for. His shoulders curve inward. When someone passes too close behind him, his entire body tightens before he forces himself to relax.

He has small, heart-shaped lips, a clean-shaven face, and the lightest dusting of freckles across his nose.

His hair is shaved short at the sides and left longer on top, wavy, pale blond strands falling softly toward his eyes whenever he looks down.

He inherited none of John’s physical presence, that’s for damn sure. John was confident, outgoing, the center of attention. Kamden certainly could be the center of attention, if he stopped trying so hard to make himself invisible.

I watch as a woman in a store vest approaches him, and he stands to speak with her.

I look at the pasta sauce in front of me—garlic oregano, tomato basil, and traditional. Three jars containing what looks like the same red shit, with slightly different leaves printed on the labels.

When the woman asks Kamden how he’s feeling, he says “better.” He’s a terrible liar.

A crash in the aisle on the other side of me suddenly gets my attention. I can see through enough to tell that a man has accidentally dropped and shattered a glass jar.

When I turn my head back to Kamden, he’s already on the floor, crouched against the shelving with both hands covering his head, his body folded in half.

It takes me a minute to realize what’s happening, and when I do, a cold feeling fills my chest and makes me angry.

The people around him don’t even try to help him up, so when he stands up too quickly and sways, I have to force myself not to intervene. Luckily, he catches himself against the shelf instead of falling. The worker and a customer stare at him like he’s gone insane.

His hands won’t stop trembling.

I move away before I do something stupid, and turn into the next aisle where the mess is already being cleaned up, set the crackers down on the first shelf to my left, and walk off toward the rear of the store, expression neutral while anger simmers inside.

Anger at Rossi for doing his job and not knowing an innocent boy was hiding nearby? No. Seeing how easily Kamden can fade into the background, I understand now how Rossi missed him.

Anger at Wade for bringing Kamden into this mess? Oh, absolutely. If Rossi hadn’t already put a bullet through the bastard’s skull, I would be headed to do it myself right this second.