Girl One(18)

I’d forgotten for a second that he lived around here. “Well, fate is faster than the towing company, anyway.”

“Towing? It’s that bad? Shit. That’s all you need, on top of everything with your mother.” He hesitated, the two of us standing there with the Chevy’s lifeless body slumped between us. “Not to pry, but does this mean you went to see Emily French?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did go to see Emily.”

“And your mother…”

There was so much hope in his voice. I saw the way he glanced in the Chevy’s windows quickly, like I wouldn’t notice. Like maybe I’d stashed my mother in there. How long would this go on: people looking past me for her? “Nope. Not there. But you were right,” I went on, noticing the way his expression fell into disappointment. “She was there recently. She really was visiting the others. So. Thanks.”

“That’s great news,” Tom said, and his pure excitement gave me a spark of hope myself as I stood by the side of the road, wearing jeans and a travel-grimy T-shirt. The air was getting cooler, and I hugged myself. “Now we know for sure that your mother’s been visiting the others. So did Emily say anything else? What’s the deal with Fiona?”

I hesitated for a moment. “Did my mother say anything to you about Fiona being strange?”

“Strange? Strange how?”

“Just—never mind. If she didn’t say anything, then forget it.”

“She didn’t say anything. Strange, huh?” Tom gave it the same weight as I did, as if the word had changed its shape. “If she had reason to believe Emily was … strange … do you think that has something to do with her disappearance?”

“It’s starting to look that way.” I was buoyed by that mix of curiosity and fear, the hope that I might figure out what’d happened to my mother, the anxiety that I was already too late.

“What next?”

I gestured at the Chevy. “If I can’t get this thing fixed, I’m—I’m going to lose a lot of time—”

“Let me help,” Tom said immediately. “Anything you need. My offer to give you a ride still holds, just so you know. If you want it.”

I started to protest—It’s not that simple—but I stopped. Maybe it was exactly that simple. Emily’s strange prediction came back to me, the way those words had steadied me as I’d stood there in the attic. The one who looks out for you. My mother had apparently trusted Thomas Abbott. Maybe she’d chosen him because his number was conveniently languishing on our answering machine, or maybe she’d seen something in his work. Either way. In the half hour they’d talked, my mother revealed a side of herself to Tom she’d never shown to me. He must know more than I’d first realized.

And there was the issue of money. I gazed at the Chevy, thinking of how much it would cost to repair the damn thing. It would clean out my savings. Tom’s Volvo was sitting there, patient, available. Presumably with a functioning alternator.

“All right,” I said, relenting. “Yeah. Sure. I could use a ride.”

I could tell he was suppressing his happiness. “Right this way.”

When I lugged my suitcase over to the Volvo, Tom was holding the passenger-side door open for me, and it was obvious he’d swept papers and books and boxes off in a hurry, the footwell messy. “Thanks,” I said, sliding in. Other than the clutter, the car smelled clean, pepperminty, and when I made a quick sweep for any obvious red flags—guns, knives, Playboys—I didn’t see anything. My eyes snagged on the closest magazine, a Scientific American I recognized. “A Brief History of the Homestead: Reproductive Science’s Biggest Bust?” I used my toe to nudge it underneath the edge of a shoebox, not sure if it counted as a red flag or not.

Tom slid into the driver’s seat. “What about the Chevy?”

“The tow company can deal with it. I’ll come back for it once I’ve got my mom with me.” A careless confidence that I hoped would translate into reality at some point.

“Sure. All right.”

“You’re a little bit past your destination,” I said, calculating.

“What’s that?”

“If you were driving to Kansas City, you’ve overshot it now, haven’t you?”

“I was taking a different route. I know all the byways and back ways.”

I nodded, checking that I still had my mother’s notebook. I always had a nagging fear that I’d somehow lose it. As I flipped through the pages, I thought of the clock, the letter to my mother I’d found there a long time ago, signed with just an initial. T. Thomas. Tom. For a second, worry cinched my lungs. But I’d just been a kid when I’d found that letter. Tom wouldn’t have been much older, in his teens. It didn’t make sense. I exhaled slowly, letting the worry loosen.

Tom was making a show of looking around. “But while we’re on the topic … unless I’m all turned around, you weren’t heading toward Chicago.”

I almost smiled. Maybe I deserved this. “Nope. You got me. I was actually going to see the Clarksons.”

“Seriously?” His eyes lit up. “Deb and Bonnie?”

I was surprised by the familiarity. “Friends of yours?”

“In a way. I’ve done several interviews with them before. Did you call them?”