One of Those Faces (98)

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO


I woke with clarity. In all the excitement, I’d almost forgotten about it entirely.

The sound of water trickled nearby. The sunlight had spilled through the blinds and made stripes on the white blankets. The bed was empty beside me, the imprint of Iann’s head still in the pillow. I looked at the clock on the bedside table.

7:45 a.m.

I couldn’t go back to my place. The events of the previous day made me shiver. If I went back home, I’d just be waiting. Waiting for someone to find me like they’d found Jenny.

I combed through my bag beside the bed.

“What are you doing?”

I jumped.

Iann was standing in the doorway with a towel wrapped around his waist. He shook his head and sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from me. “You’re so jumpy. What’s going on with you?”

A lump caught in my throat. “I’m sorry.”

He glanced over his shoulder at me. “You’re saying that a lot these days. What exactly are you sorry for?”

So much. “Nothing.”

He walked into the closet. “I have to get ready for class.” The sound of the hangers clanging together stopped. He walked over to me. He was now wearing his typical school clothes—sweater and jeans. He touched the cuts on my hands and frowned. “Let me take you to dinner tonight when I get back.”

You might not make it to tonight. I nodded. “Okay.”

I waited for the sound of the front door latching before I lunged across the bed and grabbed my bag. I dug through it, my fingers closing around paper. I pulled out the envelope.

In the light I could see that my name was scrawled in red, block-shaped capital letters. It wasn’t my father’s handwriting. It was harsher and foreign. I flipped it over. The manila flap on the back was worn and wrinkled. It had been revisited many times since it had first been unsealed.

My pulse echoed in my ears as I shook the contents out onto the bed. There were photos. Erin and me talking on the sidewalk, her arm outstretched toward me with a coffee cup. We were sitting at the little café by the studio where we’d first met. From the roundness of my face and neatly braided hair, I knew it was that day. I turned to the next picture. It was a photo taken from the other side of the street from my apartment, the silhouette of my face in the window. The last page was a handwritten list.

My apartment address.

My cell phone number.

Erin’s full name.

I picked up the page, and something dropped from between the folds. My hand trembled as I reached for the business card.

Evanston Police Department. Sgt. Elliot Wilder.

I stared at the letters on the card. How? What did this mean? Wilder had known about me and where I lived for nine years.

I flipped the card over.

Case number: 3409872-M was scrawled in red across the back in those same block letters.

I fumbled behind me for my phone. My fingers shook as I searched for the number and dialed.

“Evanston Police Department,” a woman’s voice answered flatly.

My heart raced. “I need to look up a case number,” I breathed, my voice stifled.

“I’ll transfer you to Records.” The line buzzed.

With each ring, my breath became more labored.

“Records,” a man’s voice boomed suddenly.

I took a breath. “I need to request a case record.”

“Do you have a case number?”

“3-4-0-9-8-7-2-M.” My voice quivered with each syllable.

“Okay,” the man said quickly. “I can’t give you the info over the phone, but you can submit a request by email. Be sure to include that number.”

I hung up and let the phone slide to the bed.



As much as I hated the hospital, it was the first place I thought to go after leaving Iann’s place later that day.

The remote control was sticky. I glanced at Danny’s closed eyes. They said he might be able to hear.

I continued flipping through the channels. The previous channel had turned into prime-time sitcoms. There was probably no worse torture for him. I stopped at CNN.

I turned back to him. Had Danny found out about Wilder? If so, what had he found out? Why would Wilder pretend he didn’t know me? Why would he follow me and give this information to my father?

What if this wasn’t an accident? Wilder knew that Danny was around because I’d told him. Would he really do something to Danny to keep this buried so I wouldn’t find out about his role in the past?

I reached for Danny’s hand. His skin was warm. Even the remote possibility that I was responsible for him being like this was too much to bear.

I squeezed his hand harder in mine, until my knuckles popped. Wake up. I glanced into the empty hallway before leaning closer to his ear. “Danny?”

Nothing.

“I was hoping you’d stop by.”

I jumped in my seat.

Cindy, Danny’s mom, was smiling weakly at me from the doorframe. “I’m about to head out for the night, but I wanted your help with something,” she said, grabbing a notebook from the sink counter, then sitting in the chair beside me. She flipped the notebook open and pulled a piece of paper out of it. “There’s a lot in here, but I thought you’d like to see this.” She handed the photo to me.