The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(39)

“What break-in?”

Mom shrugged absently. “A couple of years ago. It was in the news. Someone broke into the mayor’s house. His wife went to the hospital—injured by the burglar. Maybe Jack was traumatized. Some people can’t handle seeing blood after witnessing something shocking. Acute stress disorder, it’s called. Over time, it can develop into PTSD.”

First of all, I thought PTSD mainly affected soldiers. And second, I sort of remembered hearing about the break-in, but seeing how Jack’s status as the mayor’s son was only a couple of hours old to me, I hadn’t really had time to think about it.

Mom sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me about him? Jesus, Bex—the mayor’s kid?”

“I know.” Or, rather, I didn’t, but no way was I admitting that now.

“How serious are you two?”

“The smallest amount of serious you can imagine—like, not even a teaspoon. We haven’t even kissed. You’ve gotten further with him than I have, unbuckling his belt. Or he could be more into Heath than me for all I know.” Okay, that definitely wasn’t true, but minimizing my mother’s curiosity about my romantic life was of the utmost importance to me at that moment.

“Oh, sweetie,” Mom said. “He’s completely into you. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you during dinner.”

“All hail the power of the Roman orgy shirt,” I said with a smile.

She closed her eyes. “God help me make it through the summer.”

You and me both, Mom.

The next morning, a day before Jack’s movie party, I got ready to work a full nine-hour shift at the market—a rare thing for me. Nothing like last-minute holiday grocery shopping. As I was preparing myself to clean up corn silk and heft organic seedless watermelons across the scanner, I checked my email and stilled when the words Telegraph Wood Studio appeared in my inbox.

Dear Miss Adams,

Thank you for your email inquiry. Your artist’s mannequin was made in house by one of our master wood-carvers, Ben. He greatly enjoyed working on the project, which was, indeed, commissioned. Unfortunately, we do not give out clients’ names over email. But if you could make time to visit our shop in Berkeley, I think you’d find Ben a rather talkative conversationalist, and perhaps you’d be able to get answers to your questions. Let me know what date and time would be best for you, and I’ll gladly arrange an appointment. Perhaps next week after the holiday?

Happy 4th,

Mary Spencer

I reread the email several times. I should’ve expected this. Anything connected to my father is always complicated. If I wanted to know more, I guessed I’d have to make an effort. Taking a BART train to Berkeley wasn’t a huge deal, but it would eat up an entire afternoon, and I’d have to lie to Mom. And was it worth it? Did I really want to pick open a wound that had already healed and been forgotten? I honestly wasn’t sure. I’d have to think about it.

And I had more important things to worry about, like Jack.

After he left our house, I went online and skimmed a few news articles about the break-in Mom mentioned. They were all vague, mentioning only that Mrs. Vincent was injured and treated at the hospital and that no one else in the household was hurt. All the articles included the same handful of quotes from the mayor: that his wife was doing fine, that she’d returned home in good spirits. He requested that the press respect his family’s privacy.

Nothing was particularly interesting … until I clicked on a local blog run by the opposing political party, which not only theorized that there was something more to the break-in that the mayor’s office was trying to keep quiet, but also mentioned that the mayor’s teenage daughter had been sent overseas to boarding school in Europe.

Jack had a sister.

Why hadn’t he mentioned her? I wondered if they were close or if he ever saw her. But if I asked him about it, then he’d know I’d been stalking him online. Not cool.

I started poking around in the comments section to see if there was any mention of either the sister or his mom’s schizophrenia, but reading the first few nasty remarks not only pissed me off, but also made me feel guilty for snooping into his family’s life. Like they were disposable celebrities and not real people. So I decided that if I was going to learn anything more about the break-in and Jack’s mom and his faraway sister, I’d avoid the toxic gossip online and just wait to hear it from Jack himself.

The next afternoon, Mom left for her holiday-pay shift at the hospital, and for once I didn’t have to concoct some elaborate story about where I’d be. She was completely fine with my going to Jack’s house, and even said, “Maybe you’ll make friends with some of the other youths.” Youths. Like it was some sort of church group.

It definitely wasn’t.

Jack had offered to pick me up at seven, but Mom was still getting ready for work, and I didn’t want her to give him the third degree about the fainting thing. Besides, just because he had a car didn’t mean he was obligated to chauffeur me around town. That’s what I told him, but after standing for the better part of an hour on a packed train, I regretted it. Holidays plus mass transit equals disaster.

Jack texted me directions to his house. It wasn’t a long walk from the Muni stop, but I was already an hour late, it was all uphill, and I’d stupidly worn my tall gray boots over my jeans in an attempt to fake coolness for his rich friends. Huge mistake. Blisters would haunt me later. But after several minutes of schlepping past million-dollar homes, I finally spotted Ghost. The vintage Corvette was parked in front of a three-story wood-shingled house tucked away on a side street.