If You're Out There(60)

My heart is racing, but the second I walk out, I feel something lift up inside me. Because Reggie is at his usual booth, and for a moment I’m positive he’s come to help. I am this close to running back for my binder.

Then I see his face.

He gets up as I approach him, his body stiff, and I slow my step. I’ve never seen Reggie look like this before. “You’ve put me in a bad spot,” he says, skipping hellos—but not in our normal, fun way. His voice is soft, contained, and possibly furious. He hooks his fingers through his belt loops, looking somehow more official in his uniform than usual.

“Reggie. What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”

“I just found out a neighbor reported a break-in at Ben and Priya’s the other night.”

I step back. “Seriously?”

“Why didn’t you tell me someone was with you?”

Oh shit. Logan. As in still on parole Logan.

The tourist couple from before is eyeing me. “Uh, miss? Miss! We still haven’t ordered.” I pretend not to hear them. “Miss!”

Arturo steps out through the double doors and I catch his eye. Please? He gets the message. “Hi there. Sorry to keep you waiting. . . .”

I return my focus to Reggie, gesturing to the booth, and we sit. “Okay, back up,” I say, keeping my voice low.

“It was dark out,” says Reggie, “but the neighbor was sure she saw a male. I don’t get it, Zan. What were you thinking—trashing the place like that?”

“Okay, slow down,” I say. “You mean the broken phone?”

Reggie frowns. “What phone?”

I shut my eyes. “I’m so confused. Reggie, I swear, I didn’t trash anything.”

“There was a desk on its side in the office. The file cabinet had been turned over. There was a big old dent in the wall. What the hell were you doing in there?”

I stare at him. “Reggie! I . . . I didn’t do any of that!” I shake my head. “Wait, the neighbor lady said it was dark out?”

“Yes,” says Reggie. “And she was positive it was a male she saw climbing through the window. Who was with you, Zan?”

I lean across the table. “Okay, I’m telling you, you’ve got this all wrong. We—I mean I! I broke in during the day. And I just walked in through the back door. No window climbing necessary. I swear.”

“So, what.” He leans back into the booth. “You’re telling me these were two unrelated break-ins? Total coincidence?”

For a moment I picture the man outside the gate, with the dark eyes behind glasses.

“Maybe,” I say. Or maybe not.

When our shifts end, Logan and I head to my place. Reggie and I left things okay. He didn’t have me arrested, at least, so that was positive.

We find Mom and Whit curled up watching TV, and I tell them we have to study.

Upstairs, I shut the door behind us and wake my laptop from its sleep. A quick search yields the property report for 418 Bellevue, Priya’s failed California address. I exhale for what feels like the first time in hours. “Found it.”

Logan walks around the room, studying the sticky notes on the wall. There are key phrases written out in big letters, strung together like an equation without symbols. Found you, Stalker guy, Broken Phone, HLEP, Blueberries.

“You should add the second break-in,” says Logan.

“Yeah,” I say. “Good idea. There are Post-its there on the desk.” He walks over and scribbles down the words.

“We’re definitely thinking the same thing, right? It has to mean something.”

“Yeah,” says Logan over his shoulder. “Whoever it was, he wasn’t a genius. At least we were smart enough to check the back door.”

“Well, actually, I locked it. Sort of absentmindedly, after you left.” Huh. I’d forgotten about that. “Hey, I’ve been thinking about something,” I say, the thought still working itself out. I set my computer aside and sit up on the edge of the bed. “What if we’ve been thinking too much about Priya? What if the real person in trouble is Ben?”

Logan turns around. “What makes you say that?”

“Okay. Well, for one thing, the note in his desk. Found you. It could read as threatening, right? I can’t place how it fits together, but . . . I mean, all those unpaid bills in the mailbox? And his office getting broken into—all torn up like that? And then there was that guy who followed me last week. When I first met him, it was outside the house. He wanted to know if they still lived there.”

“Huh,” says Logan. “But you’ve talked to Ben recently. He didn’t say anything, right?”

I shrug. “Maybe he couldn’t.”

Logan turns back to the wall of sticky notes, scratching at his jaw. For a second, I just watch him, the reality of the moment—of this whole absurd situation—washing over me. Logan has Instagrammed and crank-called and now here he is, regarding my wall of Post-it notes like we really are on Law & Order. At every turn, he’s been here with me.

He’s believed me.

I sit up a little taller as he traces an ink-stained finger along the edge of a bright pink square. “Hey, Logan?”

“Hm?” he says, still looking at the wall.

I feel a swell of abrupt, puzzled affection for him. “Why are you helping me?”