by Brenda Drake
I’ve always had them. The attacks are just more intense since Dad died.
Dad. His name was Eli. Never played favorites with Dalton and me. He treated us equally. Loved us the same.
Like a festering blister, the wanting to know my real parents is painful. It was Dad who brought them to life for me, telling me stories behind the many pictures in the rows of albums lining one of the shelves in his home office. There’re many tales of him and my mom growing up together. She got him into trouble a lot. My mother was assertive and excellent at math. One trait I have, the other I’m working on.
I capture all that in my journal, too.
“You know,” Dalton says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Technically, you have to do dishes for a month.”
I hug myself, trying to fend off the chilly spring breeze. “No, I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do. You threw down the glove before Freak Frog woke up.”
“Seriously?” I slide a look at him that says he better rethink his statement.
He flashes me the-hard-to-resist Dalton smile—all toothy and dimply. “Too soon?”
I’m not going to budge. He wants me to, but I’m not. That look of his isn’t going to win this time. I press my lips together but can’t stop the corners of my mouth from lifting and betraying me.
“I knew you weren’t mad at me.” He hops off the rock. “You want to get a latte?”
“Sure,” I say, giving in. Shaking my head, I let my smile win. It’s Dalton, after all. How could I stay mad? He’s all I have.
My thoughts turn in my head, and it’s as if I’m walking in a haze, ambling along the river beside Dalton. “The incident with the frog was no coincidence,” I say. “Not to mention the moths. How could someone even get that many? And why?”
Dalton wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Whoever set up that prank better hope I don’t find out who they are.”
“Even if it’s Rod?”
“Yes, even him.”
“You’re so tough.” I laugh, feeling the tension of the day loosen from my shoulders. It was just a prank. Dad would tell me to pretend it was no big deal—don’t give the culprit the satisfaction of a reaction.
I bump Dalton’s shoulder with mine and smile up at him. “I saw the mail. Congratulations. First place, huh? Your sculptures are going to make us millions one day.”
He pulls on the back of his neck. “Yeah, if I live through high school. That mythology final is going to kill my GPA.”
“If you let me out of the dishes tonight, I’ll help you study for it.” I live and breathe mythology. Our dad was a history professor, and that was our thing. I know the obscure gods and goddesses, not just the ones made popular by comic books and movies.
“Deal.” Now he bumps my shoulder, but it has his weight behind it and makes me stumble a little. He chuckles. “Graceful.”
The streets are crowded with rush-hour commuters. Across the way, some old man wearing a black newsboy cap and a camel-colored overcoat stands in front of the coffee shop we’re heading for. His eyes follow our approach, causing a shiver to prickle up my spine. I keep my eyes on where my feet are landing to avoid catching the man’s gaze.
The scent of freshly ground coffee beans fills my nose. We spent many Saturdays in this shop after our hikes with Dad. Back then, we were only allowed to drink hot chocolate while he sipped an Americano.
A crash sounds behind Dalton and me, and we spin around. An SUV and a small red car are mangled together. The tires of a black sedan squeal as it speeds in our direction.
It’s as though it all happens in slow motion. The sedan jumps the curb, and someone shoves me out of the way and into Dalton. We land hard on the sidewalk. One tire of the car rides the curb until coming off to join the other on the road. The driver weaves around a few cars before disappearing around a corner.
I scramble to my feet and glance back. The old man in the newsboy cap lies on the sidewalk. Blood trickles down the side of his face.
“Call 911,” I tell Dalton and drop to my knees beside the man. The gash in his head is deep. I search the crowd now forming around us. “Someone get a towel or something. I need to compress his wound.”
A woman removes her scarf and hands it to me. I take it, and I’m about to press it against the gash in the man’s head when his gloved hand catches my arm.
“Don’t touch me,” he says. “I’m dying.”
I push my eyebrows together. “You’re not going to die. The ambulance is coming.”
“My bag,” he says weakly. A worn-out leather satchel lays on the sidewalk a few feet from him.
I snatch it up and lift it for him to see. “This one?”
He nods, his lids half closed over soft blue eyes. His face scrunches up in pain. “That’s it.” He keeps his voice low. “Take it to my grandson. Don’t let anyone see you have it. You’re in danger, Analiese. Run. Don’t stop.”
My heart drops like a stone in my chest, and the case falls from my hands, slapping against the concrete. “How do you know my name?”
A fire truck and an ambulance pull up to the curb.
“Wh—” His eyes close, mouth slackens. I don’t know why I believe the man, but I do. I slip the strap to his bag over my shoulder, stand, and back away into the crowd beside Dalton. So many faces stare down at the man. Unknown faces. And one could belong to whoever this man feared.
Paramedics rush a stretcher and medical bags over to the old man. A woman places an oxygen mask on his face while another assesses his injuries.
“What are you doing with his bag?” Dalton asks.
“He wants me to give it to his grandson. Maybe his number or address is in it.” The man saying I was in danger made me nervous. I search the faces in the crowd again. No one looks menacing or suspicious. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” I sprint-walk down the street and away from the accident.
Dalton keeps step with me. “That’s stealing. Taking the bag.”
“No, it isn’t. He gave it to me.”
“What’s in it?” he asks.
I dart glances at the people and cars passing us. We have to get off the street. I spot an ice cream parlor and dash inside with Dalton close behind me.
My gaze goes to the window. Sitting behind the large panes of glass making up the front of the store is like being in a fishbowl—trapped and exposed.
“Get us each a scoop,” I say, nodding to a table in a back corner. “I’m going to sit over there.”
The chair screeches across the tiled floor as I drag it away from the table. I sit, and it wobbles a little on its legs. The tiny buckles on the straps of the old man’s satchel are challenging to undo. The smell of leather oil clings to the bag.
The man’s injuries looked fatal. The driver who caused the accident never stopped. Had to be some drunk afraid to face the police.
You’re in danger, Analiese. Run. Don’t stop, the man told me, his sad eyes haunting.
How did he know my name?
I’m worrying too much. No one from the street can see me in my seat in the back corner of the parlor. And there probably isn’t anyone following me. The old man had to be delusional.
The accident was real, though. I’m still shaken up from it, because my hands are trembling as I remove items from the bag. My stomach’s doing that dip-and-fall thing it does while riding the monster roller coaster at the amusement park.
There are many objects in the bag, along with a tattered notebook—a ring, envelopes, keys, and other various things. I pick up the ring and spin the wheel with letters of the alphabet etched into the round steel. There’re two other wheels. One with numbers and the other with symbols.
A decoder ring? I pause a moment, wondering why the man would have one, before returning it to the bag. The envelopes have what I believe is the old man’s name and address on them.
Adam Conte. “He lives in Lancaster,” I say out loud, which causes the girl at the next table to look at me. I give her an awkward smile and tuck the envelopes back into the bag. Avoiding eye contact with her, I flip open the cover to the notebook. The first four pages hold a list of names. Many of the names are crossed out. I run my finger down the column.
Dalton returns from the counter, holding two cups with a mound of Oreo ice cream in each.
On the third page, I stop at a name with a line drawn through it—Alea Bove Jordan—my mother. Beside her name, written at an angle in pencil, is Jake Jordan, my father. He’s like an afterthought. A line runs across his name, too. Underneath them is my uncle, Eli Bove. His name is also marked off. I turn the page and gasp. Halfway down the list, written in thick black ink strokes, is Analiese Jordan.
Chapter Three
Dalton’s tiny red-with-rust-spots Civic sputters down the I-76 highway toward Lancaster. An hour and a half there and back and I’ll be home before Jane ever knows I ditched school. It’s almost Spring Break, anyway. I’ve turned in most of my work, I reason with myself.
Besides, Jane won’t care. She’s barely around to notice. The hospital is more her home than our house. I’m not even sure she’ll be there on Sunday morning to see Dalton and me off to that bereavement camp for kids she insists we go to over the break.
The gas light flashes on.
“Crap. Dalton,” I seethe under my breath. He’s always running out of gas. I’m approaching the next exit and turn on the blinker.
The Turkey Hill Minit Market isn’t as busy as I thought it’d be during morning rush hour. I pull up to the pump right beside a black Audi sedan with a front license plate that reads My God Carries a Hammer.
“Nice.” I snicker and pop open the gas tank cover.
I fill up the Civic and rush inside to get a horrible gas station coffee. The lanky guy behind the counter straightens. His wide-set eyes follow me the entire way to the coffee bar. A man, way over six feet tall, with red hair that’s short on the sides and fades up to a dovetail on top, has one of the refrigerator doors open. With his stare on the contents inside, he rubs his neatly cut beard.
The Styrofoam coffee cup plunks from the holder when I tug it out. I pour a premade cappuccino from the fountain.
The man steps back and looks over, his hand still holding open the door.
The air between the man and me feels off—tense. It’s probably just me, and the fact I’m practically alone with a suspicious man in a gas station. I secure a lid over my cup and turn to leave.
“Which one do you suggest?” he asks, stopping me. There’s a slight accent to his voice, but I can’t place it. Possibly Scottish?
I glance around, and my eyes stop on him. “Are you talking to me?”
“There’s no one else about.” His smile is off. Like he has to remember how to create one or something.
“I don’t drink the stuff, but my brother likes the one with the gold star.” I want to look away, but something in his eyes captures me. They’re like a kaleidoscope of fall leaves—orange, yellow, and brown. Their focus on me causes the tiny hairs at the nape of my neck to stand straight up.
He picks up a can of the drink I suggested and lets go of the refrigerator door, his eyes never leaving me.
Now he’s freaking me out.
I pretend to search the pastries near the coffee bar.
“A young girl such as yourself should not be traveling alone,” he says. “You should be in school.”
The pastries blur out of focus, the display stands are closing in on me, and the coffee cup shakes in my hand. Great. The creeper knows I’m alone. I have to lie. Tell him Dalton is in the back seat, sleeping.
I glance over at him. “I’m not alone—”
He’s gone. I search over the display cases, but he isn’t anywhere in the market. The guy behind the counter watches me intently while taking my cash for the coffee. It’s as if he’s never seen a dollar bill before. Probably hasn’t, with everyone paying with debit or credit cards.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine.” I force a smile to back up my statement. “Thank you.”
“Have a nice day.” His eyes have left me to watch two younger guys shuffling around the display cases.
The front door slides shut behind me. A brisk wind whips dark strands of hair around my face. I wrap my arms around me and dart for the Civic. The black Audi is gone, and I wonder if the man who strangely disappeared owns it. He did look like someone who would have a Thor license plate.
I’m nervous during the rest of the ride to Lancaster, glancing through the rearview window, checking and rechecking that no one’s following me. That the black Audi isn’t there.
“In 1.5 miles, turn left,” the female voice on my phone’s GPS directs.
Lancaster is a pretty cool town, with nearby farmlands and Amish country. When Dad was alive, we’d take weekend trips here and do touristy things like buggy rides and hikes. He loved checking out the architecture.
“In five hundred feet, your destination is on the left,” the GPS says.
I’ve never been in this neighborhood before. The houses are older, and the area is quaint. I pull the Civic up to the curb and stare at the home. It’s a two-and-a-half-story stone house and resembles a French countryside chateau with its bay windows, dormers, steepled gables, and cone-shaped roofs.
Dalton and I went to the hospital the night of the accident to see how the old man was doing, but he hadn’t made it, dying only minutes after arriving in the ER. His family left before I could give the bag to his grandson.
I would’ve come sooner, but I figured the family needed space to mourn. His obit said they were having a memorial and reception for family and friends. So here I am. At his house. Two weeks after the accident. Feels like a lifetime.
It’s almost nine in the morning. He probably would’ve been at his kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the paper, as old people do. His day might’ve been spent tending to the beautiful and colorful flowers in the beds surrounding the lawn.
For all I know, the house might be deserted. His grandson could live somewhere else.
After grabbing the man’s bag, I pop open the Civic’s door and slide out. The sidewalk is uneven and broken in spots. Because I’m superstitious, I avoid stepping on the cracks. The scent of freshly cut grass lingers over the lawn. The door has several locks and a peephole at eye level. I count them.
Seriously? Five? The door is metal, too. Above my head is a security camera.
Someone’s expecting the apocalypse.
I press the doorbell and wait.
And wait.
I press it again.
When no one answers, I turn to leave but then pause. A faint bass comes from around the corner of the house. The stone pavers on the lawn lead me to the front of the garage.
The doors are open, and a guy about my age works a tattered punching bag hanging by a chain attached to the ceiling. He’s shirtless, and his shorts are slung low on his hips. Tall, with dark, wavy hair, the boy isn’t bad to look at.
With each throw of his fist or kick, his muscles flex then go slack. The way he’s hitting the bag, he’s definitely letting off steam. Maybe I should come back later when he’s calmer.
This is a bad idea. I could just leave the bag at the front door. But then I won’t find out why my name is on that list. Or why the man crossed my parents off that same list. The guy needs some cooling down. I can go find a coffee shop somewhere and come back when he’s less angry and more dressed.
His music is so loud, he hasn’t noticed my approach, so I ease around and head back the way I came.
“Hey,” he shouts.
Crap. He spotted me. I turn back around.
He’s walking my way. His bare chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. A nautical star medal
lion with a silver chain rests just below his collarbone. “You need something?”
“Um.” Don’t look at his abdomen. My eyes betray me and go there. His half nakedness distracts me, and I forget what I was going to say. “Um…”
His lips twist into a smirk, amusement igniting in his eyes, so dark they’re almost black. He places his fist on his hip. It’s obvious he’s doing that to flex his bicep.
The corners of his mouth lower, and his fist drops away from his waist. “Where’d you get that bag?”
My hand instantly goes to the satchel’s strap. “He gave it to me.”
His eyes fix on mine. “My grandfather would never let it out of his sight.”
“I was there. Um. At the accident.” I sound insensitive. “I’m sorry for your loss. My name is Ana. Analiese Jordan.”
“Thank you. I’m Marek Conte.” He grabs the back of his neck, and I look everywhere else but at him. The boys at my school don’t look like him. He must work out a lot.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Why would he give it to you?” he asks, nodding at the satchel against my hip. “His bag?”
“I’m not sure, but he told me to return it to you.” I remove the strap from my shoulder, step closer to him, and give him the bag. Our hands touch, and a rush of adrenaline surges through my body. It’s a strange-encounter kind of day. First the Thor worshipper, and now Marek in all his bare-chested glory.
Marek stares at the bag for several beats before walking off while saying, “Again, thanks.”
Is that it? I didn’t drive all this way to not get any answers.
“Wait,” I say.
He looks over his shoulder at me. “What? Is there something more?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” I level him with my best “it doesn’t faze me that you don’t have a shirt on” look. “There’s a list in that bag. It has my name on it. More importantly, it has my parents’ names, too, and theirs are crossed off. Do you know why he put us on it?”