by Eva Ashwood
Maybe as an attempt at a peace offering, she ordered delivery for dinner, something we could only afford to do once every several weeks. Whether I was prepared to accept her peace offering or not hardly mattered, because I didn’t have an appetite.
I couldn’t get Flint’s number out of my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that I was close, so close to getting answers.
And yet… something held me back from typing the number into my phone, from calling him and begging him to speak with me.
I should’ve been thrilled to have found his number and to have a way to get in touch with him. It was an in, and I was grateful for it, but the seed of guilt I’d felt earlier in Bishop’s car hadn’t died. Instead, it was growing and growing. What did it say about me that I was so desperate to make my life “normal” again when there were things about this new life that I liked? All day, my mind had been filled with thoughts of how the Lost Boys had looked after me while I was here. How much things between us had changed since our first meeting. How important they all were to me.
Was it selfish to still be thinking of my father? Of a life I was coming to realize was stifling in a way I hadn’t known until it was taken away from me?
Mom finally gave up trying to get me to eat the food she’d ordered, and we both retreated to our rooms. I heard the TV in her bedroom turn off at around eleven, but even after I turned off the lights and crawled into bed, sleep wouldn’t come.
As I stared up at the ceiling, dozens of thoughts whirling in my head, there was a soft tap at my window. At one point in my life, it would’ve made me jump. Now, it didn’t even phase me. I assumed it was Bishop, and a grin tugged at my lips as I had the ridiculous thought that he was becoming more polite—actually knocking on my window before breaking in. But when I slipped out of bed and crossed toward the small window, I drew up short, blinking in surprise.
It wasn’t Bish.
It was Kace.
“Hey—hey, what’s up?” I opened the window for him since it was easier to do from the inside and instinctively went to my bedroom door, clicking the lock to it. At least if Mother heard something, she wouldn’t be able to just burst in without a bit of warning beforehand.
Kace climbed in, and I padded back over to sit on the edge of my bed. He stepped forward from the window, coming to stand almost directly in front of me, and with him so close, I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze. He looked down at me, head tilted, muscled arms crossed. His white-blond hair shone in the faint street light that penetrated the grungy window, and he looked beautiful and dangerous—and completely out of his element.
I was about to ask him if he was okay when he opened his mouth and spoke.
“Is something wrong?” he asked bluntly.
I blinked. I was about to ask you that.
“Um. What?”
He sighed, the taut lines of his shoulders softening a little.
“Earlier today. When you came back from bringing Bishop his phone. You seemed off. You alright?”
My jaw dropped open slightly, and I let out a short breath. That was why he looked so unsure and stiff—he’d come to check on me. I didn’t think this kind of thing was really in his wheelhouse. Touchy-feely wasn’t a word anyone would ever use to describe this boy. The fact that he’d not only noticed the difference in my behavior but had decided to come make sure I was okay made something warm and sweet expand in my chest.
Kace shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. I bit my lip, patting the space beside me on the mattress. He looked at it for a moment, then sank down to sit next to me, his large, solid body so close that his shoulder brushed against mine.
“I was just thinking a lot about my father today,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. I had been thinking about him a lot. “It just hit me suddenly and kind of… hasn’t left me since. That’s all. I’ll probably get over it.”
Kace was quiet. When I looked to him, he was staring down at his hands, his splayed fingers pressed together. He was thinking hard about something, but I couldn’t begin to guess what.
“Do you miss him?” he asked suddenly.
“Do I miss my father? Of course I do.” Then, as soon as the words were out of my mouth, a sigh followed. “I mean, I think I do. Sometimes I’m not sure what my feelings are, really. I think… I don’t know. Yeah, I miss him. I do.”
“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
That observation struck too close to home, and I said nothing. When I remained silent, Kace went on.
“Listen… I ain’t a person to tell anyone how they should feel about their father. I’m not going to. Just… I don’t know. You just had a look. That’s all. Wanted to make sure you were… you know.”
It wasn’t poetry. It wasn’t even particularly articulate. But his presence said more than his words ever could, and I felt a sudden rush of gratitude for the silent, observant boy. I leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder and inhaling the sweet, earthy scent of sage that was all Kace.
“Thank you,” I murmured. “I’m okay. Now.”
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my hair, and when he drew in a deep breath, I wondered if he was inhaling my scent too. I wondered what I smelled like to him, and whether the scent instantly relaxed him, like his did me.
When I finally drew away and sat up straighter, he stood. I watched him go to the window and slip on out. I leaned my forehead against the window, craning my neck to watch him as he headed down the sidewalk toward his foster parents’ house. I wanted so badly to call to him and ask him to stay. I wanted—maybe even needed—him to stay, but on some level, that wouldn’t solve anything.
Even if he stayed with me all night, my head would still be swimming with thoughts about what I was going to do. I’d still be wondering if it was even the right thing to do, and I’d still be questioning whether it was even fair of me to be thinking about my old life when I was settling so deeply into the new one here.
For a solid week, I grappled with what the hell I was going to do.
I was distracted all the time, my mind clogged with too many conflicting thoughts. I’d programmed Flint’s number into my phone in case I forgot it. The man with the raspy voice and access to possible answers about my father was just a phone call away, and even though I was desperate to call him, I found myself tensing up with anxiety every time I thought about it. My conversation with Kace kept playing over in my head, and the fact that I was still considering going behind the Lost Boys’ backs to call Flint felt like a slap in the face to the genuine concern Kace had shown the night he snuck into my bedroom.
Finals were just a few short weeks away, and our more ambitious teachers were starting to make threats about difficult exams and final projects that would be worth a high percentage of our grade—but I couldn’t focus on any of that.
Every day was a blur, and by the time the weekend rolled around, I’d realized I had to do something, if for no other reason than that I was going to drive myself crazy if I didn’t.
I was a confused mess about everything having to do with my father, but a big part of why I was such a mess was the fact that I didn’t know anything. I had heard so many conflicting stories about who my father was—from the kids at Slateview, from the Lost Boys, from his friends and acquaintances, from federal agents, and even from my dad himself. But I needed to form my own opinion of him. And to do that, I needed to know the truth.
If he’d been framed for the fraud he’d been arrested for, it wouldn’t automatically mean my father was blameless. But at least I would know what I should and shouldn’t be blaming him for. And if he was released from behind bars, maybe he could make up for some of the hurts he had caused undeserving people. He certainly couldn’t do that while in prison.
On Saturday night, I finally couldn’t take it anymore. I had nothing to do—no homework, and the boys were busy on a job.
I picked up my phone, scrolled through the contacts, and pressed the button to dial the number I’d f
ound on Bishop’s phone. And then… I waited.
“Yo.”
The voice on the other end was raspy and gruff, like the person it belonged to had spent a few too many years smoking cigarettes.
“Uh, hello.”
There was a pause. “Who the fuck is this?”
“Um—” I drew in a breath. Come on, keep it together, Cora. “My name is Cordelia. I’m a friend of the Lost Boys?”
Flint snorted. “Ah. Friend, eh? How’d you get my number? I’m not a fucking go-between for them and their women, so talk to them yourself if you have somethin’ to say to them.”
I grimaced.
“No. I’m—I’m actually calling for you. I’d like to speak to you. You see, I’m Cordelia van Rensselaer. I want to talk to you about my father.”
Silence followed. I thought for a moment that he may have hung up on me, and my heart lurched. Oh God, please, no. If he cut me off before I even had a chance to make my case, I’d be stuck at square zero, trying to figure out how to explain this to the Lost Boys before Flint went and told them I’d called him.
“Hello?” I asked, tugging the phone away from my ear for a second to make sure the call hadn’t disconnected.
“Rensselaer, you said?”
There it was. What I was looking for.
Recognition.
“Yes.” I nodded as I spoke, my tone growing a little more confident. “Will you speak with me?”
“About what?”
“My—” I swallowed. “My father is in prison, being tried for—”
“Yeah, I know.”
My heart jumped, and I stood up from the bed to pace restlessly around my room. Gideon van Rensselaer was a big enough name that several papers had covered the story of his arrest, and a few were running updates periodically about his case.
“Well, I…” I spoke slowly, choosing my words with deliberate care. I didn’t want to get the Lost Boys in trouble by admitting how much I knew about what they did for Nathaniel Ward. They were already going to hate me enough for this—for trying to defend my father after everything. “I think there’s a possibility he might’ve been set up. Had documents stolen or had evidence planted. I’m not totally sure. But I thought… you seem to know a lot about a lot of things, and I thought maybe you’d have an idea whether that’s true or not. Or at least, you might know someone who knows. Could I ask you a few questions?”
There was another drawn out pause, and I held the phone tighter to stop my hand from shaking. I’d done what I could. I’d finally bitten the bullet and made my choice and laid it all out there.
Now it was time to see if my gamble would pay off at all.
Finally, Flint cleared his throat. “Yeah, sure. There’s a diner on Flannery and Milton. Carrigan’s. Meet me there. An hour.”
My footsteps slowed as my stomach churned. “Can’t we just talk over the phone?”
“You wanna ask me questions or not, little girl? The least you can do is buy me a damn burger while you do.”
I flushed angrily at his patronizing tone but didn’t protest. He had agreed, and if I pushed too hard, I was afraid he’d take it back. Besides, a diner was a public place. There would be witnesses around, and it was a far cry better than some abandoned alley like the ones the Lost Boys usually met him in.
“Okay. I’ll meet you there.”
“Yup.”
That was all he said before the line went dead.
Thirty-One
I was able to take the bus to Flannery and Milton. It turned out to be about thirty minutes from the rental house, in a slightly nicer neighborhood than the one mom and I lived in.
I had to fight down anxiety and guilt the whole way there. I didn’t like going behind the Lost Boys’ backs to do this. I hated feeling like I was betraying them somehow, repaying everything they’d done for me by sneaking around behind their backs.
But wouldn’t they of all people understand that I was just doing what I had to for the people I loved? I might not always get along well with Mom and Dad, but they were all the family I had.
I shoved those thoughts out of my mind as I pushed into the diner. Focus, Cora. Worry about the nuclear fallout later.
Carrigan’s was a run-down little place, but it was brightly lit and looked relatively clean for a greasy-spoon diner. As I walked alongside the counter fronted by several stools with cracked leather seats, I scanned the booths looking for Flint.
I knew who he was the moment I saw him. I’d never gotten a good look at him when I’d seen him meeting with the Lost Boys, but it didn’t matter. There was no doubt in my mind this was the man I’d come to meet. He didn’t look like any of the other diner patrons—who are a mix of high school kids and blue-hairs. He was an older man, maybe in his forties, who still looked good for his age. Shiny black hair was slicked back from his face, and he lounged casually in a booth near the corner, his eyes drooping and half-lidded, as if being here was the biggest bore imaginable.
“Flint?” I asked softly as I approached his booth. He looked up, brows rising toward his hairline.
“Cordelia?” He tilted his head, his gaze scanning up at down my body as he took in my appearance. “You don’t look like a millionaire’s daughter.”
I glanced down at the clothes I was wearing. I’d gotten used to my new wardrobe, and I liked how comfortable it all felt—but the man wasn’t wrong. I definitely didn’t look like a millionaire’s daughter.
Don’t really feel like one so much anymore ether.
Still, I tilted my head at a perfect angle, giving off what I hoped was a confident, imperious air. Even when I had felt like the daughter of a millionaire, I’d never taken delight in ordering the house staff around. I wasn’t really that kind of person. But something about Flint put me on edge, and the snobby princess act was like an armor I wrapped around myself.
“I see you know who I am.”
“I don’t think there’s a person in Baltimore who don’t know.” He waved to the booth. “Sit.”
I did so, and a moment later when the tired-looking waitress came over, I ordered a water while he ordered a burger. When she was gone, I looked to Flint.
“So, what do you want?” he asked me, picking at his teeth.
Okay. Time to put all my cards on the table.
“I’m trying to help my father,” I said. “You know he’s in jail… you know what for. But I think there’s more to it.”
Flint chuckled, obviously not taking me too seriously.
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. I mean, my father’s a good man. But more than that, he’s a smart businessman. He wouldn’t risk his entire future to just make a quick buck in the short term—he thinks long-term, he strategizes.”
“You might be barkin’ up the wrong tree. You might be thinking a little too highly of your old man, if ya ask me.”
“I don’t think so, though.” I bit my lip. “It’s why I wanted to talk to you. I know you must hear things…”
Flint’s brow rose more. “Must I?”
“Yeah… You know, in your line of work. Have you heard anything about my father?”
There was a slight pause as he regarded me across the small table of the booth, drumming his fingers lightly on its surface. Then he shook his head.
“Can’t say I have, cupcake.”
Liar.
But I forced a smile to my face, moving on smoothly. I wasn’t going to let this go so fast. “Okay. That’s okay. What… what about an Abraham? An Abraham Shaw? I’ve heard some things—”
Flint’s back straightened. He sat up a little straighter, opening his mouth like he was about to say something. Then he stopped, and a second later, he settled back against the faded leather of the booth seat, affecting a lazy, nonchalant attitude again.
“Can’t say I’ve heard of him either.”
Liar!
Dammit. He was making shit up, refusing to answer now that we were face-to-face. But as much as I hadn’t wanted to come to the diner, I
was glad I’d agreed to an in-person meeting. Because if I hadn’t been staring into his eyes as he spoke, maybe I would’ve missed the lie.
But I hadn’t.
He knew Abraham Shaw. And he knew at least something about my father.
I had to get him to tell me something. I scooted forward, leaning against the table that separated us.
“Please. Surely someone like you—”
“Not here.” He cut me off.
His burger hadn’t even been delivered by the waitress yet, but he didn’t hesitate before standing up. I glanced up at him, confusion and worry making my chest feel too tight.
“I said, not here,” Flint repeated, his voice sharp as his gaze darted around the diner.
Shifting in my seat, I glanced around at the other patrons, nervousness flooding me. Was Flint afraid someone could be listening? What did he have to say that he didn’t want anyone to overhear?
Before I could ask him any other questions, he turned, walking toward the diner’s front door. He didn’t pause to make sure I was following him, and I was certain that if I didn’t follow, he’d keep going, disappearing into the night like a ghost. And that would be it. My last chance would be gone.
Follow, or get none of the answers you need.
Before I could think, I was sliding out of the booth, rising to my feet. The waitress was returning with Flint’s burger, and I nearly plowed into her as I made a beeline for the door.
“Hey, hon, you want this to go or somethin’?” she asked, arching a brow.
“No. No thanks,” I muttered, slipping around her, my gaze scanning the dimly lit street outside the large glass windows. Had I missed him? Was he gone already?
“Well, you still gotta pay for this!” she called, holding up the plate with the burger and fries. But I didn’t answer, and I didn’t stop.
Shoving open the door, I glanced around quickly, my heart thudding hard in my chest. My breath fogged before my face, little puffs of air in the cool, dark night.