by Harlan Coben
"It feels as if I betrayed you," Ema said.
"Yes."
"Would it help if I told you that I was going to?"
I didn't reply.
"Or that I was trying to find the right time? Would it help if I told you how hard it is for me to trust anyone?"
"I understand all that," I said.
"But not fully," Ema said.
"It's okay."
Ema looked away. I saw tears in her eyes.
"It's okay," I said again.
"I want to show you something . . . maybe that will help explain it." Ema opened up a closet. She looked back at me. "You're a lot taller than me. Do you mind getting that shoe box down? The one on the far left."
"This isn't necessary," I said.
"Please just do it, Mickey, before I lose my nerve."
I walked over to the closet, plucked down the shoe box from the top shelf, and handed it to her. In the center of the room was a couch. She sat on it and invited me to join her.
Ema opened the box and pulled out a clipping. It was from a tabloid and read: ANGELICA WYATT'S SECRET BABY SHOCKER.
She pulled out another: WHO'S ANGELICA'S REAL BABY DADDY? Then another: ANGELICA'S SECRET LOVE NEST IN FRANCE. Another: EXCLUSIVE! FIRST PICS OF ANGELICA'S BABY! One said that Ema's father was Angelica's costar in her current movie. Another claimed it was the British prime minister.
"This is hard to talk about," Ema said.
"Then don't."
"No, I want to tell you. I want you to understand why Mom and I did what we did."
"Okay," I said.
She held the clippings in her hands. "They never left us alone. My whole life, the tabloids followed us around. We'd go to the park, the paparazzi would be with us. I'd go with my mom on set, even closed ones, and then someone with a high-powered lens would snap my picture. It was . . . suffocating, to say the least. I started having nightmares. I saw a shrink. My mom even quit the business for a little while. She retired to watch me, but that just led to more rumors about her. And the truth is, she loves being an actress. Even as a kid I got that. I didn't want to take that away from her, you know what I mean?"
"Sure," I said.
"It was a hard decision, but eventually we decided to live, well, like this. Mom started a rumor that I was living at a boarding school overseas."
"So who lives with you here?"
"My grandparents. And, uh . . ." She looked a little embarrassed.
"Uh what?"
"I guess he's an assistant of sorts. He helps out too. His name is Niles."
I remembered him from my previous visit--Niles the butler. We fell into silence. I was thumbing through the articles, not sure how to raise the next question. "Should I ask you the obvious?"
There was a hint of a smile on Ema's face. "You're wondering about my father."
"If it isn't my business . . ."
"I don't know who my father is. My mom hasn't told me."
Again with nothing to say, I went with, "Oh."
"I know. She said she'll tell me one day--when it's right. But not now. We've had plenty of battles about it, believe me. I want to know, but Mom freaks out when I ask her. Like she's really scared for me to know."
"What would she be scared of?"
"I don't know," Ema said, as if considering it for the first time. "But for now, well, I've let it go. I mean, what can I do?"
"Right. I understand." Another thought occurred to me. "When you found out that information about the San Diego paramedics, you didn't want to tell me your source. Was it . . . ?"
Ema nodded. "Yup. When you use Angelica Wyatt's name, it is amazing what doors open."
It made sense, I guess. I was still looking through the articles, especially the ones that featured pictures of young Ema. "I can definitely see you in these pictures," I said.
"But I look different, right?"
"I guess."
"You can say it, Mickey."
"Say what?"
"I looked thinner," Ema said. "I looked more . . . normal."
I didn't reply.
"That was part of all this for me," she said.
"What was?"
"Dressing all in black. Dyeing my hair black. The jewelry, the tattoos. Maybe even putting on weight. I didn't want to be that kid who got ambushed. I wanted to be someone different. So maybe it started as a disguise, but I like the way I look now. It's somehow more me, you know? So now I don't know if I do it as a disguise or maybe I just dress like I always wanted to."
I held up one of the old clippings. "You haven't changed that much," I said. "And you're leaving something out."
"What?"
"The tattoos. That was the first real clue something was weird. I thought I saw a bruise on your arm. But it was a smudge. I couldn't figure out what about you was different, but then it came to me. Your tattoos. They changed. And your mom--she wouldn't let you mark up your body with a bunch of tattoos. Not at your age. So they're temporary, right?"
Ema looked almost pleased. "Wow, I can't believe you noticed."
"You know what's weird?" I said.
"Uh, everything about this?"
"Well, yeah, I know, but one other thing: Our mothers knew each other when they were teenagers."
"Right, when they were, like, our age. That is weird. Oh, and why is your uncle suddenly bodyguarding my mom?"
"I don't get that either. He said a close friend asked him to do it. I know Uncle Myron is more than just an agent or manager or whatever. I think he's, like, a secret private eye or security guy or something."
"So he's helping guard Mom while she's in the area?"
"I guess. Why don't you ask your mom?"
"I did. She just said she needed extra security, and Myron was an old friend."
"So maybe that's it then," I said.
"Maybe."
Neither one of us bought it.
"Bat Lady said I shouldn't tell Myron about Abeona," I said. "Not ever. And my father never told him either."
"I haven't told my mom. I mean, it just feels like something we should keep to ourselves, you know?"
I did.
"There's one other thing I need to tell you," Ema said.
"What?"
"You're right about the tattoos. Agent at Tattoos While U Wait . . . he puts them on for me. They're all temporary. Except, well . . ." She slid her shirt off her shoulder. For a moment, my eyes just popped open, like maybe this was a prelude to a striptease or something. Ema must have seen the look on my face, because she rolled her eyes and said, "Cut it out."
"What?"
"Just . . . never mind." Ema turned around and showed me her back. "Here, take a look. Agent says he doesn't know how this happened, but somehow, this tattoo never comes off."
I didn't even have to look because I knew which tattoo she meant. The image never quite escapes me. Or, I guess, us.
It was a tattoo of a butterfly with animal eyes on the wings.
CHAPTER 33
Ema and I talked a bit more. I suggested that we should try to meet up at Bat Lady's house later and see if we could find a way into the garage and the tunnels. Ema wasn't sure that she could make it.
"When my mom's not around, it's pretty easy to sneak out. But when she's around, like now . . ."
"I get it."
"Mickey?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm really sorry about this thing with the basketball team."
"Thanks."
It was funny how the mind takes weird, circuitous routes sometimes. Do you ever start thinking of something odd and try to trace back to what started your thought process and really, your mind is going all over the place? That was what was happening, so here was the trail my brain took: When Ema mentioned basketball, I tried to push the thought away, but the one thing that would help me escape the pain of getting thrown off the basketball team would be . . . well, playing basketball. That made me think of the last time I played basketball, which made me think about playing yesterday in Newark, whi
ch made me think about Tyrell Waters and what he might be doing, which made me think about his father, Detective Waters, which made me think about the ride home, which made me think about two things about Detective Waters: One, he was working on busting a drug ring in Kasselton.
Two, he had known that Mr. Caldwell's first name was Henry.
How would he know that--and were those two things related?
In fact, Detective Waters had asked me a bunch of questions about the Caldwells, trying very hard to sound casual. At the time I figured that he was just naturally curious about the shootings. But now I remembered what Tyrell had said--that his father probably would have been the one investigating the Caldwell shooting except he was busy "working on this big drug ring in your hometown."
"What is it?" Ema asked.
I quickly explained about Detective Waters. Ema, as always, got it immediately.
"You have to ask him more about it."
I agreed, but it was getting late. I texted Tyrell to see if he was at the courts. He wrote back that he wasn't because his high school team, Weequahic High, had started practice today. Then Tyrell added: Can you get down here quick? We need people to scrimmage.
Damn, there wouldn't be time. Even if I ran to the bus stop, it wouldn't leave for another half hour and then the ride down . . . no way. I was showing the message to Ema when suddenly I heard footsteps coming down the stairs toward us. Ema stiffened. For a moment I thought that she was going to tell me to hide, but as the footsteps got closer, her face softened.
"Miss Emma?"
I recognized the British accent. It was Niles the butler.
"I'm here, Niles."
Niles entered the room. He was one of those guys who probably never showed emotion on his face--stiff upper lip and all that--but he stared at me as though an elephant doing handstands had suddenly materialized in the basement.
"Niles, this is my friend Mickey."
"We've met," I said, standing up.
Once the surprise was off Niles's face, he couldn't have looked more pleased. "A visitor!"
Ema frowned. "Yes, Niles."
"How marvelous. We don't get many visitors, do we, Miss Emma?"
"You don't have to look that shocked, Niles."
"This isn't shock, Miss Emma. This is delight. Will our guest be staying for dinner?"
"No," Ema said. "In fact, Niles, can I ask you a really big favor?"
"Of course."
"Can you drive us to Newark?"
CHAPTER 34
When Niles pulled to the front of the driveway in a lime-green Volkswagen Beetle, I felt relief. I was afraid that maybe we'd be driving down in that stretch limousine and I could just imagine the ribbing I'd deservedly take if I showed up to play basketball in that. Still, the lime green was a tad conspicuous and I asked Niles to drop me off two blocks away so I could walk.
"Why are we here again?" Niles asked.
"Mickey has a big basketball game."
"And he came to your abode looking for a ride?"
"I'll explain later." Ema turned to me. "Have fun at your game. Niles and I will wait here."
Niles said, "We will?"
"You don't have to," I said. "I can get a ride back."
"No, no, we wouldn't dream of it," Niles said, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Miss Emma can entertain me by telling me how you two know each other."
Ema rolled her eyes. I got out of the car and jogged toward the school. Tyrell greeted me at the door. He wore a white basketball uniform with the word Weequahic across the chest. "You guys are red," he said, tossing me a red pinny to throw over my shirt.
The scrimmage between Weequahic High and whatever stragglers they could find was already in the final quarter. I quickly checked the stands. Yep, Mr. Waters was there. I gave him a little wave and he nodded back. During the next time-out, I entered the game. I saw Tyrell laughing it up with his teammates and felt my face start to burn. Tyrell's team put their hands in as one and shouted, "Defense!" and then broke. They were teammates. Tyrell liked playing with me in pickup games, but this was different. This was his school team. This mattered.
How could I have blown my chance?
I still had my junior and senior years, but they seemed so far away, impossible to imagine now. Maybe Mom would get better and we could move someplace else and I could start again--but she couldn't leave rehab for another six weeks. Maybe Dad . . .
Maybe Dad what?
I had trouble concentrating on basketball. I kept thinking about my father, supposedly in that grave out in Los Angeles, and I wondered whether I'd ever get the chance to know for certain. Usually I forget all that while I play. But not today.
I didn't play well. We stragglers got crushed and for the first time in my overly competitive playing life, I didn't care. I just wanted to get to Mr. Waters and ask him about Henry Caldwell. The sound of the final buzzer was merciful. I got in line and shook hands with the other team. When I reached Tyrell, he said, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
Tyrell frowned at me. "Then why aren't you at tryouts today?"
"I got kicked off the team."
"What?"
"It's a long story."
"Oh man, Mickey, I'm sorry."
"I'll be fine," I lied.
"Hey, Tyrell." It was one of his teammates. "Coach wants a quick meet."
Tyrell looked at me warily. "We'll talk about this in a few minutes, okay?"
He jogged away with his teammate. I started to wonder about how to approach Mr. Waters and what exactly to say to him, but there was no need. As soon as Tyrell was out of sight, he hurried over to me.
"How are you, Mickey?"
"I'm good, thanks."
"How is your friend Rachel?"
No beating around the bush this time.
"She's better."
"I heard they released her."
"Yes, I saw her earlier today. I even met her father."
That piqued his interest. "How is he handling all this?"
Should I tell him about Mr. Caldwell pulling a gun on me? I wasn't sure, so I decided to keep it simpler. "He seemed very much on edge."
"On edge how?"
"Jumpy."
"Jumpy how?"
"I don't know," I said. "Easily startled. Maybe a little scared. You can't blame him, I guess. His ex-wife was just murdered. His daughter was just shot." I tilted my head. "Mr. Waters, can I ask you a question?"
He didn't say yes but he didn't say no either.
"How do you know Henry Caldwell?"
Waters didn't seem to like that. "Who said I know him?"
"When you drove me home yesterday, you asked me how Henry was doing. How did you know his first name?"
His eyes hardened.
"Mr. Waters?"
"It's not important, Mickey."
"Are you investigating him?"
"That isn't your business."
"Rachel is my friend."
"And what? You're going to find who shot her?" He arched an eyebrow. "This isn't a game, Mickey. These people play for keeps."
"What people?"
He shook his head and suddenly he wasn't the nice father anymore--he was the tough cop. "I'll ask the questions. When you were at the Caldwells' house, did you see anybody else?"
"Like who?"
"Just answer the question."
"No, there was just Rachel and . . ." Then I remembered it. "Wait, there were two creepy guys talking to Mr. Caldwell right after I left."
"What did they look like?"
"Like, I don't know, street punks. One had a bandana on his head and a scar on his cheek."
Mr. Waters swallowed when I said that. He grabbed his smartphone and started pressing some buttons. "Is this the man you saw?"
He showed me the picture on the phone. No doubt about it. It was Scarface. "Yeah, that's the guy. Who is he?"
Mr. Waters's face fell. "He's a very bad man, Mickey."
"But who is he?"
"I want you to stay fa
r away from him, you hear? You wouldn't believe the evil he's capable of."
If Mr. Waters was trying to scare me, it was working. "Did he have something to do with what happened to Rachel?"
But Mr. Waters was having none of that. "You stay out of this, Mickey." There was anger in his voice. "I'm not going to tell you again. Stop playing around or someone is going to get hurt."
CHAPTER 35
I didn't wait around for Tyrell because I didn't want to get into the whole getting-kicked-off-the-team mess. Mr. Waters remained firm with me. "If you see or hear anything, you call me. Here's my number."
He started to hand me his card again, but I took out my wallet and showed him that I still had the last card he'd given me. "I also plugged your number into my phone contacts," I said.
"Put it on speed dial," Mr. Waters warned me for the second time now.
I hurried back down the block. The lime-green Volkswagen Beetle stuck out like, well, like a lime-green Volkswagen Beetle. When I slid into the backseat, Ema said, "How was your game?"
I gave her a curious look as my cell phone buzzed. Ema made a big production of staring hard at my eyes, then at my phone, and I got the message, so to speak. I picked up the mobile and saw that I had text from her: don't say anything about shooting in front of Niles. he'll worry. let's talk later and try to sneak out to Bat Lady's tunnel tonight. just talk dumb stuff now, like you're a typical boy obsessed with sports.
I frowned at her. She shrugged.
"Yes," Niles said, pulling away, "how did your important basketball game go?"
"Great, thanks."
"It was a very short game, wasn't it?"
"Uh, yeah," I said.
"And I had no idea Miss Emma was into helping facilitate your basketball prowess by having me drive down here."
"Yeah," I said. "She's a big, uh, facilitator."
"Miss Emma is just full of surprises today," Niles said, turning onto Route 280. "And I guess I'm supposed to just believe every word she says."
"Niles," Ema said.
"No, no, Miss Emma, I am merely a servant. You owe me no explanation."
I texted Ema: Niles isn't buying it.
"Ya think?" Ema said to me, not even bothering with the text.
In the driver's seat, Niles smiled.
We stayed silent for the ride home. Niles dropped me off at Uncle Myron's house. I sat in the kitchen and tried to sort through the last day. Nothing came to me. I grabbed the phone and dialed my mother's rehabilitation center. I asked for my mother's room. "Please hold."