Violet curled her hand around Khloe’s. “Maybe.”
Khloe gripped back. “And Mom would too.”
Marcus nodded.
Violet watched his route and knew roughly where she was. She could stay for a few days, even a week, and report back to the Constabulary as soon as she had enough information.
Marcus exited the highway. Blacktop roads widened as the houses and plazas along the way grew sparse. The rain faded to drizzle, then stopped. He shut off the wipers and cracked the windows to let in a whir of storm-flavored wind. At last, he turned down a rutted dirt road. No houses on the left. On the right, they came with a quarter-mile of space between. Violet’s breath tightened. No public place to flee to. No one to hear a scream.
At the fourth driveway, Marcus turned.
12
When they pounded on the door shortly after 6:00 a.m., Clay was awake and ready to lie. He hadn’t managed to sleep longer than ten minutes, but Natalia jolted beside him in bed as if she’d been yanked from a dream.
“Stay here, remember?” He leaned close to kiss behind her ear and breathed in calming mango.
She stared at him as he pulled on his jeans and crossed barefoot to the door. By the time he got downstairs, the pounding had come again. He took a deep breath—Lord, this might be wrong, but help me lie—and opened the door.
A man and a woman stood on his porch, at least a whole foot of difference in their height though their hair was about the same length—less than an inch. They wore uniforms the color of campfire smoke and badges that caught the sunlight mostly concealed by rainclouds. A gray squad car lurked in the driveway. Clay’s mouth turned to cotton. He’d unconsciously expected an unmarked vehicle, suits, badges they’d pull out and put away. The danger was the same no matter how they were dressed, but somehow this incarnation held a more visible threat.
“Mr. Hansen.” The man took a step forward. “I’m Agent Naebers, and this is Agent Dell with the MPC. May we come inside, please?”
“It’s six in the morning.” Clay exaggerated a blink.
“Yes, sir, we’re aware of the time. Do you know where your daughter is, Mr. Hansen?”
Even prepared for it, the question was a punch to the chest. Clay forced a frown of confusion. “Sure, she’s in bed.”
The agents exchanged a glance that nearly required Naebers to lean down. When they refocused on Clay a moment later, Agent Dell took on the speaking role. “If she’s here, we’ll have to speak with her. Why don’t we come in, while you check on her.”
“Why don’t you wait here.” Clay tried to glare at them.
Another glance, and then a nod from both of them.
Clay let the screen door fall shut and jogged up the stairs. He passed Natalia hovering in the doorway of their room, shrouded in her blue silk bathrobe, arms crossed, face blank. As they’d planned, he stepped into Khloe’s room long enough to “discover” her absence.
His daughter’s essence caught him like an undertow, even stronger than it had been a few hours ago. He needed to hug Khloe. He shuffled across the carpet and stood in front of her gallery, grazed a finger over each sketch. Her hands had left these pencil strokes. Her eyes had seen these images and recreated them. Khloe.
“I’m going to be an artist, Dad.”
“Looks like you’re one already.”
“No, I mean a real one that studies art in school and stuff.”
None of the schools she wanted would take a student with a philosophical record.
Clay left the room with the long strides of a father whose concern is growing but hasn’t morphed to panic yet. He called loudly enough for the Constabulary agents to hear.
“Khloe?”
Natalia wandered into the hallway. If the agents were peering upward through the screen, through the banister, they’d see her. She rubbed her eyes and yawned.
“What’s going on?” Her slippers scuffed behind Clay.
“Khloe’s not in her room. … Khloe! You’d better be in this house somewhere!” Real desperation seeped into his voice, unplanned, but if truth helped him lie, so much the better.
Natalia stilled as if she’d just become aware of the company her husband had left standing on the porch. She took a step toward the stairs, froze, and then hurried down, finger-combing her hair. Nice touch, Nat. Clay continued through the house, searching each room and intermittently calling his daughter’s name.
Natalia’s raised voice punctured his half act, half daze. “There’s some kind of mistake.”
Clay’s heart rate spiked for real and brought him rushing before he realized she was cuing him. He burst into the foyer as the two agents pushed their way past Natalia.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Clay planted himself in front of them. “You can’t just come into my house.”
“As of yesterday, yes, we can.” Agent Naebers propped one hand on his hip. “Maybe you don’t watch the news.”
What? Natalia’s gaze grasped for Clay’s, and she nodded. They could come in here uninvited, without a warrant? Okay, calm down. Right. Force nonchalance as these intruders stood in the foyer and conducted an impromptu interrogation. At least they couldn’t search the place … right? He’d scoffed at himself for moving his Bible last night, but paranoia might actually save him. They’d never think to move the small refrigerator in the basement, no longer used, where he’d hidden the Book in the space alongside the compressor.
“Mr. Hansen,” Agent Naebers said. “Your daughter’s not here, is she?”
“She … she doesn’t appear to be.”
“And do you know where she was tonight?”
Avoiding the agent’s eyes wouldn’t throw suspicion on Clay. He’d only look like a father ashamed of possible negligence. And he could screen the guilt they’d surely see in his eyes. He dropped his voice. “I guess I don’t.”
“That’s all right, because we do.”
Naebers handed over a small, clear baggie from the pocket of his uniform shirt. Khloe grinned at Clay from the driver’s license, red tints in her hair exaggerated by the photo’s high color. He’d braced for this very piece of plastic, yet faced with it, he couldn’t draw a breath. Almost as if they were the regular police come not to interrogate but to inform him of some awful accident.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hansen, I’m with your son, Clayton. He’s fine, but I need to talk to you about your daughter. … There’s been an accident.”
Clay blinked. No time seemed to have passed. No one stared at him. The cold sweat didn’t break out under his shirt. He wasn’t eleven years old, and this moment wasn’t about his sister. He was thirty-nine, and it was about his daughter.
“Where is she?” Natalia’s voice trembled, and not in pretense.
“She attended an unlicensed gathering tonight, about five miles from your home. At least one Bible was confiscated.”
“Where is she now?”
“It seems that several suspects got away, Khloe included.”
“Then she’ll come home.” Natalia took the baggie from Clay’s hands and cradled it, eyes glued to the photo.
“The bust took place almost five hours ago, ma’am. She’d have to be walking pretty slowly.”
Natalia’s fingers curled around the license, and the agent seemed to lean back from her glare. “I know my child, Agent Naebers, and I’m telling you she is not part of whatever went on at that meeting, and she has no reason not to come home.”
Agent Dell stepped forward, hands up, though her voice offered no surrender. “Mrs. Hansen, I know this is hard to take in right now. But sometimes teenagers surprise even their parents, start to explore dangerous philosophies—”
“What kind of mother do you think I am? If she were getting involved in that garbage, I’d know, and I’d put a stop to it, and I wouldn’t need the help of the Constabulary.”
Ga
rbage. Clay pulled in a breath of composure. She was acting. That was all.
“I’m just trying to reassure you both,” Agent Dell said. “You wouldn’t be the first or last parents to be shocked by our visit. It doesn’t make you unfit parents or even below-average parents. We’ll be patrolling the neighborhood until Khloe’s whereabouts are determined, so if she does come home, we’d appreciate a call.”
“So you can lock her up somewhere?” He hadn’t meant to snap. Now everyone else in the room was staring at him. Natalia looked ready to interrupt. You’ve said enough, Nat. “When our daughter comes home, we’ll deal with her ourselves.”
“Re-education for minors is mandatory.” Agent Dell stepped forward several more heel-clacks. Her hands closed over Natalia’s, over the bagged license. “I’m sorry, but I’ll need this back.”
Natalia stared down at her. An invisible tug-of-war ensued for the next few seconds. Clay stepped between them, severed both their grips, and caught the plastic card as it fell toward the floor. He held it out to Agent Dell, and a knife twisted in his stomach.
“Thank you.” The license slid from view, into her uniform pocket. Evidence. His girl’s smiling face was evidence. “Were you two home last night?”
So they were going to ask, after all. Clay nodded.
“I was home.” Natalia stared at the wall.
“Mr. Hansen?”
“I was home for … most of the night.”
“Most?” Natalia’s eyes shifted to him, and even though she was acting, the look in her eyes dismembered him, piece by piece.
As if she weren’t acting.
“Anything that might be helpful for us in constructing a timeline for Khloe?” Agent Naebers’s dark gaze skated between them.
“No.” Agree with me, Natalia. Let’s get them to leave.
“Probably not. I’m not sure.”
“Just briefly, then. Mr. Hansen, where did you go last night, and when did you arrive home?”
“Just a ride. On my bike.” The script they’d agreed on. Surely she wouldn’t deviate from it.
Agent Dell tapped a toe against the wood floor before seeming to catch herself. “Did you have a dispute? Did Khloe witness it?”
“Natalia broke the blender. And no, Khloe didn’t know about it. We don’t fight in front of her.”
“We actually don’t get to fighting. You’re not here long enough.”
Stop, Nat, stop. Heat washed upward from his neck to his hairline, bright as a sunburn against his sandy hair, he knew. All three of them could see it. “These agents don’t need to hear about our personal—”
“So I threw the keys at him and told him to go for a ride, as if he needed to be told. He was gone for a few hours, at least. I don’t know when he got home exactly. I’m a hard sleeper. And since it’s going to be your next question, no, I don’t know when Khloe had the opportunity to sneak out. I guess with her father gone, anything could have happened.”
Clay barely heard the two agents offer Natalia their card and leave with a warning against the misconception that parents could deal with philosophical crimes. A bud of pain was slowly opening somewhere in his body, blooming outward in thorny tendrils.
He stood at the door, not seeing its painted white surface inches from his face, until Natalia’s hand closed around his arm. He turned. She stood there, so close, so beautiful.
He buried the bedrock topic and dug into a safe, shallow one instead. “They can just walk into people’s homes now, whenever they feel like it? I didn’t hear about that.”
“They recategorized philosophical crime. Terrorism.”
“That’s not new.”
“I guess it wasn’t part of the legal definition before. But anyway, it means they can enter any privately owned structure at any time, if they suspect … well, what they have to suspect is pretty vague.”
His mind was absorbing only a portion of her words, distracted by the howling of the other, unspoken topic. He leaned against the front door, and seconds slipped away.
Natalia read his thoughts and sighed. “You said you were worried about pulling it off. So I thought, you know … method acting.”
He swallowed, but the bitter taste lingered in his throat.
“Clay.”
“‘With her father gone, anything could have happened’?”
“Did I say anything that wasn’t true?”
The thorns converged in his stomach. “How about your use of present tense?”
She took a step closer, and the calm in her eyes flickered. “Poetic license.”
“Or a little too much method.”
“Do you even know what you did last night? You drove away without Khloe. You drove away from her.”
Again.
Her legs folded until she drifted down to the bottom step. Her arms came up to cover her bowed head. “And I can’t even think, so don’t bother telling me I’m not being fair.”
As if he had the right to call that one, anyway. “Natalia.”
She wasn’t crying, but she was curled so tightly on the stair, like a soft, wounded creature trying to become too small for any more wounds. Clay knelt beside her. Look up. Look at me. She didn’t move.
Instinct swerved toward the only open path. He had nowhere else to steer. “I’ll be back in a while.”
“Have Khloe with you.”
With his shield or on it. He stood, then bent toward her. He ran one finger over her hair, lightly, so that she couldn’t feel it. So that she couldn’t see him hold the sense of her close to himself, mango and shine, satin skin, green eyes that almost believed in him. In this moment, if she knew the preciousness of those things, she might spit the knowledge back at him. Maybe he deserved no less.
He stood over her. Say something, Nat. She sighed and turned her head toward the wall, a quiet knot of self-preservation.
Everything crowded too close, even the ghost that had been silent for weeks this time. The Constabulary agents had awakened it with their somber, notifying faces. Hilary, her ten-year-old face waxy against the white pillow. The beeping machines. The tube down her throat. The panic in his chest when Dad pulled him away from her hospital door, when Clay came home from school to their impassive faces.
“Mom? Dad? Did she wake up yet?”
He walked to the kitchen and snagged his keys and could suddenly breathe again. Escape the present, if not the past. But pushing his sister’s memory away only made room for everything else. Natalia and Khloe and the man he was still trying to be.
He straddled the bike. Turned the key.
13
“You’re going to catch cold in those clothes. Come on upstairs and grab something dry.” Belinda, their new hostess, led Violet and Khloe through a spacious foyer with furniture that belonged in a museum. Red velvet–upholstered chairs with wooden feet, carved like the paws of some big cat. A dark wooden table. Someone had spent hours whittling leaves and flowers and vines down each table leg. A wide burgundy-carpeted staircase wound a spiral on the far side of the room. Halfway up, Khloe stretched out her arm and bumped Violet’s bracelet with her own. Violet nodded at the soft clink. They were still together.
And nobody was going to harm Khloe or brainwash her. Not that this bottle-blonde grandmother seemed inclined to brainwash anyone, but personality and appearance couldn’t override the Christian ideas in a person’s head.
Their chauffeur had stayed only minutes after delivering them, which was just as well. Violet stayed at least three arms’ lengths from his hulking frame and broiling gaze. Belinda sent him on his way with a travel mug of coffee and hugged him before he left, as if he were more teddy bear than grizzly.
Subconsciously, Violet must have expected some sort of military bunker or mobster penthouse, because her first step into this house had caused a ripple of surprise and relief. And Belinda didn’t need a n
ame to become a person. Her compassionate smile and Southern twang loosened the knot of fear inside. Violet could think more clearly now. Observe. Gather evidence.
The hallway Belinda led them down was narrow and ridiculously long, with rooms on either side. This house must have more than a dozen guestrooms.
“You’ll sleep in here.” Belinda motioned them ahead of her, into a room with ivory walls, two twin beds, and two old oak dressers. All the furniture looked to be about a hundred years old.
Someone had stenciled blue and red flowers over one wall, as well as a border around the whole room. Khloe reached out to trace the petals. Even when hiding from the Constabulary, she couldn’t lose her artistic self for long. She stepped closer to a floral painting on the far wall, probably analyzing its use of light or color or something.
“You’ll want to sleep soon, but first things first.” Belinda opened a walk-in closet and turned on the light. “Pretty sure this room’s got both your sizes.”
Someone had installed shelves on two of the closet’s paneled walls, and stacks of clothing filled most of them. Violet picked up the nearest pair of jeans and unfolded them. Size five.
“Where did all this stuff come from?” Khloe’s voice drifted over Violet’s shoulder. She stepped around Violet to paw through a pile of bright T-shirts.
“Resale stores, clearance racks,” Belinda said. “There’s been a collection going for a few months now.”
“You take money from people?”
Belinda’s laugh was too loud for the small closet. “My heavens, no. My husband and I pick up things when we can. Marcus does, too. But most of it’s from someone else.”
“A resistance fighter like you?” Was that admiration in Khloe’s voice? Surely she couldn’t be won over with a closetful of hand-me-downs. But she browsed as if she were at the mall, slow steps from one shelf to another, touching every piece of fabric in sight.
Khloe, these people are not all as safe as your dad.
“Don’t know that I count as a fighter. I’m just a hostess. But yes, from someone like me. She’s well-off and wanted to use that somehow, toward the cause. Most of my closets are stocked like this one.”
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