Casey and I rise back up after we’re through the tunnel. Ivory Street is driving recklessly, in a hurry, and my guess is she’s not checking her rearview mirror that often. If she were, I’d imagine she could see the blue van, still behind her, turning off the highway, down the ramp, left at the light, into the more residential areas. She’d see us just a block behind her as she turns into a subdivision with a waterfall at the front, and ancient, gorgeous trees that seem to belie the age of the homes. She’d see us follow her to the end of the road, see us stop at the corner as she continued into the cul-de-sac and pulled into the driveway of the first house on the right. She’d see us before Cameron puts the car in reverse and parks at the edge of a perfectly manicured lawn in front of a house that we aren’t here to visit.
Cameron turns off the car, cracks the front window, and climbs across the console into the windowless back with us. Casey is tying and retying her shoes, and Cameron sits extra close to her, taking a deep breath.
“We’re here,” he says.
His legs are bent, and he looks too young for this. I imagine we all do. “Ready?” he asks. And I laugh, because none of us look ready. None of us look as if we want to leave the back of this van ever again. They both looked so self-confident when we were on the island, so sure of themselves. But then I remember the way Casey’s hand trembled as she placed the dish on the table, how the muscles in Cameron’s arm twitched as he gripped the edge of the doorway. And the way I contorted my face to look calm and brave, when inside I was full of fear and panic.
We were all faking.
And now, we are letting each other see.
We’re all scared. We’ve made it, and we’re about to come face to face with some sort of truth. And nothing I do will change that truth. Whatever June was leading me toward, we’re here. And now I don’t want to know what she wanted with Ivory Street. Whether she bribed or tricked or bullied her into giving her access to the database. Whether she offered something in return. Whether Ivory Street was a willing participant. Or if Ivory can give me the answers I want: Who else was in the database? And if June found out there was a mistake in the study, did she have the chance to tell her?
We hear a car rumble down the street, pausing for a moment nearby—I hold my breath and count to four before it continues on its way.
I can sit here all day and think about these questions, or I can get the answers. “I’m ready,” I say.
Cameron smiles at me, climbs back into the front, and motions for us to do the same. “Let’s go,” he says.
I’m already in the front seat beside him, but Casey hasn’t moved. “It’s way too light out,” she says.
Cameron looks over his shoulder. “There’s a reason why most break-ins happen in the middle of the day. Everyone’s at work, or camp, or daycare. Just act like you belong.”
“This car does not belong,” Casey says, and she’s right. The car was perfect for blending in on the highway, or off, in the mountains. Perfect and nondescript for the congested streets of the city. But it’s not even close to perfect for an upscale community with high-end everything. The yards are manicured to perfection. The homes rise up behind them in varying patterns of brick and stone. Anyone can see this van does not belong.
“So we’re painting, or doing maintenance,” Cameron says.
“We should wait,” Casey says.
“Wait for someone to find us?” Cameron asks.
But I understand Casey. She sees it, too. We’re here. The truth will be unchangeable. We can never go back to not knowing.
But right now, my sympathy will be useless to her. “We’re wasting time,” I say. Ivory Street will quickly realize that nobody has been in her house, that nothing is missing, that something is amiss. “We either do this now,” I say, and I fix my eyes on Casey, “or we do this never.”
I reach my hand back for her, and she shuffles toward the front. The three of us are crammed together in the front seat, Casey running her fingers through her tangled hair as she checks the mirror. I’m too scared to check to see what I look like at the moment.
“Let’s go,” Cameron says, and he exits the driver’s side while Casey and I slide out of the passenger side.
We leave the car in front of that house, where it doesn’t belong but might just pass, and we follow Cameron.
At least we’re out of our uniforms. Now we look like door-to-door salespeople. Maybe we would have better luck carrying cookies.
Cameron quickly slips between the yards of the nearest houses and walks straight to the backyards, like we have every right to be here. We walk along the outside edge of the back fences, and Cameron makes sure to stand tall and walk with purpose, so we do the same. Just here to check the gas meter. Just assessing the drainage in the backyard. Just visiting a friend. I can see how people manage to break in to homes in the daytime. Act like you belong, and people believe it. We quickly reach the backyards of the homes in the cul-de-sac, and then we’re standing with our backs against the brick wall of her backyard. We sneak around the side—my God, her house is gorgeous. I don’t know if others live here, but there’s more than enough room. It’s been landscaped and there are fancy-looking window treatments visible through the glass. This whole neighborhood looks too formal, too perfect, too planned.
Her backyard has a black metal gate in the center of the brick wall, like the house we first stayed in after I escaped. There’s no easy access—nothing that won’t push us into full view—so it forces us to the front, and that seems right. We’re standing in broad daylight, a few feet from the person we need. We’re forced out into the light as we try to uncover the truth. We can’t get one without the other.
I want to gain the upper hand, though. I want to know who she is before we face her. And so I crouch down inside her fancy landscaping and watch as Casey and Cameron do the same. There’s really nothing we could do to talk our way out of this situation. If someone across the street sees us—three teenagers, hiding in the bushes—we’re so screwed. If they find us now, and if they manage to catch us, I don’t know what will happen to me. I assume I will not go back to an island—that’s not a punishment, that’s a containment. This time, I’m sure, I will be punished.
Jail, like my mother. Like my father. A cage with no window past the tree with the perfect angle to the sky. Land that I am not free to roam but that is scheduled as part of my daily routine. No comforts, no computer, no people taking care of my needs. I feel like my heart is being squeezed into a vise, and for a moment, I cannot take in air. And I understand June running when Liam was captured. I do. I don’t want to be taken in. My soul was not meant to be in a cage. Not then, and not now.
But then Cameron puts a hand on my back and whispers, “You okay?”
I nod. I am closest to the window, and I motion toward it, because I hear movement.
We must be outside the kitchen, because I hear cabinets banging open and closed. I ease onto my knees, my hands pushing off the mulch and soil, and I rise up until I can peer, just slightly, over the ledge into her home. But it’s not a kitchen. It’s an office, and the slamming of doors are filing cabinets and desk drawers. Ivory stands facing the open doorway, her back to the grand oak desk and to us. She is assessing things, and she must be confused. She has a paper in her hand, and she picks up the phone—it must be the number Casey left her, because she hangs up after a few moments, looking perplexed.
She takes the phone with her as she leaves the room, and I sink back into the soil behind the bushes. “What now?” Casey asks. And the truth is, I have no idea. I don’t want to walk in to this blind, but we can’t stay here all day, either.
I hear her voice again, coming closer, but I keep below the window. “… not a coincidence. Alina Chase escapes and then someone calls claiming my house was broken into? I’m not being paranoid.”