There was some saying Jonah’s mom always quoted—usually to Katherine—about how eavesdroppers never heard anything good about themselves. Jonah wondered if that also applied to boys opening locked safes and looking at secret papers. But that was something else he couldn’t say to Chip. He jerked on the door, swinging it completely open, and reached in to take out the first few sheets of paper on top of the stack.
“This is just stuff about buying your house,” Jonah said, leafing quickly through the papers. “Real estate settlements, title insurance…”
Chip moved his hand away from his eyes and squinted at the papers.
“Maybe that’s connected too,” he said slowly. “My dad says they got a really sweet deal for this house. Maybe I was supposed to meet you, so that I’d find out about being adopted….”
Jonah carefully put the house papers in a stack on the floor.
“About four out of every one hundred Americans are adopted,” Jonah said. “I think you could have met someone who was adopted in any neighborhood you might have moved to. Now you’re sounding really crazy, like those conspiracy theorists who think the moon landing never happened, or that the government has a bunch of aliens locked up on some military base in New Mexico.”
“But they do,” Chip said. “Those aliens are real.”
“You really believe that?”
Chip slugged him in the arm.
“No. Fooled you!”
Jonah was glad that Chip could still show some sense of humor, that he hadn’t totally crossed the line into insanity. Jonah reached into the safe again and pulled out more papers. He was careful to keep them in order as he sorted through them.
Three-fourths of the way down into the stack, he let out a low whistle.
“Here it is.”
He held up a document labeled, BIRTH CERTIFICATE—Cook County, Illinois.
Chip evidently forgot that he was too stressed out to look. He crowded against Jonah’s shoulder.
“Charles Haddingford Winston the third, huh?” Jonah teased.
Chip grimaced.
“Crazy, isn’t it?” he said bitterly. “I’m Charles Winston the third, and I’m not even related. They just had to have some kid to stick that name on.”
“Chip, you are related. Or, as good as related. They’ve raised you,” Jonah said.
“Not very well,” Chip said.
Jonah took one look at Chip’s face and decided not to argue.
He rifled through the rest of the papers. Beside him, Chip groaned.
“’Happy Family Adoption Agency’?” Chip muttered. “You have got to be kidding.”
Something slipped out of the stack of papers Jonah was holding against one knee, while he braced his other knee against the floor. Trying to catch the one sliding paper, Jonah lost his balance and fell over sideways. The whole stack cascaded down to the carpet, skidding toward the wall.
“Sorry,” Jonah said. “If things are out of order, your dad’s going to be able to tell—”
“I don’t care,” Chip said acidly.
Jonah frowned and began gathering up the papers. He thought he’d gotten everything until he saw a scrap of yellow sticking out from under a chair a few feet away.
“That’s what started this whole mess,” he muttered. He reached under the chair and pulled out a yellow Post-it note. It said, James Reardon, (513) 555-0192. He held the note up so Chip could see it too.
“Was this with the adoption papers or the house stuff?” Jonah asked.
Chip narrowed his eyes.
“I know how to find out,” he said.
He took the Post-it note from Jonah’s hand and walked to the other side of the basement, where couches and chairs clustered around a huge entertainment center. He reached into a cabinet of the entertainment center and pulled out a cordless phone.
“Here—I’ll put it on speakerphone so you can hear too,” Chip said.
“Chip, I don’t think—” Jonah stopped, because he couldn’t explain why this suddenly seemed like such a bad idea to him.
Chip was already punching in numbers, each digital beep adding to Jonah’s sense of apprehension. Jonah rushed over to Chip’s side, as if being able to see the phone as well as hear it would make everything easier.
The phone clicked, making the connection, and then smoothly flowed into ringing. It rang once, twice…. Another click. Then a gruff voice boomed out of the phone: “Federal Bureau of Investigations. Reardon speaking.”
Jonah stabbed his finger at the button to break the connection.
FIVE
“What’d you do that for?” Chip demanded.
“I—I don’t think this is the right way to do this,” Jonah said. “Sneaking around, looking at papers your parents don’t want you to see, calling people…I know you’re really mad at your parents right now—okay, fine. I don’t blame you. But this isn’t going to help. Calm down; let them calm down; wait until you can all sit down and talk about it….”
Chip shoved hard against Jonah’s chest, pushing him away. The phone fell to the floor between them.
“I don’t know what your parents are like,” Chip said harshly. “But if my dad says he doesn’t want to talk about something, he…doesn’t…talk!” He grabbed the phone and began punching numbers again.
Okay, so maybe family therapist was out as a future career option for Jonah.
“Maybe you should talk to one of the counselors at school or something,” Jonah said.
Chip kept punching numbers, stabbing them even harder now.
“I’m not crazy!” he insisted.
“I never said you were,” Jonah countered. He guessed Chip had hit about five of the seven numbers for James Reardon now. “But tell me—what do you think the FBI has to do with your adoption?”
Chip stopped hitting numbers.
Jonah eased the phone out of Chip’s hands. He pressed the button to hang up.
“Think about it,” Jonah said. “This Reardon guy probably doesn’t have anything to do with you. That Post-it must have been on some other paper in there. Maybe…Is your dad a spy or something?”