I hold up a hand because I’m not sure if I want to hear this story. If Darla tells me she cheated on Ben I’m going to wonder if any relationship anywhere ever is safe from crushing betrayal. “You don’t—”
“Nothing happened,” Darla says quickly. “I just needed someone to talk to and didn’t feel like I could talk to your dad. But I lied to him in order to go meet the other guy, and he found out about it.”
“But then he forgave you?”
She smiles fondly. “Yeah. You and I are both pretty lucky that happened.”
She’s right. As much as I complain about babysitting and stuff, growing up with Ben and Darla has been pretty solid. “So . . . Parvati . . . you’re telling me to forgive her?”
“I’m just saying to give her a chance to explain,” Darla says. “And don’t do anything rash.”
I don’t know. It sounds good, and Darla’s pretty smart. Maybe I can think about it after my brain stops playing imaginary sex tapes of Preston and Parvati on infinite repeat. Until then, I’m more concerned with finding out who’s trying to frame me. But I nod like I’m in total agreement. “And if I take this advice of yours, does that mean I can borrow your car?”
She sighs. “If I tell you no, you’re just going to do something stupid like steal one, aren’t you?”
I wouldn’t really steal a car, but I don’t answer. I can tell she’s mulling over in her mind whether to help me or not. Things always work out better for me when I don’t rush them. It’s like surfing. You can’t just chase wildly after every wave. You have to wait for the right one to come to you.
“Do you promise,” she continues, “not to break the law in any way while you’re gone?”
I raise my hand like I’m swearing an oath. “I won’t even roll through a stop sign.”
“Where are you going to go?”
“Nowhere far, I promise. I just need to check out a couple of leads.”
She sighs again, like maybe she’s already second-guessing herself. “Take the truck, as long as it’s only for tomorrow. Just please be careful with it. That pickup is your dad’s baby and he’ll kill us both if anything happens to it.” She leans forward to pat me on the hand. “And you be careful too, okay? I know you’re eighteen now, and that you don’t think you need a mom, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need my son.”
My throat tightens and I look away. I wish I’d been a better kid, that I’d given her a real chance, but it’s too late to start playing house now. “You can tell Ben I took the truck without asking if you want,” I offer.
She shakes her head. “We both agreed we wouldn’t lie to each other ever again. I try hard to keep my end of that.” She stands up to take her coffee mug to the sink.
I take it from her hand. “I got this. You get some sleep.”
On cue, one of the twins starts crying. “I may never sleep again,” she grumbles, but her lips curl into a smile as she says it.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say.
“Be safe.” She stops just before rounding the corner. “By the way, I like your hair.”
I snort. “It’s not polite to lie.”
“No, really. I can finally see your face,” she says. “You’re actually kind of cute. Who knew?” Her eyes sparkle in the dim light of the hallway, and for the first time in years I go to her and give her a hug. Her body stiffens in surprise, and then relaxes. She squeezes me tight. “You’re a good kid, Max. I love you.”
I swallow hard and start to tell her I love her back, but before I can get the words out, the other twin begins to wail. Darla breaks away and heads to the nursery, and the moment passes me by.
THIRTY
December 9th
IT’S BEEN A WHILE SINCE I’ve slept and I don’t want to wreck Ben’s truck, so I decide to crash for a bit before driving to Rosewood. I won’t be able to find Anna until at least 7:00 or 8:00 a.m. anyway. I set the alarm on my phone to wake me at five. My mind is still racing as my head hits the pillow. Everything that’s happened is all tangled together, twisted up and matted like a half-eaten ball of yarn barfed up by Preston’s cat. My brain yanks at the knots, reviewing the suspects and the chain of events, until it finally gives up and I fall asleep.
When my phone wakes me, I sneak through the still-darkened house, stepping extra cautiously as I pass the nursery. It takes two tries to fire up Ben’s pickup. The motor grinds and gurgles before sputtering to life. I baby the clutch as I drive toward Los Angeles, keeping one eye on my rearview mirror, watching for cops. I’m not supposed to leave town. Is driving to the far side of the city a violation of the terms of my bail? I don’t think so, but I keep to the speed limit just in case.
I pull off the highway at the Rosewood exit and make my way through the suburban streets. I pass the elementary school some of the other boys attended and the corner park where Anna took us to play four square. It’s like traveling back in time. I even feel younger—unsure, afraid. When I pull Ben’s truck over to the curb, my eyes are immediately drawn to the crumbling porch steps and the stone lions on either side. I slide Preston’s picture out of my pocket for comparison. There are a few more cracks in the stone, but it’s the same porch, just like I thought.
I turn the truck’s engine off, but I don’t get out right away. It’s amazing how the house hasn’t changed. It has the same pink-and-white-painted wooden front with ash-colored shingles. The paint is still peeling, the roof still looks in danger of collapsing in a couple of places. My heart knocks hard against my breastbone and my sweaty fingers are clinging to the steering wheel. I’m being stupid. It isn’t like I got tortured by the staff or violated by my fellow residents. I got beat up a couple of times. Big deal. Henry was older than me. He’s probably dead or in prison by now. I’m not going to walk through the door and get punched in the stomach.
I force myself out of the truck and across the gravel front lawn. The screen door opens with an impressive creak and I step into the front room of the house, which doubles as a waiting area. The walls, formerly dusky gray, are now a sunny yellow that almost matches the hair of the receptionist. She looks up from behind a plain oaken table that is serving as her desk.
“May I help you?” she asks. Her eyes flick downward for a second and I wonder if she’s got an emergency button that’ll summon a couple of goons to come tackle me if I get out of line.
“Does Anna still work here?”
The receptionist takes a long time to answer. She looks down at the desk again, furrowing her brow.
“Social worker,” I add, trying to be helpful.
“She’s here,” the girl says. “Just trying to see if she has any free time. Do you have an appointment?”
I shake my head. “I used to live here,” I say, hoping she’ll feel sorry for me.