“Alistair’s men. Or the men above Alistair, we never knew. I was working then. I used to be a librarian. I went to work that night and you stayed home with your father.”
“You liked my impressions then.” Riley’s dad’s smile was wistful. Then he swallowed slowly, his neck corded and strained. “They came that night. Pounded down the door. They were like animals. There wasn’t time to get out. I locked you in the closet.” He hung his head. “I’m so sorry, Ry.”
Riley felt her eyes widen. “The nightmares. The claustrophobia.” Her lower lip started to tremble. “I remember. It was you.” Her vision darkened and she was back in her nightmare, back in that closet, straining to see through those slats. She heard the thud. It was her father’s body on the ground. The acrid smell of blood… Riley doubled over, heaving.
“I’m so sorry, Daddy.”
“They left your father for dead. We contacted the police and left that night. We left everything behind. We stayed in a hotel until the authorities could get us situated with new identities, new jobs—new lives. You were Riley Allen. We were the Spencers. The O’Learys didn’t exist anymore.” Riley’s mother splayed her hand on her chest, her eyes brimming with tears. “We didn’t exist anymore.”
“So, you had to rename me?”
Riley’s mother shook her head. “We didn’t have a choice.”
“The Witness Protection Program gave our family new names, new identities, new birth certificates, social security numbers—everything. But the identities you assume with the program are real people. Or they were.”
Her mother put in, “Riley Allen Spencer was a baby boy. He was born on your birthday—at least the one we’ve been celebrating for the last thirteen years.”
Riley stood up and then sat down again, feeling the intense need to hyperventilate—or possibly pass out. She could see the worry in her mother’s eyes.
“Are you OK, hon?”
Riley nodded. The action was rote; she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be OK again.
“I need to get to school.” She stood, her parents jumping up on either side of her.
“Actually, Ry, you don’t need to go to school today,” her father told her. “You’re already so late.”
“Your father is right. It’s probably better that you don’t.” Her eyes went over Riley’s head and locked on Riley’s father’s. Riley was beginning to hate those looks—her parents exchanging them when they thought she wasn’t looking, over her head. They may have told her the truth, but all these silent conversations let Riley know that what she was told was just the tip of the iceberg.
“Why don’t you change into your sweats? I can make you a grilled cheese,” her mother said. “You love grilled cheese when you’re sick.”
“I’m not sick. I’m going to school.” Riley shook her head. “I want to. I want to—to process this.”
I know who I am at school.
Riley’s mother wrung her hands in front of her.
“Maybe Riley being around her friends—having a normal day—would be better for her. It’s not like there has been a breach of security.”
More silent conversation. Riley watched her father suck in a deep breath before he turned to her, his eyes clouded and locking on hers.
“You cannot mention this to anyone, Riley. It is incredibly important that you go to school today and act as if nothing—none of this, none of us”—he spread out his arm, indicating the whole room—“ever happened.”
Riley’s throat itched. She stood, grabbed her backpack, and hiked it up on her shoulder. “Like this never happened,” she repeated. “Sure.”
? ? ?
Classes had already started when Riley’s father let her out in front of Hawthorne High. She turned, watching him drive away, watching his taillights fade into the distance before turning back to the sprawling school buildings. Without students milling about out front, their cars thudding with sound as they pulled into the lot, the school seemed ominous—although really, nothing about it had changed.
Nobody questioned Riley when she picked up her late pass. She walked down the silent hall, each step making her heart beat a little more smoothly, making her breath come a little more normally. My school, Riley thought. I belong here. I’m Riley Allen Spencer and I’m a Hawthorne Hornet and I’m a junior. I’m not Jane Elizabeth O’Leary. I don’t know who Jane Elizabeth O’Leary even is. She doesn’t even exist.
“Miss Spencer, so nice of you to join us.” Mrs. Halloran greeted every late student the same way, and it was comforting to Riley. She went through the expected rush of heat on her cheeks and took her seat, letting Shelby hiss to her what she had missed.
“A total snoregasm,” Shelby said. “And where were you yesterday? I called you a thousand times!”