Deo answers immediately. “You are so grounded, young lady. I hope the party was worth it.”
He keeps his tone light, but I can tell from the slight edge to his voice that he was worried.
“Sorry, Deo. We’ve had a lot to discuss, and the time sort of slipped away. Aaron is—”
I can hear Aaron talking on his own cell in the kitchen, and I hesitate for a moment. I rarely keep secrets from Deo, but I feel awkward telling him about Aaron’s premonitions when it’s not something Aaron tends to advertise. So even though I know I’ll end up telling him later, when it’s just the two of us, I decide to stick to Aaron’s cover story for now.
“Aaron’s a private detective. He’s been working Molly’s case, and he thinks whoever hired the guy who shot Porter is . . . well, shall we say he’s not too happy that Porter and I have spoken. Aaron’s worried they could be targeting me, too.”
There’s a long silence on the other end. “So . . . he’s calling in the real police, right?”
His voice is steady, but those words speak volumes.
Neither of us have warm and cozy feelings about the local police. We’ve both been in situations where out on the street was safer than back in the house. Most of the time, at least in my experience, when a kid runs away from a foster home, there’s a damn good reason. That’s always been the case for me and Deo, at least. But each time, we’ve been rounded up by the cops and taken back to the place we escaped until some other arrangement could be made.
I know they’re doing their jobs. In many cases, they even go above and beyond. But a lot of them don’t seem to understand that the system they’re enforcing isn’t always fair and what looks safe may be just a convenient illusion.
So for Deo to even suggest calling in the police? He’s worried.
“Um . . . that’s kind of the tricky part, D. We don’t know how they found out I was in touch with Porter. Aaron says Porter contacted the detective firm that his granddad runs, which is a two-person operation. But he also called friends on the DC force. Maybe elsewhere, too. There’s probably a leak, but we don’t know exactly where.”
“They’ve already started sniffing around at Kelsey’s. She called me about twenty minutes ago. Said she left a message on your cell, too. I don’t know if it was DC police or Montgomery County, but they asked if she knew anything about a girl who might be stalking Porter. Didn’t ask for you by name, but . . .”
“Oh, that’s . . . wonderful. Do you know what she told them?”
“She didn’t go into detail. Just asked if I knew who you were with. What do I say if she calls back?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll call her.”
“And what about curfew? Pauline might cut us some slack, but Marietta’s also on duty tonight, and you know how she is.”
Deo and I have both toed the line carefully for the past few months, avoiding anything that might result in getting us bounced out of Bartholomew. Missing curfew is one of the cardinal sins, although, admittedly, Marietta has a long list of those. The primary reason she works in group homes is that it gives her the opportunity to save the souls of wayward teens. She marked Deo and me for special attention when we arrived at Bartholomew House, maybe hoping her congregation could pray away his possibly-gay. I’m not sure what she thought they could do for me. It’s not the first time we’ve been in this situation—the group home where we met was even worse in that regard—but we’ve learned it’s better to stand our ground. Neither of us has yielded to Marietta’s weekly invitations to join her for Sunday services. Her smile becomes a little more wooden each time she asks and gets another set of excuses from the two of us. I’m seriously considering telling her I’ve converted to Judaism, Shinto, Pastafarianism—anything to get her off my back.
But my stubbornness on that front means the chance of Marietta cutting me even an inch of slack if I show up after curfew is less than zero.
Aaron is back in the living room. He sits on the edge of the chair across from me, still holding his phone to one ear. “Can Deo leave the group home? Go for a walk or whatever?”
I frown, not sure why he’s asking me that.
“I mean, does he have to get permission, or . . .”
“No. He just signs out, but he has to be back by curfew.”
He turns away and starts talking into his phone again. “Okay, Taylor. Just get him to the phone. You can do that. When has Daniel ever told you no?”
I hear a girl’s voice, but it’s competing with Deo’s voice on my phone. He’s still going on about Marietta, so I don’t catch what the girl is saying.
“Thanks, Tay.” Aaron holds his hand over the phone. “I’m going to try and get my brother to bring Deo here.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
But Deo heard Aaron, too. Even through the cell phone, his yes is nearly as loud as my no.