“You’re welcome to verify my credentials,” he barked when I still didn’t answer.
And then he pushed his whole badge through the slot. It fell to the floor with a heavy thud. When I picked it up, it certainly looked real—worn and with a slightly outdated picture. And so specific: Department of Homeland Security. Who goes with that if it was some kind of scam? Regular old police officer would be way less complicated.
“I’d like to speak with Dr. Benjamin Lang, please.” Like an order from a drill sergeant, when I finally opened the door.
“He’s not here,” I managed, immediately wishing I’d lied and said that he was in the shower or something.
“When will he return?” Return? It was off—weirdly too fancy or something for even a federal agent.
“I’m, um—” Say long enough that he doesn’t want to come in. “It could be a really long time.” But don’t make it seem like you’re alone and unprotected. “But my brother will be home any second.”
He looked confused—because why would he care about my brother?—then nodded once like a salute and handed me a card: Dr. Frederick Mitchell, NIH. Didn’t his badge say Homeland Security? He did not look like a doctor. But he also didn’t look like an officer of any kind. Just like a giant pretending to be a normal person.
“I’ll wait out in the car.”
When I peeked out the curtain a few minutes later, Dr. Frederick Mitchell was sitting there in the driver’s seat—not reading, not looking at his phone. Just sitting there, eyes dead ahead, like a robot.
I texted my dad. Some freaky doctor from Homeland Security or the NIH is here. Seems sketchy.
Oh, right. I forgot he was coming. Sorry. Be home soon.
And sure enough, my dad invited that sketchy doctor-robot man right inside and led him downstairs like there was nothing odd about it or him. I tried to listen at the top of the stairs, but the rest of their conversation was lost, muffled by the basement steps. And I already knew my dad wasn’t going to fill me in on the actual details afterward. Ever since the accident, he’d stopped telling me anything that could even maybe make me stressed, which, of course, only stressed me out more.
“What was that about?” I asked anyway, once the guy and his barrel chest had strode out our door.
“Routine grant review,” my dad said with a disappointed shrug. Like the whole thing had turned out to be a lot less interesting than he’d hoped. “Bureaucracy making the world go round.”
I consider telling Dr. Simons about the man who came to our house. But I don’t want to. Don’t want to multiply the threats, don’t want to be expanding the circle of danger.
“Wylie, I am truly sorry that you had to find out about your mother this way,” Dr. Simons says. “I had the false impression that your dad had already had the opportunity to explain. But innocent or not, that was an inexcusable mistake. I hope you accept my most sincere apology.”
I shrug. “That’s okay,” I say, even though it’s not okay at all. None of this is okay. At least everyone else in the main cabin has returned to their own business. I’m glad to no longer be the center of attention.
“You should also know that your dad only recently started entertaining the possibility himself that your mother’s death might not have been accidental. It’s not as though he’s been keeping it from you.”
“Keeping it from me for long, you mean,” I say, looking away.
Do I want to press Dr. Simons for details about what happened to her? Before I can even decide, the door to the cabin opens. Quentin is already back? And he’s walking fast in our direction. Carrying something too, draped over one arm. I feel sick when I realize it’s my dad’s coat.
“Jasper was wearing that,” I say when he reaches us. Quentin frowns, keeps his eyes on the jacket as he holds it up. It’s dirty and flecked with crushed leaves. But the worst part? One of the sleeves is half torn off. I jump to my feet. “Where did you find it?”
“Stuart picked it up in the woods, not far from the driveway.” He glances up at me. “It’s not that cold out anymore. Maybe Jasper tossed it because he didn’t think he needed it.” But that’s not really true and also wouldn’t explain the torn sleeve. I can tell Quentin doesn’t believe that anyway.
I think again about the way Doug had Jasper up against the wall. My heart is racing.