The front door opened. Ada opened her eyes.
Gregory stood inside, wearing a T-shirt with an alien on it. He looked contrite.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.
“Can you come upstairs for a second?” he asked, backing away into the shadows of the house. Ada hesitated.
“Just a second,” said Gregory, and at last she followed.
The rest of the house was quiet; it seemed as if no one was home.
In the attic, Gregory was waiting for her, standing there forthrightly, his arms hanging at his sides.
“I would like to apologize,” he said formally.
Ada paused. “Okay,” she said.
She crossed her arms. “What are you sorry for?”
He flushed. He looked down at the floor. “For calling you stupid. And for—saying that about your father.”
She did not ask him whether he thought it was true. She knew now, and he knew, that it was.
“Do you accept my apology?” Gregory asked.
That’s not how it works, Ada wanted to say. You wait and see. Instead, she nodded, once.
Gregory looked pleased.
“It never happened before,” said Ada. “In case you were wondering.”
“Oh,” he said.
“I don’t like him,” she said, about William. “You asked me last night if I did. I don’t.
“It was a mistake,” she added—a phrase she had heard only in films.
They sat together for a while. Ada felt changed: as if she had crossed a bridge that had collapsed behind her, suddenly, without warning. Gregory seemed younger to her now. She had left him behind. All day, her feelings had swung wildly back and forth. There was a part of her that wished she could return to her childhood, yes, retreat to the opposite shore; but she also had the satisfying sense that she had gained a new and interesting piece of wisdom about the universe, had been granted access to a secret that the adults in her life had known for years. It made her consider all of them with new interest. It made her wonder new things.
Miss Holmes had given her the letter from the librarian in Olathe to keep. She considered whether or not to share it with Gregory. He had his back to her now. He was playing some sort of primitive game on his computer—two pixelated machines were scuttling back and forth across the bottom of the screen. What is it? she would have said to him, formerly; formerly she would have asked if she could play.
“By the way,” he said. “Mom’s been looking for you.” He didn’t turn around.
“She has?” said Ada. She had been hoping that, against all odds, Liston simply had not noted her absence. David probably wouldn’t have.
“Yeah,” said Gregory. “She’s worried. She’s driving around looking for you.”
“Do you know where she went?” Ada said.
“Nope,” said Gregory. “She has Matty with her. She said she was gonna call the police if you weren’t back when she got back.”
“Shit,” said Ada quietly.
“She asked me if I knew where you were,” said Gregory, after a pause.
“Did you tell her?” asked Ada, and a sudden panic hit her: that Gregory, before his first wave of anger had subsided, might have told her what he saw. She could not face Liston if he had.
Gregory turned around, slowly, in his chair. He had won the game. He swiped a quick hand under his nose. “No,” he said finally. “I didn’t tell her anything. I said I thought maybe you’d just left early and gone for a walk. I don’t think she believed me, though.”
“Thank you,” said Ada. Gregory nodded, somewhat formally, once.
She decided, then, that she would show him the letter. He seemed genuinely contrite. Besides, there was no one else to whom she could show it. “Look,” said Ada, to Gregory. She held it forth. He took it and read it, mouthing the words intently—a habit of his that Ada had noted before.
“Harold Canady,” he said, looking up.
Ada nodded. “Miss Holmes says we can research him next.” And she was glad, for the first time, to have Gregory alongside her, worrying the same things that she was worrying, working away at the same mystery that she was trying to work out. He was the only person in her life, she realized, who knew everything there was to know about David. Everything that she knew, at least. And he seemed not to judge David, but to think of him somehow—as a part of Ada did, too—with respect. As the creator of a long and interesting riddle for both of them to solve. As a genius: which, despite everything that had transpired, was still the grain of truth about her father that Ada clung to, that gave her some measure of comfort.
Liston came home an hour later. From the attic, Ada heard her open the front door, and then she heard Liston’s low panicked voice tell Matty to go to his room for a while. “Why!” Matty exclaimed, and Liston said, tensely, she had some things to take care of.
“I’m here,” called Ada. She walked down the attic stairs, and then down the staircase to the first floor, passing Matty as she went.
“You’re gonna be in trouble,” Matty said, raising his eyebrows.
“I know,” Ada said.
“Ada?” cried Liston, and then there were quick footsteps down the hallway, and at the bottom of the stairs Liston came into sight, her face slightly crumpled. She was wearing a windbreaker suit and a red winter hat with a pom-pom on it, Red Sox knitted in white around its crown. She was wearing her overcoat: it was her formal one, the one she wore to work events in the winter, and it did not match the rest of her clothing. Ada imagined her throwing it on in a hurry, leaving with Matty in the car. Looking for her, for Ada.
“Oh, my God, baby. Where have you been,” said Liston quietly.
“I’m sorry,” said Ada. She did not want to tell her. She also did not want to lie.
Liston put one hand on the banister. “Oh my God. You scared the bejeezus out of me,” she said. “You have to tell me where you were.”
“I’m sorry,” Ada said again. “I don’t think I can.”
Liston looked at her, considering.
“I won’t do it again. I promise,” said Ada.
“Should I be worried?” asked Liston.
“No,” said Ada.
“I think I’m going to have to punish you,” said Liston, as if the thought was occurring to her for the first time.
“I know,” said Ada.
“Did David ever punish you?” Liston asked.
“No,” said Ada. “But you can,” she said, encouragingly.
She didn’t watch TV or play Atari; these could not be taken away. She rarely went to see friends; grounding wouldn’t have made sense. Therefore, her punishment, Liston decided, would be chores: a full cleaning of the kitchen that afternoon, and dinner duty every night that week.
While she cleaned, Liston sat with her.
“Are you all right?” she said. Her chin was propped on her hand. “I’ve been worried about you for months.”
“I’m not sure,” Ada said. “I think so.”
“I know you haven’t been going to see David,” said Liston, and Ada paused. She closed her eyes briefly.