“Fine,” I said. “One car.”
Before we left, Harrison handed me a card with his direct number written on the back in blue ink.
“Whatever you decide,” he said, “call me before you speak with Peter Langford.”
“Why?”
“Because if he filed false documents, he may not be the only person involved.”
The rain grew heavier.
“And Claire?”
I paused.
“Do not assume everyone who hid the truth did so for the same reason.”
I did not know whether that comforted or frightened me.
The car was black but not flashy. I sat in the back with the envelope on my lap, watching Cleveland slide by in gray streaks. Gas stations. Dollar stores. Brick churches with fading signs. A laundromat where Ethan and I used to do homework while our clothes tumbled dry.
Every familiar place looked slightly altered now, as if the city had been keeping secrets too.
At the high school, I found Ethan in the auditorium, arguing with another student about whether space exploration funding should be increased. He stopped mid-sentence when he saw me.
“Claire?”
He grabbed his backpack and hurried over.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay.”
That was Ethan. Seventeen years old, too thin from medication side effects, with dark curls falling into his eyes and a stubborn set to his jaw that made teachers either adore him or surrender.
“I need to talk to you,” I said. “Somewhere private.”
His expression changed.
“Is it my tests?”
“No. Not that.”
We found an empty music room. A piano sat in the corner beneath a dusty cover. Rain tapped against the narrow windows.
I closed the door.
Ethan dropped into a chair. “You’re scaring me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That never helps.”
I almost smiled.
Then I handed him the photograph.
He stared at it for a long moment.
“That’s Mom.”