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I WOKE UP WHILE IT

was still dark. I dressed in Noah’s clothes—his T-shirt, which hung loose over my narrow shoulders, and his jeans, which I had to roll up before I could walk. I didn’t care how I looked; wearing his clothes made me feel closer to him, and I needed that for what I would have to do today.

My heart pounded against my ribs as I opened his laptop and powered it on. There might have been something on it that would give us some clue, some hint that would help me find him, and no matter what else I found on it, I needed to find that. I needed to know he was okay.

I was prompted for a password, and I guessed wrong once, twice, four times, then eight. Nothing I tried worked—no variations of his name, his pets’ names, his birthday, even my birthday. I slammed the laptop shut, threw it into his bag, and knocked on Stella’s door before the sun rose. She answered it blearily.

“Y’okay?”

Not really. “I want to go as soon as we can.”

She stood there for a minute, as if she were trying to translate what I’d said, but she finally nodded. “Ten minutes.”

Jamie didn’t answer the first or second time I knocked; I stood there for what felt like hours before he finally woke up.

“What?”

“Pack up. I want to go.”

“Why?”

“Because we have to find Noah.”

Jamie blinked, and I thought he would argue, but he said, “Five minutes.” And then he shut the door on me.

We walked out of the bed-and-breakfast without breakfast, and, as Stella complained, without much bed, either, but it would be a while before we reached Miami. Stella could nap in the car. On our way out we managed to steal—sorry, “borrow”—a car belonging to an early-rising guest, thanks to Jamie. It was comfortable and roomy, but Jamie warned us not to get attached to it—we’d be ditching it as soon as we reached Miami. After that we would borrow another one, and pay a visit to Noah’s parents, then ours.

Stella’s mouth hung open when we crossed the bridge that led to the gated island Noah lived on. The farther in we drove, the more extravagant the houses became. Noah’s parents’ house (mansion) towered over the center of a sprawling green lawn dotted with Greek fountains. Palm trees framed the driveway, which was blocked by an iron gate.

The video camera swiveled in our direction. I’d already told Jamie what to say.

“Hi,” he said, as if reading from a script. “I’m here to see Noah? I’m a friend from school?”

There was a click, and then a voice on the intercom. “No visitors are to be admitted at present, I’m afraid.”

I knew that voice. “Albert?” The Shaws’ butler. He’d met me before. I prayed that he would remember. “It’s Mara Dyer—I have something of Noah’s—”

“He’s . . . he’s unavailable, miss.”

Unavailable. Unavailable dead or unavailable alive?

“Where is he?” I asked.

There was a pause. “I’m afraid—” My heart lodged in my throat. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

I tried to stay calm. I had to stay calm, or we would be thrown out of there with more questions and fewer answers than we’d arrived with.



“Can I give you something to give to him?”

There was no answer, but the gate swung open. I leaned my head back against the seat in relief as Jamie drove forward.

 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Jamie said. He’d said that before. Every time, actually.

Watching him exercise his ability was sort of fascinating. He worked himself up into an anxious, nervous frenzy, wondering out loud if he could do it, mumbling to himself about the consequences. It reminded me of something I’d read once, about divers making themselves hyperventilate before they dove, to force more oxygen into their lungs or something. Since we were triggered by stress and fear and possibly pain, Jamie freaking out about whether or not he could work his magic made it more likely that he could.

Albert was waiting for us at the front door when we drove up. His hands were tucked behind his back. I fleetingly wondered how he would react to Jamie vomiting in one of the mammoth potted boxwood urns when he finished with him.

“You can do this,” I whispered to Jamie. And then he did.

“Hi, Albert,” Jamie said in that calm, confident, crystalline voice. “My name is Jamie Roth, though you’re not actually going to remember that, or the fact that we had this conversation, once we’ve had it.”

“Of course, sir.”

“So here’s how this is going to work. I’m going to ask you questions, and you’re going to give me honest answers, all right?”

“All right.”

“Okay, what’s your middle name?”

Stella and I shared a glance.

“Eugene.”

“Do you have a driver’s license?”

“Yes.”

“Give me your wallet, please.”

Albert did so. Jamie checked it. “His middle name is in fact Eugene. Great. Okay, Albert. Now this is where it’s going to get a little weird. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready for weird, sir.”

“Is Noah Shaw alive?”

It took an eternal, agonizing second for Albert to answer.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, Noah’s alive?”

“Yes, he is.”

I wanted to do cartwheels on the lawn. I wanted to fly. I wanted to rocket into the sun.

“Where is he?”

“At the Horizons Residential Treatment Center, sir.”

No. No.

“Are you sure, Albert?”

“Yes, sir. I drove him there myself.”

“When?”

“Three weeks ago.”

That was shortly after I’d been dropped off myself.

“Do you know if he was there just for the retreat or if he’d been admitted long-term?”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“Aren’t his parents worried about him?”

“Not particularly, no.”

No surprise there.

“Are they home?” Jamie asked. “Can we speak to them?”

“I’m afraid they’re in Europe at the moment.”

“What about Katie?” I asked. Jamie repeated my question.

“Her as well,” Albert answered.

Jamie looked at me and shrugged. “What next?”

I didn’t know. But at least we had one more answer than we’d had when we’d arrived; there had been no funeral. Which meant his family believed he was alive. But they also thought he was at Horizons. Noah had gotten himself thrown in there for me. To be with me. And now—

Now he was nowhere. Because of me.

 



Date: 2015-01-29; view: 598


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