I shake my head. “Whatever. Now that the car is fixed, let’s just go.”
To Philly. To our only lead so far.
—
Skies are clear today, and there’s hardly any traffic on the hour-and-change ride to Philadelphia. Seth keeps his eyes straight ahead of him. There’s no trace of what happened last night on his face, and I wonder if he decided to leave whatever he felt for me behind in that little attic bedroom when I told him no.
Caleb lives in a dorm in the city center. Seth’s big plan is to follow someone in, walk around looking like we belong there, and if we don’t see him, ask someone which room is his.
It works. We’re about five feet behind a redhead, and when she swipes a key fob to the door, Seth steps forward and catches it before it closes. He holds it open for me, and we walk through another doorway and into a two-story lounge with long windows and tables and chairs and couches.
We search but don’t see Caleb anywhere. After a few minutes, I finally go up to a guy and ask if he knows which room is Caleb Jones’s, making up some story about needing to borrow notes. He directs me to a room on the third floor.
As we make our way down the hallway, a knot forms in my stomach. It gets bigger when we reach his door. Was someone really trying to stop us from talking to him?
What could he possibly have to say that’s so important?
I touch Fiona’s necklace, take a deep breath, and knock.
No answer.
I knock again. Nothing.
I hold my ear to the door, but it doesn’t sound like anyone is inside, hiding from us. Seth and I look at each other.
He pulls out his phone. “That post I saw from a few days ago, he was at some diner.”
I look over his shoulder as he scrolls. There are a lot of photos, though hardly any with Caleb in it. A stack of books. A stack of pancakes. Sunset over the city.
He enlarges the pancake photo. “The Blue Heron. He was there last Sunday. We could try that.”
It seems like a long shot, but I don’t want to face the idea that we’ve come all this way for nothing.
I nod.
Seth shrugs. “If nothing else, I could use some pancakes.”
—
The Blue Heron is farther into the west side of the city, where things are decidedly less modern and shiny. The diner is silver and blue, with a little parking lot attached. We park and cautiously approach the door.
A bell jangles when we walk in. There are tables in the center of the room, booths along the side, in the same blue and silver colors as the outside. I scan the room as the hostess leads us toward the back, my hopes not very high—
When a movement in one corner catches my eye.
Tall Black guy with close-cropped black hair. Glasses. His back is to us. The hostess sits us at the booth in front of him, and he’s facing away from us. I’m flipping through our options—walk by like I’m going to the bathroom, happen to glance down? Just walk right up to the table?—when the guy turns around and looks straight at us.
It’s Caleb Jones.
17
At the sight of us, Caleb freezes.
Seth glances at me and then swiftly slides out of our booth and into Caleb’s. A moment later, I follow.
Caleb’s paused with his coffee halfway to his lips. Now he sets it down, eyes flickering around the diner, then back to Seth and me.
“I can guess why you’re here.” Caleb’s voice is soft, the way I remember it, his wrists thin. He wears a button-down short-sleeved shirt with a checkered print on it. His dark eyes are huge behind his glasses.
“We just want to talk,” Seth says.
Caleb’s eyes dart to the exit. “I don’t have anything to say.” He starts to rise.
“Thatcher’s dead,” Seth says bluntly. “The cops might think Addie and I are to blame. We’re not. But we need to find out who is. So if you know anything that could help us—please.”
Caleb’s eyes are wide. He doesn’t look guilty, as far as I can tell—just scared.
“You joining him?” A server appears at our table, a twenty-something person with orange hair and a pierced lip.
“We need a minute,” Seth says. Then he looks at Caleb. “Please. Just a minute.”
The server shrugs and walks away.
Once they’re gone, Caleb uncertainly eases himself back down.
“Is it true you were with Thatcher the night my sister died?” I ask.
Caleb still looks nervous. “You’re not recording this, are you?”