“I didn’t say I was mad. I’m just…asking.”
I’m sort of telling the truth. Mad isn’t the right word. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t really have feelings for Jeremy anymore, but we used to be a unit, the three of us. The One-Parent Club. The two of them together leaves me on the outside.
This is how Gen must have felt when Jeremy and I got together.
We lapse into silence again, and soon the skyline of downtown Manhattan can be seen over the stretch of highway.
I don’t go to the city often. Besides there being no easy way to get there on public transportation, Manhattan doesn’t appeal to me. Concrete and skyscrapers and crowds of people. Give me the woods of Bier’s End any day. I used to try and find the silver lining in Fiona coming here for ballet school, tried to tell myself I could meet up with her and we could see a show together, go to a museum. But I could never muster up all that much excitement for it.
Once we’re through the Holland Tunnel, we emerge into the chaos of downtown. It takes both me and Gen to help Jeremy navigate to the address I have written on my phone. There’s a knot of nerves in my stomach the entire time.
That knot expands to a giant ball as we pull up to an imposing glass-and-steel building.
“So the plan is you’re searching Seth’s dad’s office for something to prove he killed your sister?” Jeremy asks.
“I don’t actually think Seth killed my sister—” I stop. That’s still true, isn’t it? “But I think his dad might have been involved,” I finish.
“Why?” Gen asks.
I exhale. “I can’t really get into it right now—I’ll explain when I get back.” I’ll have to decide if I’m going to tell them the whole truth or make something up.
“I don’t love the idea of you going in there alone,” Gen says, looking up at the building.
I feel a little jolt of warmth at that, cutting through the nerves. “I’ll be fine,” I say with false confidence.
“So what’s your plan?”
“My story is I’m looking for Kendall.” I came up with this idea last night. “She interns here.” Technically she interns in a different department, but I can pretend to have gotten confused and gone looking for her at her dad’s office. “I’ll say that I want to learn more about finance, which isn’t a stretch.”
“So what happens when you run into her?” Jeremy asks.
“I won’t. She’s not in this department. So I go up, pretend I mixed up where she works if anyone asks, and if no one’s there, I look around.”
“Doesn’t sound like the most well thought out of plans,” Gen says.
“Do you have any better ideas?” I demand.
Neither of them respond.
“I’ll circle,” Jeremy says finally. “Just message us when you’re coming out and we’ll be here ASAP.”
“Thank you.”
His mouth lifts at one corner. “No problem.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay. Here I go.”
Gen gets up to let me out of the back seat, and for a moment we stand there facing each other on the sidewalk. I have the urge to hug her, and for a moment I think she’s about to do the same, but then she just nods at me, says, “Good luck.”
I turn to face the building. Well-dressed people are streaming through the doors, and inside the tinted glass I can see a long reception desk.
But that’s not where I’m headed.
Instead, I walk around the side of the building, onto a smaller street, more like an alley, and find a door labeled Service Elevator. And then I wait.
Not less than five minutes later, a truck pulls up. I exhale. Showtime.
A scruffy-looking white man jumps out and heads to the back of the truck. I wait as he unloads several brown packages, piles them on a dolly, and heads toward the service elevator without even glancing my way.
Once he opens the door, I jump forward. “Excuse me. I need to hitch a ride.”
The man shakes his head. “This is the service entrance.”
“I know, but I forgot my license and security won’t let me in. I’m supposed to interview for my first job.” I swallow, try and summon up fake tears. “And if I miss it, I’m totally screwed and this is, like, my one opportunity to get somewhere in life, and—”
“Okay, kid, okay.” He nods toward the elevator. “Hop in.”
It worked. I can’t believe it.
I exhale and wipe away a fake tear. “Thank you.”
We get in and I punch the number twelve.
We ride up in silence. When we get to the twelfth floor, I thank him and get off.
I’m let out onto a corporate-looking hallway. Beige carpet, white walls, framed black-and-white photographs. Finance people hate color, I guess. There’s a man at one end walking with his head in his phone, a woman coming the other way doing the same. I straighten up and start off in a random direction, hoping I look like I know where I’m going. Neither of them even glance at me.
I couldn’t find Harold Montgomery’s office number by googling, but I figure the twelfth floor can’t be that big. I walk along, passing office after office with nameplates out front. A handful of people glance up, then look back down when they see me. Apparently, I’ve done a good job fitting in.
