by Brenda Drake
The sudden recall of the contents of Mr. Conte’s satchel jolts me. “There’s a ring in the bag. One of those.” I point at the decoders in his cupped hand.
He dumps them back into the drawer, the rings clinking against each other. With one quick and extremely agile move, Marek is on his feet, up the stairs, and out of the basement before I can register his departure.
My mouth purses, and my eyes stay stuck on the open door up the stairs, waiting for Marek to return. I want to pinch myself, wake up from this messed-up dream or nightmare. I need a judge and jury to sift through the evidence and tell me if this is real—the verdict is still out—but I’m very much awake.
Marek thumps down the steps with the satchel in hand. He plops back on the desk chair beside me and unfastens the straps. He claws inside the bag and pulls his hand out, the ring pinched between his fingers.
“This has to be the one.” He drops the bag behind him on the seat and searches around the desk.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
He stops and glances over his shoulder at me. “There has to be a message from him. Look for something with lines of numbers on it.”
I grasp the bag, plunge my hand inside, and carefully remove the contents, placing them on the desk. The envelopes are different sizes and colors, from ivory to beige. I shuffle through them and stop on one with Marek’s name on it.
It’s a letter from Marek, with a crayon drawing of two stick figures—one tall, one tiny—under a large tree with some purple leaves and some green leaves. Written in orange at the bottom of the page is Marek’s name with a backward “e.” The fact he couldn’t stay within the lines suggests he was young when he drew it.
“What’s that?” Marek’s sudden question startles me.
I hold it up for him to see. “You sent this drawing to your grandfather.”
His eyebrows push together. “That’s horrible. Good thing I gave up on my artistic ambitions. I sucked.”
“I think it’s cute.”
Our eyes lock, and it’s the first time that I truly see his face. I was too busy trying to avoid gawking at his bare chest to notice it. His jawline is prominent, his nose straight, his lips are on the fuller side, and his hair is wavy. He’s definitely pleasant to look at.
Stop.
Stop. Stop. Stop. He’s the grandson of your stalker.
He grabs a lighter resting on the desk between the keyboard and a damaged tissue box. “Invisible ink. He hid the message. It’s on this. Why else would he have an old letter of mine in his bag? Open the envelope at the seams.”
I slip my finger into the opening of the envelope, slowly tear it open until it’s completely free with no folds, and hand him the dissected paper.
He takes it and holds it over the lighter.
“No.” I grab his arm. “Don’t burn it.”
“I’m not.” He tugs his arm out of my grasp. “We used to write private messages with lemon juice and water. I don’t think he’d use my drawing, so it has to be the envelope.”
“How can he make a secret message with lemon juice?”
“You squeeze a lemon, add a little water to it, and then write your message using a cotton swab on a piece of paper.” He flicks on the lighter. “Hold a flame to the paper, and the lemon will turn it a different color to reveal the message.”
I can hardly believe it, but it works. The hidden numbers turn brown on the white paper. “Now what?” I ask when he finishes exposing the cipher.
“We decode it.” He leans over the decoder ring, turning one of the dials. There are three windows. One with numbers, one with the alphabet, and the other with unusual symbols.
“What are the symbols in that window?”
“I’m not sure. It looks like some foreign alphabet. Read the numbers to me, and I’ll write the matching English letter down.”
I flatten the envelope on my lap. “I thought it was going to be actual invisible ink. Okay, the first one is twelve.” I continue calling out the numbers from the envelope until we reach the last one. “What does it say?”
He straightens. “It says, the first clue is with number three on the list.”
“That’s kind of anticlimactic.” I heave a sigh that shows how frustrated I am. The hands on the very plain clock above the monitors are almost at noon. Dalton and I figured that I should leave here by one to get home before Jane. Actually, I can leave by two, since we left some wiggle room in our estimation. “So who’s number three on that list?”
“What list?”
I give him an incredulous look. “The whole reason I’m here. That list. With my name and my parents’ names on it.”
“Oh.” He retrieves it from the bag and stabs it with his finger. “Here. Shona Jackson. She’s eighteen and lives in New York. Freshman at NYU.”
It’s over. The clue leads to someone out of town. I stand. “Well, that’s it. I’m never going to know why your grandfather was watching me.”
“Come on. Do you always give up so easily? I’ll Google her.” He grasps the mouse by the keyboard and clicks. “It’s locked. I don’t know the password. Do you have a smartphone?”
“Yes.” I lean back and tug my phone out my front pocket.
“She lives on 57th street. Apartment 15B. The address is listed beside her name.” He slides the list on the table closer to me.
I enter the address into the search box. The information loads on the screen of my phone. “Joel Jackson owns the building. Must be her dad.”
“Great.” He pops up to his feet. “It’s less than a three-hour drive from here. We’d get there before four.”
It takes a few seconds for my mind to catch up to what he’s suggesting. My eyes practically bug out, and I shake my head. “No. No way. I can’t go today. I have to get home before Jane—my mom does. She’ll freak if I’m not there.”
He looks down at me, eyebrows pinched, lips in a straight line. “I thought you wanted to get answers. Here’s our chance. This girl has a clue my gramps left me. What about tomorrow? Wait. Where do you live?”
“Philly,” I say.
“Perfect. I’ll come to you, and we can grab the express.”
Tomorrow. A Saturday. The day before Dalton and I take a bus to some boring bereavement camp by Thompson Lake in Maine. I can tell Jane I’m hanging out with friends before we leave. Dalton will cover for me.
“Okay,” I say. “We have to go at eight in the morning and be back by six at night, no later than seven.” I glance up at the security monitors on the wall above the computers and gasp.
The guy from the gas station, in the Audi with the Thor license plate, strolls up the driveway, flipping his keys in his hand.
Chapter Six
My heart jumps and I bang the back of my legs against the chair and bump into Marek.
He stumbles sideways. “What’s wrong?”
I point a shaky finger at the screen. “H-him. He’s following me.”
His eyes go to the screen, and he leans closer to it. “Oh, him. That’s my uncle Bjorn.”
“Your uncle?” I can’t pull my eyes away from the image of him strutting up the sidewalk with so much confidence he looks arrogant.
“Yeah. Come on.” Marek flips off the main switch, and the screens go black. “I don’t want him knowing about this…um…”
“Command center?”
He slides me a look that’s both disappointed and accepting. “Okay, whatever, command center.”
My light footsteps follow his pounding ones up the stairs and into the hallway. He closes and locks the door right before a loud chime sounds throughout the house. We stare at each other for what seems like an eternity.
Is he going to answer it? Why is he just looking at me? Then he inserts the key back into the door, and I notice the flap of my jacket is stuck in the crack. He opens it again, rel
easing me, then locks it back up and hurries down the hall.
Before Marek can reach the front door, it opens.
A surprised expression hits Bjorn’s face. “Hullo, Marek. Wasn’t told you’d be about. Just stopping by to call on Grams. See how she’s holding up. What took you so long to answer?” His eyes land on me, and I swear my gulp echoes against the walls. “Now who’s this? Hold on there. I know you.”
I look behind me like there’s someone else there he could be talking about.
He continues, “At the gas station. That’s it. Good suggestion on the drink. Quite delicious, that one.” His eyes shift from me to Marek. “Where’s Grams?”
Marek steps aside to let Bjorn in. “She’s at her bridge club. She’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“Mind if I hang about until she returns?”
“Not at all, man,” Marek says. “Grams made apple bread. It’s in the kitchen. I’m going to walk her out.”
Bjorn looks nothing like Marek or Mr. Conte. He’s really tall, pale with red hair. Marek and his grandfather have darker complexions and average height. Maybe Bjorn takes after Grams’s side of the family.
“And who’s ‘her?’” Bjorn stares down at me.
“Oh, this is Ana. She’s a friend.” He scoots by Bjorn. “I’ll be right back.”
“Nice meeting you, Ana,” Bjorn says as I pass.
“You, too.” I follow Marek out the door and catch up to him.
“Your uncle. Is he from your grandmother’s side of the family?”
Marek glances back at the house, then at me. “No. He’s not a blood-relative. My dad met him in college. He stayed here one summer before my parents got married. Been coming around ever since.”
He went to school with his dad? “Wow. He looks young.”
“Yeah, he’s got good genes. I think he dyes his hair.” We stop by my car. “So tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.”
“Give me your phone.” He holds an open hand up.
“What do you want with it?”
“Relax. Just adding my number to your contacts.”
I pull it out of my pocket and place it on his palm.
He inspects it and holds it out. “Lock.”
I press my thumb against the button. He enters his number and hands it back to me. “Call me later. We’ll make plans.”
“But I—”
“Just call me,” he cuts me off, pointing his head in the direction of the house.
Bjorn is watching us from the front window.
“We’ll talk later.” He winks before walking off and heading back for the house.
I hop into the Civic and take off, putting as much distance as I can from Mr. Conte’s secrets.
…
If there’s an epically asinine thing to do, I’d find it. Which I do. Here I sit on the Acela Express beside Marek, on our way to New York.
Sneaking off to New York is something Dalton would do, not me. If Jane ever finds out, she’ll ground me for an eternity. “Hey, no worries,” Dalton said. “I’ll run interference. Mom will never know you went.”
Dalton would totally be on this excursion with me if he didn’t have a shift at the hospital’s gift shop. We both work there, and Jane has a habit of checking in on us while we’re on the clock.
My stomach rumbles as if boulders are bouncing around in it. I’m either hungry, or all the rocks of doom have dropped inside me.
Marek gives me a sidelong glance. “You hungry? We can grab a bite somewhere.”
“As long as it’s quick.”
“Right. Home by six. We can grab a hot dog from one of the vendors. Don’t worry, we’ll be back in time.” A crooked smile lifts the right corner of his mouth. His eyes scan my face.
My heart does a flip in my chest. I swear that smile and those eyes could stop a river and make it flow in the opposite direction. His lips wrap around the rim of his water bottle. He takes a long swig, and I watch his throat move up and down as he swallows.
Stop staring, Ana. Seriously. It’s like you’ve never seen a guy drink water before. I pretend to look for the restroom, glancing up the aisle and then in the other direction.
“Need something?” he asks.
“Restroom.”
“It’s back that way.” He motions over his shoulder.
A woman sitting across the aisle from us stretches her incredibly long, dark legs out in the walkway. She has one of those perfect faces you only get from an app and hair that shines like an oil slick.
I stand and slide out into the walkway.
“Ah, young lovers,” the woman says, her eyes traveling from me to Marek.
“We’re not,” I say. “He’s just a friend.”
Her eyes land on me again. They’re black as night, and I can’t even make out the irises. Almost hypnotizing. “I’m an expert in spotting romantic links. I do it for a living.” She extends a pink card out to me. “If you ever need my services, give me a call.”
“Thank you.” I reluctantly take the card.
The rocking of the train makes it difficult to walk, and I stagger all the way to the restroom. I shove the card into the pocket of my black bomber jacket. My Vans stick to something on the floor, and I squinch my face. I dart a quick look over my shoulder at the woman before closing the door.
Marek thinks the look is for him and nods at me, that crooked smile lifting one corner of his mouth again. I start and bump my head against the door I’m trying to close.
I don’t even want to know if he saw that. This is going to be one long day with me trying to act unaffected by Marek.
Check yourself, Ana. I can almost hear Dalton tease me for drooling over the guy.
Marek isn’t anything special. Our conversations are about his grandfather and that mysterious list. We probably have nothing in common. The door sighs as I shut it.
When I return to my seat, Long Legs is gone.
“Guess it’s my turn. Excuse me.” His calves brush me as he squeezes by, his butt practically in my face.
I sink farther into my chair to give him more room.
He makes it to the aisle and smiles down at me. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” I say, trying to sound as unaffected as a rhino with an oxpecker bird on his back. Which is an actual thing. I saw it in a documentary once. The birds use the rhino for protection from predators. Because no one wants to take on such a mammoth animal.
That’s what I need to do. Get a tough skin like a rhino.
With Marek gone, I slip the woman’s card out from my pocket. It’s pink and there are two interlocking hearts in one corner with three simple lines in the middle.
Love in the Afternoon Dating Service
Inanna Amari, Matchmaker
I’ll find you…
“What the hell?” The woman is one rook shy of a checkmate.
I sneak a look at the seat she was sitting in. A folded sheet of paper is on the cushion. Rising a little off my seat, I check both directions to make sure no one sees me, then snag the note.
A floral scent rises from the paper as I unfold it. The script is precise and curly. The words are like a knife to my throat.
Analiese, you’re being watched.
…
I can’t think with the loud and constant honking of cars on the street just outside Penn Station. I’ve never been to New York City without my dad or Jane. With my head snapping in different directions—side to side, behind me, in front of me—I probably seem like I’m on something. There are too many people rushing by us on the sidewalk.
Vehicles stop so suddenly, I cringe, thinking I’m going to witness a crash, but somehow they either weave around or stop just in time and avoid hitting the one in front of them. I could never drive in this city.
Analiese, you’re being watched.
Standing here in the middle of the street with the entire city passing us by has me on my toes. My muscles tense, a headache building behind my eyes. Why did I agree to this?
I spot a black car heading up the street.
“Is that our Uber?”
Marek cranes his neck to see around a woman in a very stylish outfit, carrying an expensive-looking bag. “No. We’re looking for a Jetta.”
“I wish it would just get here already.” I glance around again.
“Hey.” He places a hand on my back. “You okay? You’re not worried about that note, are you? It was probably a joke. The woman was a little out there.”
“It’s not just the note,” I say, fear sounding in my voice. “It’s that she knew my name.”
“She probably heard me say it.”
“Did you see her writing anything when I was in the rest room?”
“No, but I wasn’t really paying attention.”
I swallow to clear my dry throat. “Maybe she did hear you say my name. But why write that?”
The grave expression on his face isn’t anything like the despair eating away at my stomach. “I don’t know, but she’s gone now.”
A black Jetta pulls up to the curb, and Marek hops off the sidewalk and opens the door. “After you,” he says, trying to give me his best reassuring smile and totally failing.
I get in and slide to the other side of the seat. That’s when I see them through the window. They’re across the street trying to look like tourists, huddled together, a map opened between them. The woman from the train and Marek’s Uncle Bjorn.
Why are they together? How do they know each other?
“Wh-what the hell—?” I sputter out, my throat closing on the last word.
Chapter Seven
The Jetta takes off, and I twist in my seat to peer out the back window. “Isn’t that your uncle? He’s with that matchmaker woman.” Adrenaline rushes through my veins faster than the rising speed of our Uber. My arms and legs shake, and fear tightens my stomach.
“What?” Marek turns and glances back just as the Jetta careens around a corner. “I don’t see them.”
