A Million Shadows

by Janci Patterson

  “Well, your father’s an asshole. There’s that.”

  He grunted. “That’s not news.”

  I leaned forward, trying to get him to look me in the eye, but he kept his eyes on the road. “Maybe not. But him having a second family is.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe to me.”

  “You don’t think I knew.”

  He sighed. “Of course not. But my mother was so sure he was still in California, you know? It’s like you said. Why would he stick around? It sure wasn’t me and my mom keeping him here.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. “What a douche.”

  Kalif’s eyes closed for half a second. “How old do you think that kid was? Six? Seven?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “So I would have been ten when he was born.”

  My stomach sank. “Your dad disappeared . . .”

  “When I was nine. For six months.”

  Now I felt nauseous. “You think your mom knew?”

  He gave a violent shake of his head. “Not then. She was terrified while he was gone. By now, she must at least suspect.”

  “Or she wouldn’t have thought he’d stick around the area. But why would she still want to protect him, if she knows he did this?”

  “I don’t know,” Kalif said. “I guess sometimes when you love someone, you don’t want to see them hurt, even when they’ve earned it.”

  I shivered. “Newsflash. I would not put up with that from you.”

  “Good,” Kalif said. “And I’ll never put you in that position.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  He spoke through his teeth. “This is ridiculous. If we can do better, why can’t they?”

  I shook my head. “It’s not your mother’s fault.”

  He pounded his fist into the steering wheel. “It is. She sticks around, letting him do this to her. We could use this to find my dad, you know? He’ll come back to the house eventually. We could bug the house and find him through the tap. But I don’t want to tell my mom where he is. I don’t want her to tie herself to him again.”

  I closed my eyes. That was exactly what Aida was doing—tying herself to Mel like he was a tree in a storm. “We could always turn him in to your grandparents instead. They’ll kill him, though.”

  Kalif’s voice was low. “I know.”

  Tiny raindrops splatted against the windshield, and I imagined the bag of toilet paper melting into a paper pulp beneath the tree. “And that’s what you want?”

  He was quiet for a long time. “If I don’t want that,” he said, "does that make me just like her?”

  My shoulders relaxed. “No. He’s your father. I’m more worried if you do want to kill him.”

  Kalif nodded. “Tell me what the healthy option is. I want to do that.”

  “We keep looking,” I said. “We keep working until we’re holding all the cards. And then you and I will figure out how to play them.”

  The windshield wipers squeaked in rhythm with the humming of the tires on the pavement. I reached over and put my hand on Kalif’s wrist until he took his right hand off the steering wheel and let me hold it.

  “And we’ll win,” he said.

  But he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

  When we reached our hotel rooms, Kalif paused on his doorstep. His key card shook in his hand. “Can I,” he said. “Would you . . .” He cleared his throat, but he didn’t continue.

  “You don’t want to be alone,” I said.

  He looked up at the ceiling. “I really don’t.”

  I stepped into him and slipped an arm around his waist. “You could just say so, dummy.”

  He ruffled my hair and slid the card into the door. As we passed through the doorway, guilt settled over me. If the situation was reversed, Kalif would have insisted that we stay outside and talk, or go to our separate rooms—not because he didn’t want to be there for me, but because he was kind of obsessive about not taking advantage of me.

  I felt torn—was I supposed to take care of him the way he wanted, or the way he would have taken care of me? As Kalif closed the door behind us, I shook myself. That obsession was his hang up, not mine. And while I could physically turn myself into him, copy his voice and movements in every way, I couldn’t be him. I could only be me. And I didn’t want to leave him alone with this.

  When Kalif turned around, he still wouldn’t look me in the eye. I looked around helplessly for somewhere to sit, but the only comfortable surface that would fit us both was the bed.

  Because, you know. Hotel room.

  Kalif looked up at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t be upset. I already knew he was a dick. And a murderer. And he tried to kill you. That was worse, right? So I shouldn’t be upset about this.”

  “You already said that,” I said. “Obviously you’re upset.”

  Kalif set his jaw. “I know. And it’s pissing me off.”

  “Hey,” I said. “Lie down, okay? Relax.”

  Kalif looked at me warily, and I waited for his argument. But instead he kicked off his shoes and threw himself onto the bed.

  I lay down next to him and rubbed his shoulders. He buried his face into a pillow.

  “Can you even breathe like that?” I asked.

  The pillow muffled his answer.

  I worked my hands down over his shoulder blades. “You could shift this tension out.”

  He turned his head to the side. “If I did that, would you stop?”

  I laughed. “No.”

  His muscles went soft under my hands. I continued to rub down the sides of his spine, scratching gently with my nails. Kalif closed his eyes.

  I was suddenly aware of my hands, easing along his body. The air buzzed around us. Even through his shirt, I could feel every tiny shift he made, trying to ease out the knots. I wondered how long they had been there.

  We should have done this ages ago.

  He turned his neck far enough to look up at me, and my body caught fire.

  Right. That’s why we didn’t.

  I pulled my hands away, and Kalif rolled over. I was sure he was going to tell me to stop, ask me to go back to my room, but instead he pulled me onto him, and our mouths crashed together. His hands worked at my waist, drawing me closer. His hips ground against mine, and I felt my body reacting to him, my waist narrowing, my shoulders and hips widening into an exaggerated hourglass.

  I pulled back half an inch, just enough to be able to speak. “Hey. Aren’t you supposed to tell me to stop?”

  His voice was rough in my ear. “Why was that, again?”

  Then his mouth closed over mine again, like he didn’t want me to answer. Our hips pressed together, my knees digging into the sheets on either side of him. His mouth wandered down my jaw line to the tender spot beneath my earlobe.

  My back arched involuntarily, and my whole body broke out in chills. “Mmm,” I said. “I don’t remember.”

  Kalif wrapped one arm tight around my waist, the other hand weaving through my hair. His fingernails scratched my hip, and I could feel his heart pounding with mine.

  If the situation was reversed, he would have stopped. I should do that for him, shouldn’t I? I should protect him, like he protected me.

  But I didn’t like it when he did that to me. And I loved him. I loved him. And more than anything, I wanted him to feel it.

  I reached my hands under his shirt, working over the muscles on his back, the ones I’d been touching only moments ago through the layers of fabric. His skin burned beneath my hands. My breath caught, and I wanted to look him in the eye, to see his face. The one I didn’t get to see nearly often enough.

  I pulled back.

  And found myself looking into a face that was a near-exact copy of Mel.

  I screamed.

  Kalif flew back, nearly falling off the bed. “What?” he said. “What?”

  I scrambled backward toward the headboard. Kalif stared at me, wide eyed and confused, and his features slipped back toward himself, but the
resemblance to his father was still stronger than usual.

  He’d done this before, when he felt guilty about taking advantage of me. When he was thinking too much about his dad, like his mind was caught in the maelstrom of his family’s issues, and not fully here in the moment with me.

  I caught my breath. “Okay,” I said. “I cannot make out with you if you look like your dad. I love you, but ew.”

  Kalif hunched over and buried his face in his hands. Then he swore. A lot.

  Giggles welled up inside me, and I struggled to smother them. It was a totally inappropriate reaction, like laughing at a funeral.

  Kalif hunched over further. “I hate my life.”

  I crawled toward him and knelt beside him on the bed, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” I said. “It’s okay.”

  He groaned. “It’s not. I can’t even look at you right now.” He stood up, face still covered, and stalked across the room. Laying his hands on the sink, he looked at himself in the mirror and pushed at his features so he looked more like his mother. “Whatever I do,” he said, "they’re always staring back at me.”

  I perched on the edge of the bed. “You’re not them.”

  He leaned forward, both palms on the counter, and closed his eyes.

  I stood and leaned against the wall near him. “You’re not him.”

  His face crumpled, and he took deep breaths, like he was holding on by a thread.

  I closed the distance and wrapped my arms around him. “You’re not,” I said.

  Kalif turned around and buried his face in my neck, his hands raking through my hair and holding, like I was the only thing anchoring him in place. But instead of feeling his warmth, my whole body went cold.

  I loved him, and I wanted to hold on forever, but I didn’t want to be the only thing standing between him and the abyss.

  Because if my mother had taught me one thing, it was this: no one person should be the whole world to another.

  Nineteen

  I woke up fully clothed under Kalif’s comforter, my arms tangled around his neck. He breathed softly and evenly into my hair. I couldn’t see the clock, but even with the heavy curtains drawn, cracks of light shone in.

  I wished I could have stayed asleep forever. I closed my eyes, hoping to return to blissful oblivion.

  Then Kalif’s phone rang.

  Kalif jumped. He looked over his shoulder, disoriented, and then extracted himself from me and reached for his phone.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  He looked down at the screen. “It’s my mom’s number.”

  I curled up tight. We should have called her after we left the house last night, but Kalif hadn’t been in any shape to confront her. “Are you going to tell her what we found?”

  Kalif’s eyes hardened. “No need to keep from her what she already knows.” He answered his phone and put it to his ear. “Hello?” He walked closer to the windows, and the volume was low enough that I couldn’t hear Aida’s side of the conversation.

  “How many?” Kalif asked. He paused for her answer, then said, “Hi, Mom.”

  I lay back on the bed, wondering if he’d intentionally walked far enough away that I wouldn’t be able to hear her side of their verification phrases. It would be smart of him to do so—and I would have done the same. But somehow, it still felt like he didn’t trust me.

  I dug my nails into my palms and closed my eyes. Sometimes, paranoia turned me into such an idiot.

  “We found Dad’s kid,” Kalif was saying.

  I heard nothing but silence on the other end, but Aida must have responded, because Kalif paced across the hotel room, continuing. “His son,” Kalif said. “My brother. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

  Kalif stopped suddenly. “You expect me to believe—" His face went pale. “But you were so sure that Dad was still in California. Why would you think that if—" He rubbed his forehead. “Okay. Yes. I’m sure.”

  I sat stiff on the bed. After everything Aida had done to my family, I shouldn’t care that she got news of the extent of her husband’s philandering dropped on her like that.

  But Kalif leaned against the wall and dug a hand through his hair. His eyes stared straight ahead at nothing.

  My heart broke in half.

  I did care, because Kalif did.

  “How—" he asked. He paused and swallowed, as if adjusting his vocal cords to hold them steady. His tone was kind. “How could you not have known?”

  I walked over and took his free hand in mine.

  “I can’t—" he said. “I have to go.” I heard Aida protest on the other end, and he shook his head and handed the phone to me.

  He’d expected to call and be mad at her, only to have to deal with her reaction to the whole thing, on top of his own. If she was only pretending to be clueless, then she was completely heartless. I hoped for his sake that she wasn’t.

  “Aida?” I said into the phone. “I think Kalif needs a minute.”

  Aida’s voice wavered. “It’s okay. I was calling for you anyway.”

  My skin went cold. “Is my mom okay?”

  “According to the medical records, she’s awake now,” Aida said. “But I’m concerned.”

  I narrowed my eyes. A part of me couldn’t see concern on Aida’s part as anything but disingenuous. Even when I was supposed to be cooperating with her, I couldn’t help but wait for her to stab us in the back.

  Aida went on. “There are some notes in her chart that say she’s resisting the psychologists.”

  I took a deep breath. I should have anticipated that she wouldn’t talk. My mother wasn’t used to talking to anyone but my father about important things; that had been a survival skill for most of her life.

  But she was a shifter, a practiced spy. How sick was she that she couldn’t even pretend enough to fool the doctors? “You think I should try to visit?”

  “You’d have to break in,” Aida said. “She’s told the doctors she doesn’t want any visitors. There’s an official order in her chart.”

  That, at least, made sense. If she let me come visit officially, any shifter we knew might use my face to get at her.

  I hoped it was a reflection of her estimation of my skills—that she knew I could get around the order, not that she didn’t want me to.

  “It’s not just that I’m worried about,” Aida said. “Apparently she made some comments about getting out of there as soon as she could. They’ve flagged her as uncooperative, but—"

  “But she’s probably planning to escape,” I said. I’d hoped my note would be enough, but of course it wasn’t. If Mom wanted to justify leaving, she could cook up all kinds of conspiracy theories about who had left that note and for what purpose. Just like I could question Aida’s motives, or Damon’s. Or even Kalif’s.

  “That’s my worry,” Aida said.

  I looked over at Kalif. He was lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. We should have been monitoring the charts ourselves; we should have seen this first. But with everything else—we just hadn’t had the time to comb through every note the doctors made.

  I’d have to confirm it, though. Aida wouldn’t dare mess with the charts too much, because someone on the inside would notice.

  “I need to talk to her,” I said.

  Aida hesitated. “If you want, I could try—"

  “No,” I said. “She’s my mother. I’ll take care of her. You’ll only make it worse.”

  Silence rang on the other end. Aida had to understand. She and Mel were the reason Mom was in this mess to begin with. “She can’t know you’re watching her,” I said. “Or she really will run.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  She’d better. If Mom chose not to get help, there was no reason for me to leave her in the hospital—and no way for me to force her to stay. That meant I wouldn’t need Aida to protect Mom from the Carmines, and there was no reason for me to continue to track down Mel for her.

  I bit the inside of my cheek. To keep him
from coming after us again—that was a different story. But if Mom left the hospital, it would also mean I’d need to be by Mom’s side again.

  Right back where I started.

  “Jory,” Aida said. “About Mel. Are you sure . . . ?”

  “Yes,” I said. “We’re sure. We saw wedding pictures with his home face. And his kid, he’s about six. Kalif said that’s in line with the time when he disappeared on you guys for months.”

  Aida was silent. I looked over at Kalif, but he wasn’t moving, just staring.

  “Do you still want us to find him?” I said. “Because if you don’t—"

  “Yes,” Aida said. “The plan hasn’t changed.”

  I closed my eyes. Someone needed to smack some sense into Aida, but Kalif wasn’t going to, and I wasn’t in a position to do it. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll check in on my mom and get back on the job. We have a few leads.”

  I waited for her to ask what they were, but she must have rightly assumed they had to do with tracking the other wife, because she just said, “Thank you,” and hung up the phone.

  I lowered the phone and sighed in Kalif’s direction. I moved toward the bed, intending to flop down next to him, but he stood before I could get there. “I need to work,” he said. “We need to get you in to see your mother.”

  I tried to get him to meet my eyes and failed. Instead, he stalked over to his computer and booted it up.

  Fine. I got it. He’d had enough emotional crap. I couldn’t blame him for that. Pushing away everything he felt about his parents probably wasn’t the best coping strategy, but it definitely mirrored mine.

  Sometimes work was good therapy. Maybe if Mom could have kept working, she wouldn’t have gotten herself into this mess.

  Mom might have been showing confidence in me when she told the doctor no visitors, but it still didn’t make my life any easier.

  “You can’t break in,” Kalif said. “Security is crazy.”

  I paused. “I can’t get in. But that doesn’t mean I can’t get in as someone else.”

  Kalif shook his head. “These people will all know each other. You’d have to profile one of them, and by the time you finish, your mom will be long gone.”

  He was right, but I had another idea. “What if I was her shrink? One that she’d been going to before she was hospitalized.”