Part 24 (2/2)

159.

sixteenthings.indd 159 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

sixteenthings.indd 160 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

chapter fifteen.

9. Parents only lie to their kids about Santa and the Easter Bunny. #thingsIthoughtweretrue H ello?” calls a woman's voice. The tall door is half shut and blocks most of her face. I only see dark, curly hair.

I'd hoped no one else would answer.

I can't tell her age. Is she a wife? Daughter? Maid?

I straighten my back, refusing to feel bad for his family if he has one.

I try to smile but my mouth quivers. I'm not the bad guy here. I didn't do anything wrong. The choices Bob White made weren't my fault.

”I'm looking for Bob White,” I manage, and my voice sounds husky in my ears.

I wait for her to slam the door or send out a pit bull to chase me away.

”Yes?” she says and the door opens another crack. I see her whole face. She's slight, almost fragile, with thick, puffer- fish lips, bloated and kind of fake looking. She's wearing a black turtleneck that touches her chin. She's older than I thought. Dark chestnut hair cascades down to her shoulders in waves. I wonder if she recognizes me- if she hates me.

”Bob White. Who used to work in Seattle?” I prompt.

sixteenthings.indd 161 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

J a n e t G u r t l e r ”My Bob lived in Seattle. A long time ago.” She tilts her head and narrows her eyes and she opens the door fully, leaning her hip against it. My Bob. She's not a housekeeper then.

”Do you work with Bob?” She sounds polite but cautious.

Taking a deep breath I say, ”I'm Morgan McLean,” as boldly as possible, as if my name is something to be proud of and not the name of the girl in men's underwear dancing on a video that went viral on YouTube a few months before. It suddenly occurs to me he may have seen the video.

She smiles, but her eyes don't flicker with recognition. My stom- ach drops as if I'm riding the rollercoaster at Tinkerpark. It's both a relief and an insult. Unless she's faking it, she's never even heard of me. This woman. Bob's person.

”Um. Is he home?” G.o.d. It sounds ridiculous. Soon I'll be asking if he can come out to play.

”Bob's working.” She stands taller and she looks at me with nar- rower eyes. Suspicion crinkles the corners of them. ”Can I ask what this is regarding?” She glances down at a silver watch on her wrist.

”He doesn't see solicitors.”

My face heats. ”Um. I'm not a solicitor.” Am I? ”It's, um, per- sonal.” I fidget, s.h.i.+fting my weight from one foot to the other.

”Personal?” She takes a deep breath, looking me up and down with her nose twitching a little, as if I smell. Bad. I might because my underarms are soaking and there's sweat on my upper lip despite the cool night air.

”What's this about?” She glances out past me and frowns as if she must notice there's no car. ”Has Bob done something?” She glances 162.

sixteenthings.indd 162 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e behind her. There's a meow and a fluffy long- haired black cat swirls around her leg and swishes its tail at me.

”No,” I say, watching the cat. ”Nothing at all.” He hasn't.

Not in eighteen years. I glance up. ”Do you expect him soon?

Or is there a number I can reach him at? I'd really like to talk to him.” I didn't plan for him not to be home when I rang the bell. I really should have thought this through more, but I'm good at blocking things- years of practice from a good teacher.

My mom.

The woman bends down and picks up the cat. The size of the cat in her arms makes her look even smaller. The cat stares at me with big, round, yellow eyes. They're judgmental and find me lacking.

The cat owner looks me up and down too. I see a flicker of suspi- cion in her eyes.

”I don't even know for sure if he's the right Bob,” I say quickly. ”I need to ask him some questions.”

She strokes the cat and watches me. When the cat purrs, she pushes her hip off the door. ”It's important, isn't it?” She's studying my face. I wonder what she sees.

”Very.”

She stares at me so hard, I wonder if she's peering inside my head and reading my thoughts. Uncomfortable and lost, I wonder if I should just turn and leave when she steps back and opens the door a little more.

”Fine.” She steps away from the doorway and drops the cat to the floor. With a mew, he scampers off and runs down the hallway behind her. ”Come in. Wait here. I'll go check on him. Bob is 163.

sixteenthings.indd 163 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

J a n e t G u r t l e r working and asked not to be disturbed, but he's in the office down- stairs.” She blinks. ”Who do I say is calling?”

”Morgan McLean,” I repeat.

”That's right.” She nods as I step inside, and she gracefully rounds me and closes the door behind me. ”I'll be right back.”

Her feet glide along dark hardwood, and she disappears down the hallway, out of the front foyer, around a corner. I glance up. The ceiling is high, and a huge chandelier hangs right over my head. I step off to the side, suspicious of the bolts. Down the hallway, a door opens and footsteps traipse down the stairs.

My body starts to shake. Inside and out. Even my bottom lip quivers. And then my mind trips. I want to run but force myself to stay still and calm.

There's another mew. The cat is back, sitting close to the corner wall, watching me. Staring. Disapproving. He's close to a dining room with French doors, which I only know because the twins talk about construction and house design. The doors are thrown open, but instead of inviting, it has a premeditated and staged aura. Dark hardwood flows into the dining room without a trace of dust or even cat hair. The furniture inside looks unused; everything about the house suggests lots of dollar bills. I shuffle my feet on the plush entry mat, breathing deeply to keep myself from keeling over. I'm tempted to take out my phone. I wish I were all alone, chatting with online friends or transported through time to the tweetup we keep talking about but never seem to make happen in Seattle.

I wonder if I've gotten new followers. I wish this stupid plan had never occurred to me.

<script>