“I TOLD YOU HE’D CALL!” JUNO CRIED.
“Hello?” I said. “Adam?”
“Yep, that’s me. You’re Sloane?”
“I am,” I said. “I’m so happy you called back. Thank you so, so much.”
“No prob. It’s just—hang on.” He paused, then said, “Yeah, I heard you the first time, Mother. I said I’m taking care of it.” There was a scratchy sound like he was pressing a hand over the mouthpiece. A few seconds later he said, “Sloane?”
“Yeah. Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine,” he said. “Other than the fact that my mother is completely irrational. But listen, I got your text. I got all of your messages, actually. I would’ve gotten back to you sooner, but I thought you had the wrong number. Then I read what you said about your sister and—God, I really don’t know what to say. I’m really very sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Was it cancer?”
“Cancer? What? No.”
“I guess everyone must be asking you how she died,” he said.
“It’s actually the first time anyone has asked me. People around here know.”
Though a few people had asked me how Talley’d done it, and I thought that was an awful question.
I told Adam without him asking: “She took a handful of pills,” I said. “We don’t know how she got them. But that’s what happened.”
“That’s awful,” Adam said. “I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t want to put that part in a text,” I told him. “I didn’t want to even tell you on text that she’d died, but I didn’t know how else to get you to write back—especially if you were trying to get in touch with her first. That’s what I would’ve done instead of calling back someone I’d never met before. But my dad already disconnected her line, so if you tried—”
“Hang on,” he cut me off. “I have to tell you—I didn’t know her. That’s why I figured you had the wrong number. But after that text, it seemed wrong to leave you hanging.”
“But . . . are you sure you didn’t know her? Her real first name was Natalie. Talley was a nickname.”
“I only know one Natalie, and I saw her in school yesterday,” Adam said. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you.”
“But maybe,” I started. “Maybe someone else at your same phone number knew Talley. Is it, like, a house line that you share with someone else?”
“It’s my cell.”
“Oh, right. You got my text. Of course. How long have you had it?”
“How long have I had my cell phone?”
“How long have you had this number?”
“Oh. Well, my parents gave me my first cell for my eleventh birthday, and I’ve had the same number the whole time. I’m seventeen now.”
So he was my age. He’d had his cell phone for six years, give or take a few months. Could the person who’d had it before him have been someone significant to Talley? Someone who she hadn’t spoken to in over half a decade, so she didn’t know the phone number had changed? That didn’t seem right.
But then, why would she have written down Adam’s number if she didn’t know him? Nothing made any sense.
I don’t understand the puzzle, Talley. I need another clue.
“Sloane?” Adam said.
“I’m still here,” I said. I gripped Juno’s hand. “I’m just trying to figure everything out. Your area code—650—that’s in the San Francisco Bay Area?”
“Yep. I’m in Menlo Park.”
I’d seen Menlo Park on the map I’d studied of every town within the 650 area code. It was in San Mateo County.
“You live there? You didn’t get the number and move somewhere else?”
“No, I’ve always lived in this town. I’ve even always lived in the same house.”
“Me too.”
“Out of curiosity,” Adam said. “Where is—I can’t remember the area code I dialed to call you. Where do you live?”
“I’m in Golden Valley, Minnesota,” I told him. “Area code 763. Have you ever been here?”
“No,” he said. “Maybe your sister wrote the number down wrong.”
“Yeah, but even so, she probably got the area code right. Plus there were all these California things on her list, besides your phone number, like the species name for California grizzlies, and Bel Air. That’s, like, several hundred miles from you, right? I looked it up on Google Maps.”
“The Bel Air in Los Angeles County is hours away. But I assumed she meant the arcade place on El Camino.”
“What’s El Camino?”
“It’s a street. If you drive on El Camino about ten minutes south of my house, you’ll hit the Bel Air Arcade. They have go-karts, mini golf, that sort of thing.”
Oh! Now we were getting somewhere. “And people hang out there late, like at midnight?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I never have. I actually haven’t been there in years. We used to have birthday parties there when we were little, but in the middle of the day. Which is not to say that they don’t have things going on late night. They totally could. I’ve just never heard about it.”
“There’s another Bel Air,” I said, and I gave Juno’s hand a squeeze. Poor Juno. My palms were sweating buckets, but she hadn’t let go.
Meanwhile, my head was spinning. Adam might not have known Talley, but he’d just cleared up one of the mysteries of the list. So even if his number was a wrong number, it was also a right one. I never would’ve figured out the Bel Air thing without speaking to him. Was that why Talley’d written down his number? What if I hadn’t called him, or he hadn’t called me back? It was terrifying to think about how easy it would have been to miss the connection I needed to make.
“Was there anything else on the list that you knew?” I asked.
“Mr. G’s—that’s a karaoke place in Belmont, which is also not that far from me.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll look it up and call over there. Anything else?”
“Uh . . . what was on the list again?”
Reciting Talley’s list was like reciting my own phone number, or spelling out the letters of my name. I barely needed to think about it to say it.
“No, sorry,” Adam said when I’d finished. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“Well, thanks,” I said. “It’s—”
“Wait,” he said. “Actually—maybe there’s one more. This is kind of a stretch, but that street I was telling you about, El Camino—it’s El Camino Real, which is Spanish for ‘royal road.’ Maybe Talley meant the El Camino Diner.”
“Do you mean a diner on El Camino, or is that the name of it?”
“Both,” Adam said. “The things you remember from kindergarten Spanish class.”
“I’ll call them, too,” I said. “I bet you’re right. Talley loved plays on words, and games like that. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Just one more thing—I know you said you didn’t know Talley. But may I text you a picture of her, just in case? She could have told you a different name.” Talley used to do that, when we were younger. If we were in the mall, and a salesperson asked her name, she’d make up weird answers, like Tempest, or Fortune, or Ambrosia. “Maybe if you just see her—”
“I know what she looks like,” Adam said. “I googled her before I called you back. There wasn’t much about her online. I saw the obituary, but it didn’t say a cause of death, which is why I asked.”
Talley’s obituary had been in our local paper, the Golden Valley Patch: Natalie “Talley” Weber, 22, died on Thursday. She is survived by her father, Garrett, and her sister, Sloane. Her mother, Dana, predeceased her.
“My dad asked them not to put in the cause of death,” I said.
“I found a couple pictures of her, too,” Adam said. “She was really pretty. I’m sorry if that comes off as stalkerish. What I’m trying to say is, if I’d met her, I would’ve remembered her. I know I didn’t meet her.” He paused. “And you can look me up, too, if you want. That way we’re even. My last name is Hadlock.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Adam!” I heard a call from the background.
“I know!” Adam yelled back. He didn’t cover the phone, which meant he was shouting in my ear, but then he lowered his voice again, speaking to me. “I don’t want to rush you, but I actually have to get going, or else it’s going to be a shit-slammer of a day.”
“Ok—” I started. “Wait. What did you say?”
“I said this day is going to kick my ass,” he said. “You take care of yourself, Sloane, okay? Bye now.”
There was a click, and I knew he’d ended the call. I lowered my phone from my ear.
“So,” Juno said. “It sounded like he was helpful even if he didn’t know Talley, right?”
“Yeah. But . . .”
“But what?”
“It’s so weird, Ju. He just said ‘shit-slammer,’ which is a phrase I only ever heard Talley say. She said it that last day. The last conversation we ever had, she said it. And I’ve never heard anyone else say it but her.”
“I’ve never heard anyone say it, either,” Juno said. “So maybe he did know Talley?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I think he did.”