I spend the afternoon napping, doing homework and listening to podcasts. Dad orders takeout for dinner, and my parents and I sit around the living room together, eating Thai food and watching Netflix. Everything feels wonderfully normal. Detective Bowerbank calls to confirm that the white powder in the mailbox was not anthrax, and we celebrate by defrosting a chocolate cheesecake in the microwave and eating an impressive amount of it.
Dad finishes his second slice and pushes his plate away with a sigh. “Pad Thai, beer and cheesecake. Life is good.”
Mom licks her fork. “Back on the wagon in the morning.”
“I’ll make dinner tomorrow,” I say. “I’ve found this great website called Homemade and Heart Healthy—”
Dad groans and folds his hands across his belly. “Don’t talk about food. I’ll never be hungry again.”
“Not until at least midnight,” Mom says.
My cell rings. I hesitate.
“Go ahead,” Dad says. “Talk to your girlfriend. You’ve put in your time with the old fogy.”
“Dad! You’re not—”
He laughs. “I meant your mother.”
She pokes him with her fork. “Remind me again why I put up with you?”
I roll my eyes and answer my phone, walking toward my room. “Leah?”
“Yeah. Hi.”
“Everything okay?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”
Because I snuck into your house and searched your brother’s room. “No reason,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “How was your ride?”
“Good. How come you didn’t wait for me to get back?”
“Take a wild guess,” I say.
“Jake?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he say something to you? I asked him, but he said he didn’t even see you.”
I clear my throat. “I’m kind of avoiding him.”
“Well, you can’t keep that up forever,” Leah says.
I stick my hand into my jeans pocket and pull out the piece of wrapping paper. “Yeah, I know.” I clear my throat. “So what are you guys up to tonight? Got a party to go to?”
“A party?” There’s a pause. “No. Why?”
“I don’t know. Saturday night. I just thought you might have plans. Or Jake might.”
“No plans,” she says. “Franny, are you okay?”
I can hear the frown in her voice. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Good. Want me to come over?”
Of course I want her to come over—but there’s something else I have to do. “I think I’m just going to crash early tonight,” I say. “I’m kind of tired.”
“Oh. Okay. Sure.” She sounds hurt.
“I’ll be down in the morning though,” I offer. “I’ll see you then. When you get back from church.”
And I’ll see Jake, I think. She’s right. I can’t avoid him forever.
After we hang up, I go online and google Jake Gibson. I try Jacob Gibson too, since presumably that’s what Jake is short for. I even try Jackson Gibson, though it sounds awful and doesn’t fit the biblical naming scheme of Leah’s family.
Nothing.
Well, not nothing. There are tons of Jake Gibsons—TV producers, actors, lawyers, football players. But for the Jake Gibson I’m interested in, the only things that show up are a couple of local newspaper articles about a summer riding camp he runs, his dad’s obituary and some track-and-field results from back in high school. He has a Facebook page too, but his privacy settings won’t let me see anything, and given that I’ve never seen him comment on any of Leah’s posts, I’m guessing he doesn’t use it much anyway.
So much for that.
I smooth out the scrap of wrapping paper and tuck it under the corner of my keyboard. Then I search for articles about the recent bomb threat at the hospital. There are several, but they’re all pretty much the same—the few facts the police released, a request for the public to come forward with any information, and a rehashing of the threats from last year and Jennifer Lee’s resignation. I bet she wishes they’d stop printing her name.
A gift-wrapped package was found…
No convenient detailed description of the wrapping paper.
I shake my head. I’m being crazy. Jake’s just a jerk, like plenty of other people. He’s anti-choice and he doesn’t like me dating his sister. Which is a drag, but it’s also not a huge deal. And it definitely doesn’t make him a murderous lunatic. I crumple up the piece of paper and toss it in the recycling bin under my desk.
Enough craziness.
I wake up smiling the next morning. The sun is streaming through my bedroom window, and I’ve been dreaming about Leah.
I sit up, stretch and yawn widely.
Today is going to be a good day. I can feel it.
I dress quickly, bolt down a huge bowl of granola and nuts and yogurt, and head to the barn. No one’s there—it’s Sunday morning, and they’re all at church. I groom Buddy till his coat shines and take him for a ride in the woods—a good long one to make up for yesterday’s getting cut short. The sun streams through the bare branches of the trees, and the air has that cold, crisp feeling of fall. Buddy acts like a two-year-old, tossing his head and snorting and taking big sideways leaps of alarm over every harmless shadow and fallen twig.
“You big baby,” I say, feeling a flood of affection for him.
I hear someone approaching, and Leah appears around a bend in the trail, riding bareback on her gray mare. “Franny,” she says, out of breath. “I was hoping I’d find you guys. How’s Buddy? Better, I guess, or you wouldn’t be riding.”
“He’s fine today,” I say. My ears feel hot at the memory of yesterday’s lie.
“Good.” She brings her horse alongside mine. “Mom and Jake are off looking at some old equipment on a friend’s farm and won’t be back till dinnertime. Got plans for the rest of the day?”
“Uh, yeah. I do now,” I say, giving her a goofy grin.
Leah grins back. And my perfect morning is followed by an even more perfect afternoon.
The next day, everything falls apart.
I get home from school to find Detective Bowerbank in the living room, sitting on the couch beside my mother. “What happened?” I say, my heart in my throat. “Where’s Dad? Is he okay?”
“It’s fine,” Mom says. “Dad’s fine. He’s at work. There’s a security meeting.”
I look at Rich. “A security meeting. Something happened? What’s going on?”
He leans back on the couch, folds his arms across his belly and sighs. “Hello, Franny.”
“Hello, Rich,” I say. “Don’t torture me. Something happened, right?”
He nodded. “Your mother received a letter at work. A threat.”
“What did it say?”
He slides a page to me across the coffee table. “This is a copy. We’re having the original checked for fingerprints, DNA—anything.”
I stare at it. It’s not a letter. It’s a photograph.
My hand flies to my mouth as if I can catch the breath that has suddenly whooshed from my lungs.
“Franny,” Rich says. “I know this is upsetting, but try not to worry. We’re looking into this. We’re going to put some extra security measures in place—”
I touch the photo. It’s of my house. My parents, on our driveway.
With bright-red Sharpie targets drawn on their chests.
“Franny, wait!” Mom says, getting to her feet.
I run up to my room, throw myself on my bed and lie there, curled up in a ball.
A minute later Mom knocks on the door. “Franny? Can I come in?”
I don’t answer, but she lets herself in anyway and sits on the edge of my bed. “It’s horrible, I know. Scary.” She rubs my back, moving her hand in slow circles. “But we’ve been living with this risk for years. It’s going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that,” I choke out. “You can’t promise that.”
Her hand stops moving. “I can’t promise it,” she says, “but I do believe it. So does your dad. And so does Rich. He’s looking into everything, you know. Interviewing people, following up every possible lead…”
Except Jake Gibson, I think.
If I tell him about Jake, I might lose Leah.
But if I don’t tell him…
If I don’t tell him and it turns out that I’m right…
Then I might lose my parents.