The mascot of Greenwich High was a cardinal. The bright red bird fluttered on a banner and eyed her brightly from signs over the serving windows. The Cardinal Café, however, was closed for the summer. There were vending machines for water, fruit and ice cream, but nothing fattening or fun, like chocolate bars or Fritos.
Her class went down the heavy open stairs in a group, not talking, because their thumbs were too busy texting, and not looking around, because their eyes were on their tiny screens. Only Cathy looked down.
Spencer was standing at the bottom, although his class met on the lower level and didn’t use the stairs. He was waiting for her.
Not ten steps behind Spencer stood Tommy Petrak, and not ten steps from him was Special Agent Keefer. Filling the opening of the far door was the headmaster. They were a train, rushing down the tracks to crush her.
Cathy managed a smile for Spencer and he gave her a big grin. It was so reassuring. She had an ally, a friend, a ride out of here. She beamed at him.
Tommy’s jaw fell.
Matt Keefer raised his eyebrows.
She had forgotten that she had Rory’s smile.
Spencer probably didn’t even know that Tommy and Agent Keefer and the headmaster were behind him. “Hi, Cathy. Is it true, what Graydon texted? The FBI is actually after you?” He was laughing. This was crazy! This was a comic strip! This was such fun!
Everybody laughed. And everybody drew close.
She must not let Matt Keefer see that she was dissolving. She chose a lemon-drop-yellow chair while Spencer took a cardinal-red one next to her. Kids noticed that Spencer from Arabic had decided to sit at the Latin table, but nobody put a boyfriend interpretation on it. Everyone wanted to sit close to Cathy right now and be part of the action. Spencer was her ride, which gave him priority.
Agent Keefer waded through teenagers to get to Cathy.
But these were not teenagers who got out of people’s way. These were teenagers who blocked people’s way, because they had questions and needed information. They were a seriously well-prepared crowd. The constant texting from kid to kid, friend to friend, Greenwich natives to strangers in town, had identified Matt Keefer to the entire summer school.
In her quest for normalcy, Cathy gave Tommy a cheery little-girl smile and patted the empty navy blue seat next to her. He zoomed right over, as if they were playing musical chairs, and he wasn’t sure that place would be available two beats from now.
A boy Cathy did not know—definitely the type who interrupted teachers and derailed speakers—got in Matt Keefer’s face. “Where do you think Rory and Cade are, exactly?” he said, loudly enough for everybody to hear, converge and quiet down for the answer.
Matt Keefer did not seem to mind the interruption. He just nodded. “We think they went to a country that does not extradite criminals to the USA.”
This implied that the FBI was not looking for Rory and Cade in America. Or specifically, in Ansonia. Cathy had to destroy that computer evidence before the FBI got to her house. She must not let them think for one minute that Rory and Cade could be just around the block.
“What countries are those?” asked the kid.
“Namibia. Tunisia. Mongolia. Chad.”
“No,” said Ava firmly. “The Lymans are not the kind of people who would live in Mongolia or Chad. I can tell by their Greenwich address that they had a fabulous house with an indoor swimming pool, a huge garage with a nice selection of cars and their own tennis courts. They’re not living without plumbing.”
Matt Keefer was laughing. Did he agree with Ava’s thinking? Or was Ava miles away from the truth and that was the funny part?
“I think they’re dead,” said Ethan.
Cathy’s heart slammed against her chest.
“Problem with that is, it’s hard to hide your own body,” said the agent, threading his way over to Cathy. “It would be really hard to hide two bodies. Somebody somewhere would have found them.”
“Not necessarily. They could have rented a motorboat, driven out in the middle of some huge lake, fastened cement blocks to their own—”
“No,” said Matt Keefer firmly. “Rory and Cade Lyman loved life. That’s why they ran. They wouldn’t love life in prison. They’re out there somewhere doing fine.”
Cathy’s hands were trembling. She set them in her lap. They went on trembling. Shivers edged from her fingertips toward her elbows. Now her spine and her gut were shaking. They loved life, she thought. Not me.
Scootching his blue chair forward, Tommy Petrak slouched down over his knees, cupped his chin in his hands and took up a lot of space right in front of Cathy. Spencer, taking his cue, stretched his legs out and turned them into a big white sneaker fence.
Her cousin and her ride were trying to protect her. Tears sprang to her eyes. She could not let Matt Keefer see her weep. She drew the biggest breath her lungs allowed, picked up her lunch bag, looked way down, as if into a coal mine, and searched for food.
“Miss Ferris, I completely understand that you want to talk to your parents first. It’s wise of you. If you’ll give me their phone numbers, though, I’ll call myself so they have the whole picture.”
Why didn’t he already have Marmee and Dad Bob’s phone numbers? The source of those numbers—the headmaster—was across the room.
Cathy was not the sharpest knife in this particular kitchen. There were sixty other kids here who reached the same conclusion she did, only faster. Graydon said, “The headmaster refused to turn the phone numbers over to you? Go, Dr. Bella!” he called. “Privacy rights! I’m with you.”
Ava said, “This puzzles me.” She sounded as if being puzzled was a rare condition and she wasn’t going to put up with it. “You’re the FBI. You have to know where the real Murielle is. If she went into foster care, just go get her. If she’s Cathy, you already know.”
This time Matt Keefer was expressionless. He did it well.
It was Tommy who explained. “The FBI doesn’t have access to records on Murielle. Five years ago they got so pushy demanding to interview my cousin during the first few days that Murielle stopped eating and she got very sick and had to be moved to a foster home, and right away to a second foster home. The Department of Children and Families said that a ten-year-old was too little to be interrogated, and when the FBI went to a judge for permission, they were turned down.”
Cathy was as stunned as any of them.
Graydon said, “Murielle isn’t ten anymore. Couldn’t the FBI override that judgment now?”
“How do you know she’s in foster care?” asked Meg. “My theory is that Rory and Cade came for Murielle. My parents would dismantle entire buildings to find me. I bet Murielle’s parents would too. I bet she’s with them.”
Tommy had not taken his eyes off Cathy. He was not betting that Murielle was with her parents. He was betting that Murielle was sitting right next to him. His eyes were soft, as if the two of them had already discussed it.
Her stomach hurt, as if she were in the last stages of some awful cancer.
Was that this morning’s phone call? Was it Marmee’s doctor? Was the cancer back? Was Marmee sick?
“Later,” Marmee had said.
With cancer, you did not always have a “later.” How much time did they have? What would happen now? Surgery? Chemo?
A huge hole opened up in Cathy. Fear of cancer. The half of her that was Cathy wanted to run home, hug Marmee, be reassured that all was well.
“The state is still paying a stipend for Murielle’s care,” said Tommy.
“How’d you find that out?” asked Ava. “Whoever told you about the state money could tell you where Murielle is.”
Tommy pointed to the FBI agent. “He was at our house last night. He’s got a plan to flush Rory and Cade out of hiding. He wants to use Cathy’s resemblance to Murielle to set up a sting.”
A sting! The kids were equally shocked and thrilled.
Matt Keefer gave Tommy a look of mild displeasure.
Tommy said that for me, thought Cathy. He knows who I am. This is his gift. Here’s what’s coming, he’s telling me. Do what you need to do.
But what did she need to do?
She didn’t dare search further into the Mure Corporation, leaving an even longer virtual trail. She had no car in which she could drive to that Ansonia address and just ask the tenants where their landlords lived. She had no handy e-mail address for Rory and Cade. She never had had that. She had phoned and texted her parents a dozen times a day when she was little, but had rarely e-mailed.
I cannot warn them, thought Cathy.
A few feet away, Julianna Benner straightened. Her body became long and lean and alert.
I shouldn’t warn them, either, thought Cathy. My parents deserve to get caught. They must be punished. My parents. Whom I love. They are bad.
The hole inside her deepened. She was falling down inside herself. Soon there wouldn’t be a Cathy or a Murielle.
“What’s the plan?” demanded Ava, eyes bright and face lifted in anticipation. “You’re going to use Cathy as bait?”
“Thomas,” said the agent warningly.
“You know what they’re going to do, Tommy?” cried Ava. “Tell us. We’ll keep it a secret. We won’t tell anybody.”
Sixty kids, thumbs poised, burst out laughing.
Tommy ignored them. He ignored Matt Keefer. He spoke only to Cathy. “They want you to pretend you’re Murielle. They’ll use photographs of you, Cathy, along with photographs my mother has of little Murielle. They’ll use your voice. And of course your smile, because you look like Rory when you smile.”
They would use her to seize Rory and Cade even when she didn’t tell them anything.
“They’ll put Murielle on YouTube or Facebook. Except you’ll be Murielle. They’ll give you a script to read,” Tommy told her. “You’ll pretend you have leukemia and you’re dying. ‘Mommy,’ you’ll say in your video. ‘Daddy. Please come home. Please let me see you one last time.’”