I’m at Pedro’s Place at 7:15 the next morning, my duffel bag in tow. I knock on the back door, and he doesn’t answer. I consider going around front, but I don’t want to make him mad, so I wait.
He opens the door at exactly seven thirty and looks out, first to the right and then to the left. Finally, he lets me in.
“Do you have it?” I ask.
He doesn’t speak, just goes to an old beat-up desk in the corner and pulls an envelope out of a drawer. He thrusts it at me. “It is good work.”
I open the envelope and pull out the driver’s license and social security card of the dead girl. I wonder again how she died. I’m curious what she looked like, but my own face stares back at me. I’m once again startled by the color of my hair.
“Memorize social security. It is yours now.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You’ve helped me a lot.” I look at him, waiting for him to meet my eyes, but he never does. “Just for the record, I’m not a bad person. I’m in trouble, but I didn’t do what they think—”
He lifts a hand to stem my rambling. “I don’t want to know your whys. Not my job.”
“I know, but I’m not used to doing illegal things. I just wanted you to know I’m a decent person. I’m going to prove my innocence somehow.”
“You never heard of me. Never saw me. Got that?”
“Yes . . . of course.” I dig into my purse for the cash I’ve already pulled out of my boot, and pay him the rest of what I owe him.
He takes the cash, counts it out. Finally, he gives me a grudging look. “Did you eat?”
“No.”
“I make you plate,” he says. “You eat it back here.”
I’m starving, so I smile. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Wait,” he says and disappears to the front. His place smells like heaven on earth, and my stomach rumbles. While he’s gone, I sit in a folding chair and examine my driver’s license. It looks legit. I wonder how he does it, who he usually does it for. Illegal immigrants? Criminals? Innocents on the run, like me?
He comes back with a plate of eggs and hash browns, crispy bacon, and a biscuit smothered in gravy. He puts it on his desk, pulls his desk chair up to it, then motions for me to come eat.
“It looks so good,” I say. “Thank you so much.” I begin to eat, my salivary glands exploding with the taste.
“Good, yes?”
I smile at him. “Yes. I don’t know when I’ll get to eat again today, so this is perfect.”
He watches me eat as if my pleasure gives him some satisfaction. Finally, he says, “I get back to work. You leave your plate here when you are done. Slip out back door.”
I wipe my hands and reach out to shake. He holds my hand a second too long. “You’ve helped me a lot,” I say. “I don’t know what I would have done without—”
He stops me again. “Do not make me regret it,” he says in a soft voice. “Don’t do stupid.”
I can’t promise that, because I know myself, and I’ve already “done stupid” since finding Brent dead. He lets my hand go, then returns to the dining room. I finish up, wipe my mouth, then slip out the back.
My name is Grace Newland. I wonder if I could get away with going by Gracie, which sounds like Casey, but that’s too close. I have to leave my name behind, and it hurts like another death. I’ve always liked my name. My dad gave it to me, and when he used it, it always preceded something profound.
Casey, humanity demands that you stand up for what’s right.
Casey, there comes a time when you have to take risks.
Casey, I love you.
I’m not ready to say good-bye to Casey just yet. If I go far enough away, can I someday be her again?