THE NEXT AFTERNOON I WALK into the bathroom I share with my brother and sister and grab my toothbrush. Daisy is standing at the other sink, putting on mascara and slowly swaying to whatever’s playing in her ears.
I brush my teeth as I watch her. . . . Normally, she’s rocking out to indie punk.
She catches me looking and smiles, then plucks one bud from her ear and slips it into mine. It’s acoustical guitar. Huh.
“Hammond introduced me to it. Nice, isn’t it?”
I nod and continue brushing my teeth. Then I pile my curls into a ponytail, all the while listening with her. She’s right. Nice. Peaceful.
The song ends and she slips the bud from my ear. “What happened to you and Zach?”
Wasn’t expecting that question. “There really wasn’t ever a ‘me and Zach.’ ”
She gives me a soft smile that is nothing like the sister I used to know. “Yes there was. Whether you want to admit it or not. He’s good for you.” Playfully she punches my arm. “And you were good for him, too.”
No, I wasn’t. I’m not good for anybody. “Heading to Patch and Paw. See you later.”
She gives me a wave. “Yep, later.”
As I walk out our front door, I see Tommy propped on his bike. The last thing he called me was a liar. He’s not exactly the person I want to see right now.
“I have been researching the Decapitator nonstop since I found out you were his niece,” he begins, with no niceties at all. “Nowhere in that research did I find any mention of you witnessing the first killing.”
I don’t respond. I don’t know what he expects me to say. Everything surrounding the Decapitator is hidden deep. Very few people know, in an official capacity, that I was found at three years old in the same room where my preschool teacher had been violently murdered.
“I suppose it has everything to do with your parents working for the FBI.”
“What I want to know is, how disturbed did it make you?”
My heart pauses midbeat at his question, but I don’t answer.
“My guess is it made you question your whole existence.”
I don’t like how close he’s getting. He’s reading me a little too well. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Even I can hear the defensiveness in my tone.
“Oh, I think I do.”
I swallow, and he follows the nervous movement with his eyes. It pisses me off.
“I said before, I think you’re hiding something.” He cranks his engine. “I still do.” With that he pulls off.
What the hell was that, and how exactly does he expect me to respond? He thinks he can come and go, be confrontational, be cryptic, and challenge me. How wrong he is. Tommy needs to take a step back out of my business.
That night I get home from my Patch and Paw shift to find Gramps and Justin working on a model.
“Justin, you’re not doing it right. Are you not listening to me?” Gramps demands.
“I’m sorry,” my brother mumbles. “I’m trying.”
Gramps sighs. “I don’t know why you asked me to help if you planned on doing it your own way.”
Justin ducks his head and sniffs and I lose it. “Leave him alone.”
Gramps swerves his head toward me. “Young lady, you do not talk to me that way.”
“And you don’t talk to my brother that way.”
“Your half brother.”
I take a step toward him and Gramps stands up.
“It’s okay,” Justin intercedes.
The old man and I stare each other down for a few long seconds, and he turns away first. I grab my stuff and charge upstairs.
“Hey,” Victor greets me from his room. “Time to talk?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s go for a walk.”
Oh . . . strange. Why would Victor want to go for a walk? This isn’t like him. At all. It kind of freaks me out.
We pass Gramps on the way back out, and I don’t even glance in his direction.
Outside and down the dark sidewalk, Victor speaks. “I feel like we never get any time together. How are you doing?”
I give my standard response. “Fine.”
Victor wraps his arm around me, and the warmth feels so good in the cold night. “Lane, you can talk to me.”
He needs something, I realize this, and so I conjure up enough truth for meaning. “I . . . feel like my life is a lie. That our family is the only thing keeping me sane.” I pause a second to formulate what I want to say next. “I don’t know what I would do if it went away. Some days I seem like myself, and others I don’t recognize me.”
He smiles gently. “I feel the same way,” he quietly admits. “Some days I walk around in a daze wondering where things go from here. I really miss your mom.”
I want so badly to tell him Mom wasn’t the woman he loved, but that’s a burden only I’ll carry. Justin, Daisy, and Victor will remember the fictitious version of her.
We round the block and continue in silence. Then Victor goes on, “I know you need an ‘out’ for your anger, your confusion, your questions. . . .”
I stop walking and turn to him. “What are you talking about?”
“I know you’ve been on that Masked Savior website.”
What? How does he know that?
“I’m asking you, no, telling you, to stay off of it. This vigilante thing has gotten out of hand. The task force is on that site, routinely cruising the feeds, keeping records on everything. Just stay off of it, okay?”
Has Catalina’s father had this same talk with her?
“Dad, how do you know I’ve been on the site?”
“Quite by accident, I assure you. Your brother was using my laptop, so I grabbed yours and stumbled across it.”
I believe him. He’s always respected my privacy. He’s never been the type to snoop. Now if it were Gramps . . . “Thank you,” I honestly tell him. “And I will. No more website. I promise.”
Victor hugs me. “Exactly what I wanted to hear. Also”—he starts walking me back to our house—“how well have you gotten to know Catalina?”
“A little well. Why?”
Victor takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to figure out how to say what he wants to say. “Catalina’s father shared something with me that I think you need to know.”
This doesn’t sound good. “When Catalina was a little girl, she fell down their stairs and was in a coma for a while. She sustained frontal-lobe damage from that fall.”
I stop walking. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“According to her father, it affected her processing, her moods, impulsivity, and her behaviors. She does things and doesn’t think they’re wrong. That’s why she’s been homeschooled. She used to have a lot of problems with other kids. You’ve heard the term ‘doesn’t play well with others.’ Well, that’s how he described Catalina.”
Interesting.
“I’m telling you because I want you to be careful with her. She’s intelligent, astute, and, as I just mentioned, struggles with processing and impulsivity issues. Her dad says she’s really developed over the years, made progress with her doctors, but still, be alert. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We walk back to our house, and all I can puzzle about is Catalina. Processing. Impulsivity. Moody. Save for the intelligence, I haven’t seen any of those other things in her. I know I’ve been a little off, but not so much that I would’ve misread her, right?