Lily was about to call Aunt Mequi to do just that when her phone buzzed. It was the ring tone for calls forwarded from her official number. She answered.
The voice on the other end was crisp, female, and unfamiliar. She identified herself as Dr. Harris at UCSD Medical Center. Within moments, Lily had disconnected and was calling Ruben, not her father.
Dr. Harris had admitted a patient earlier that night, Barbara Lennox. Barbara Lennox was seventy-eight and lived with her son and his wife. At eight fifteen in the evening she’d appeared to suffer a stroke—or so her son and daughter-in-law thought when they called the ambulance. On arrival at UCSD Medical Center, she’d not reported any pain, but had been disoriented and extremely anxious. Brain scans had shown no sign of damage.
Barbara Lennox was now catatonic.
EIGHT
THE room was cold and dirty. Julia couldn’t see the walls. This was supposed to be her room, but she couldn’t see the walls or her bed, and if she couldn’t find the walls she couldn’t turn the light on. It must be getting dark outside because it was sure dim in here.
She was supposed to get her room ready. They’d moved to this big, dirty house for some stupid reason, and she had to get her stuff unpacked. There were so many packing boxes . . . boxes piled up and tumbled around everywhere. Boxes taped up tight. Julia pulled and tugged and tried really hard, but she couldn’t open any of them. “Mama,” she called. “Mama, I need some scissors. Where are the scissors?”
Her mother didn’t answer. That made her feel cold all the way down, so cold that she started shaking. Why had they moved here? Why couldn’t they live in their old house? She couldn’t remember. It didn’t make sense and she couldn’t remember and that scared her. “Mama?”
No one answered. Julia scrambled over some of the boxes and saw the door. She gasped in relief and yanked it open.
The hall was dark, too, even darker than her room, but Mama was out there somewhere. Julia looked both ways as if she were crossing a street before she stepped out in that dark hallway. She couldn’t see the end of it, but she could see doors on either side, so she opened one. More boxes. Big and little boxes, some in tidy stacks, some looking like they’d been tossed in every which way. All of them taped shut and she didn’t have any scissors, so she closed that door and went to the next one.
Another room full of boxes. After that, another one, and she stopped calling for her mother, who never answered. She wanted out of this terrible house, but none of the doors led out, they just opened up on more taped-up boxes, and she was sobbing as she yanked open yet another door.
This room was different. These boxes weren’t taped shut. The flaps gaped open in a spooky way that made her think of when her hamster died and its eyelids were stuck halfway open. She shivered and she wanted to close the door, but maybe some of her things were in those boxes. If she could just find some of her things, she’d feel better. Slowly she moved into the room.
The first box she peered into was empty. She started shaking because that was wrong. Horribly wrong. She grabbed another box and its weight told her the truth even before she looked inside. Empty. Another box, and another . . . empty, empty, empty.
All the boxes in this room were empty.
Julia staggered back, away from the plundered boxes. Horror stopped her breath and she didn’t even want to suck it in again because everything was wrong, everything—the boxes she couldn’t open and the boxes that were so very empty and her Mama wouldn’t answer, wasn’t here—either Mama was lost or Julia was lost and she wanted out, out of this terrible place, and—
“Julia!” a man said sharply.
She gasped and spun around.
Standing in the doorway was an ordinary-looking man. Everyone-else ordinary, that is, not Chinese ordinary. He wore an ugly suit and a big frown. He was kind of old, at least as old as her parents, with dark hair that started way back on his forehead. “Breathe,” he said sternly.
“Go away!” she said, her voice high and shaking. “You’re not supposed to be here!”
“Yeah, normally that would be true, but things aren’t normal. I got special permission to come talk to you.”
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Who are you?”
He reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a little leather folder and held it out. “Al Drummond. I’m an FBI agent.”
She reached for the ID he was holding out—or tried to. Her arm moved, but somehow she couldn’t quite reach him.
“We can’t touch.” It sounded as if he didn’t like that. Like he was sad about it even if his face didn’t look sad. “I have permission to talk to you, but that doesn’t let us touch.”
“I met an FBI agent once, but I don’t remember when. I don’t remember how come I’m here and my mama isn’t. I hate it! I hate it so much! Why can’t I remember?”
“Because a bad guy hurt you. That’s why I’m here. I’ll be working with that other FBI agent and some more people to catch the bad guy, and we’re going to try to fix things for you, but it’s going to take time. You’re going to have to stay here while we’re working.”
Julia’s lower lip quivered. She didn’t know if she could do that.
“Look.” He crouched down, which he didn’t really have to do. She’d grown so much the past year that she wasn’t much shorter than him. She was five feet, five inches tall now. Mama sometimes shook her head and said if she didn’t stop growing she’d have trouble finding a man who was tall enough for her. Mama . . .
“It sucks, doesn’t it?” the FBI man said. She nodded, not able to talk because she was too close to crying. “We’ve got someone who can make this place better. He can’t fix everything, but he can make it so you won’t be too uncomfortable staying here awhile. But you have to give permission. He can’t help if you don’t. Will you let him help?”
“Yes! Yes, where is he?” She looked around. “Can he make it not so dark and dirty and scary? Where is he?”
“His name is Sam. Remember that.” He straightened. “He’s not here right now. You won’t meet him until you wake up.”
“Wake up? You mean—you mean I’m dreaming? You’re not real?” That was awful, because this place was real. She knew it was. Even if she was dreaming, this house was horribly real.
“I’m real, but yeah, you’re dreaming. You need to remember . . .” He stopped and looked over his shoulder as if someone was behind him, talking to him. But no one was there. “I’ve got to go. Remember the name. Sam. You need to let Sam help you, okay?”
“Okay, but—wait!”
He was fading. She forgot what he’d said about touching and reached for him, but it didn’t do any good. He faded out like he’d been nothing but smoke and a breeze had blown him away.
“Wait,” she whispered. But it was too late. She was alone.
Julia.
That was a man’s voice, too, but not the same man. She knew this voice. He was really nice and . . .
“Julia, I need you to wake up now.”
She blinked her eyes and everything was bright again. Too bright for eyes barely awake, and she was staring up at a white, white ceiling and someone was holding her hand, so she wasn’t alone, and that felt good, but . . .
“Back with me now?”
She could hear the smile in his voice so she turned her head on the pillow and there he was—the gorgeous man she’d first seen in the hall in the restaurant. The man who was the one good thing in her crumbling life. Mr. Turner. She managed to smile at him, but it felt wobbly.