When I look away, she steps toward me and reaches out, gripping my shoulder. She’s trying to be reassuring, to shake me awake. But in the euphoria of the moment, she pulls me forward and I’m suddenly a half-step too close. It’s an odd few seconds, crossing into her personal space.
I’m about to step back, but as I look down at her, I find myself planted right where I am. Serena would credit my stasis to listening to your soul or finding divine patterns.
But there’s something to be said about plain old euphoria.
We both slowly lean in.
“N-No . . . we’re not supposed to,” she says, pulling back. “I swear, I—I—I—” She looks down and away. The way her head shakes back and forth, she feels awful. Like she overstepped some unmarked boundary.
But all I’m really focused on is that her hand is still on my shoulder. It skates down my arm, like a skier, until her fingertips rest on my forearm. But she never lets go.
I stare right at her. I’m smarter than this. I am. I should know better. And I do. But that doesn’t mean I’m stopping.
We move even closer and her lips press against mine. The warmth burns in such a good way.
There’s a whispering voice outside. Then it goes silent.
“—why call it free Internet if it’s not even . . . free?” my dad says as the motel door bursts open.
Serena and I jump backward, like two high school kids being caught. We’re not nearly fast enough.
My dad stands at the door, frozen.
“We’re not— This isn’t—” I wave my hands, unable to get the words out.
“Lloyd, w-we have a theory on the Book,” Serena says, sounding truly concerned.
My father still hasn’t moved. He stands in the open door, staring at us as the wind and bits of snow dive into the room.
“Dad . . .”
“I’m perfect,” he says flatly. The door slams shut behind him. His eyes are still on us, but his focus has shifted, as if he’s looking at something that’s moved farther away.
On the plane ride here, Serena swore they weren’t together. Otherwise I wouldn’t have kissed her, I tell myself, trying hard to believe it.
My dad takes a deep breath through his nose. His big Adam’s apple moves just slightly. “I have good news about the address,” he blurts.
“Lloyd, I just want you to know . . .” Serena begins.
“Stop. It’s fine. I promise you. It’s fine,” he repeats, revealing an I’m okay grin and approaching the comic strip. He puts a hand on my back and adds a strong, single pat as we turn back to the table. “Now, you wanna hear where we can find 184 King Street or not?”
Bouncing on the balls of her feet, Serena’s so excited that I barely notice as she slides up next to me.
My dad smiles even wider.
But every time I turn away, I swear I feel him painting a bull’s-eye on the back of my head.
62
It’s too early. They’re not even open,” Serena says, stuffing her hands in her winter coat (mine, not my dad’s) and running to keep up as we rush through the bottom floor of the parking garage.
“It’s not too early,” my dad insists, leading the way. From the moment we woke up this morning, he hasn’t said a word about last night. I should be thankful. I’m not. We got four Band-Aids to close his wound, and he hasn’t mentioned anything about that, either. As all three of us know, some things can’t be fixed by a Band-Aid.
“C’mon, Calvin—keep up!” he hisses, ignoring all the signs for PATIENT ENTRANCE and PHYSICIAN PARKING. Instead, he heads in the opposite direction of the arrows, cuts between two cars, and takes us outside, where the sun is just up, revealing a baby blue sky, half a dozen American flags, and a red-and-white sign that says, “Happy Holidays to Our Vets!”
The parking garage connects to Cleveland’s largest Veterans Administration hospital. For us, it’s the best and closest place to keep our rental car out of sight. But we’re still not completely safe.
As we reach the end of the block, I glance over my shoulder. The only one there is Serena.
“What?” she asks, following my gaze and looking over her own shoulder. “What’re you doing?”
“Trusting in the universe,” I say as I study the parking garage and check each level. Then I check again.
“No one’s there,” my dad insists.
I check the garage a third time. Maybe it’s just nerves, but ever since we left the motel—
“If Naomi were here, we’d already be in handcuffs,” my dad points out.
He’s right. But Serena wasn’t wrong yesterday. The human body can sense when danger’s nearby. It knows it. Just like I know when I’m being followed.
“Let’s just get inside,” Serena says, grabbing my hand and tugging me forward. “Do we know which building it is?” she asks my dad.
As we turn the corner, my dad doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. There’s only one building in sight: the spare 1960s-ugly structure that’s home to Ohio’s oldest and largest historical society.
“You sure they have it?” Serena asks as we dart across the street and head for the building’s wide glass doors.
“According to their online catalog, it’s in here,” my father says.
A small sign out front tells us the building doesn’t open for another hour. But inside, a young janitor with a mop bucket and music earbuds proves otherwise.
It takes two taps on the glass to get his attention.
“We open at nine!” he calls back.
“No. You don’t,” I tell him, pulling out the federal ID Timothy gave me and slapping it against the glass. As with the guard at the port, that’s all the janitor needs.
With the turn of a key and a low thunk, the door opens, bathing us with warm air as we hop inside. I stare over my shoulder as we kick flecks of wet snow onto the wide welcome mat. The streets are empty. No one’s there. But it’s not until I turn around that I finally see exactly where we’ve run to.
The wide beige room has a World War II biplane hanging from the ceiling. Across the floor, there’re at least a dozen antique cars, including, according to a sign, a 1898 Winton Phaeton on loan from the Smithsonian. On the left, I see brochures and a donation box for the Crawford Auto-Aviation Museum.
“I thought this was a library,” my father says.
“We all share the building. Library’s down the hall, just past the gift shop,” the janitor explains as we take off. “By the way,” he calls out behind us, “welcome to the Western Reserve Historical Society!”
Two minutes later, the long narrow hall descends and winds around to a set of turnstiles that dumps us into a tall, breathtaking reading room filled with shelf after shelf stacked with volumes of old books.
“Did Jacobs leave that door open again?” a lean thirtysomething with an argyle sweater asks on our left. He’s handsome, with crisp brown eyes, a pointy goatee, and (this could be a winner) a gold cross hanging from his neck. According to his name tag, he’s “Michael Johnson—Librarian.” “Sorry—we don’t open till nine,” he says.
I flash the ID, stepping close enough so he can read it. “How’d you like to help your government?”
63
They’re wrong,” Naomi said into her earpiece as she eased the steering wheel to the right and struggled to leave the three-lane roundabout that was filled with early morning traffic.
“Nomi, I know you had a head injury, but listen to me: Satellites aren’t wrong,” Scotty replied in her ear. “People are wrong. Rental car companies are wrong. But LoJack tracking systems hidden in some secret spot below a rental car? Never wrong.”
With a long honk of her horn, Naomi tried shoving her way past a silver minivan, but the van wouldn’t budge. “You think I don’t know the hell of morning carpool!?” Naomi screamed through her closed window. Ignoring her, the driver of the minivan pretended to scratch her head while giving Naomi the finger.