I tried a few semi-obvious combinations: Password, Kyra, Logan (because it seemed logical), Supernova (which was far less likely), and my birthday. I would’ve tried “my brother’s” birthday, but I had no idea what that was.
After a while I got bored with that, too, and gave up.
Eventually I took a shower and started sorting through the clothes my mom had picked out for me.
I had to admit, and this was coming from someone with zero idea of what was in style anymore, I didn’t hate what she’d selected. I’m guessing she’d steered away from anything supertrendy, which was probably good since I doubted she had any better notion than I did what would rock the community college scene these days. But at least she’d remembered my size and that I liked vintage-style tees and jeans that felt broken in already.
I spent forty-three minutes unpacking and cutting off tags from T-shirts, underwear, pajamas, socks, tank tops, and jeans—everything a girl newly returned from a five-year hiatus could possibly need. I slipped into a pair of jeans and a worn-looking T-shirt with the Count from Sesame Street on the front and couldn’t help smiling just a little that my mom remembered, too, how much I’d loved the number-obsessed vampire when I was a kid.
When the doorbell rang, I stopped what I was doing and checked the digital alarm clock against my phone to make sure the two were still in sync. 9:33.
I slipped my phone into my pocket and went to see who it was.
The man standing on the front step looked like any other man who wore stiffly starched suits and stiff, plain black ties: Stiff. I couldn’t tell if he was a salesman or one of those church guys who goes around trying to convert people, but he definitely wasn’t a deliveryman, not in that getup.
I would’ve discouraged him right off with an immediate “My parents aren’t here,” but the first rule drilled into every latchkey kid is: never tell a stranger you’re home alone. So I waited to see what he wanted.
Shockingly, it wasn’t my parents he was looking for.
“Kyra Agnew?” His voice came out just as stiff as his suit. It was sort of daunting, the way he said my name—and the fact that he knew my name—with authority, like a principal or a coach, and I found myself standing straighter because of it.
“Uh . . . I . . . yeah . . . ,” I stammered, because sometimes when I was intimidated, I was smooth like that. My pulse sped up the tiniest bit.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out some sort of leather wallet thingie. It was black, too, like his suit, and when he flipped it open, there was a slick-looking badge inside. I focused on the golden beetle in the center of it while he said his name in that same no-nonsense manner that made me want to salute him. “Agent Truman. National Security Agency. May I come in?”
He tucked his wallet back inside his jacket and took a step forward. My mind reeled, but before his foot even hit the ground I was yanking the door closed. I didn’t slam it on him, but I closed it enough so that I was wedged between the opening. It was the same move The Husband had pulled on me when I’d tried to barge in on him that first day. There was no way I was letting this guy into my house.
First of all, neither of my parents was here, something I obviously couldn’t tell him without violating latchkey kid rule number one. Second, I had no way of knowing if that shiny badge was even real. I had a badge once too. I got it from my Cracker Jack box. So, yeah, no thanks on letting the potential serial killer inside.
“We can talk out here.”
He raised his brows and considered me, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Whatever you prefer,” he said in his authoritative voice.
I lifted my chin a notch. “What’s this about? You said National Security Agency? What’s that?”
“Miss Agnew, I have some questions for you,” he answered, not really answering my question about his “agency.” He pulled out a notepad and flipped open the cover, perusing whatever was written in there and then addressing me again. “We heard about your disappearance. What was that, five years ago?”
My pulse picked up, and the sound of blood rushing filled my head. I swallowed. “That’s right.”
“According to the police report, you were on your way home from a baseball game.” He glanced up with just his steely eyes, the leathery skin around them crinkling as he trained his gaze on me.
“Softball,” I corrected, reaching up to scratch my elbow.
“Softball,” he amended, scribbling the note in his book. “And you were in the car with your”—he consulted his notes—“father, on Chuckanut Drive, when you got out of the car.”
This wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway, scratching harder.
“What happened next?” This time he wasn’t looking at the notepad; his gaze was directed solely at me, and I had the feeling my answer was important.
I stopped scratching, my mouth suddenly too dry to answer. I lifted my shoulders, my eyes widening slightly and my mouth turning down in a frown.
He waited for something more, and then when it was obvious that was all the answer he was getting from me, he pried. “What does that mean, precisely? Are you saying you don’t know what happened?”
I shrug-nodded and then tried my voice, because I thought I should be a little more decisive than a bobble head doll. “I mean, I guess so.”
“Nothing”—his eyes narrowed as he prompted me—“unusual or out of place?”
I thought of the light. The flash. And the importance my dad placed on in. I thought of my dad and the way he’d become obsessed with where I’d been, and my stomach clenched.
I didn’t want to answer these questions.
“No, nothing. I’m sure you already know I had a fight with my dad, and I got out to walk. After that . . . I don’t remember anything.”
The man—this Agent Truman, he’d said his name was—sighed. His expression relaxed. The lines in his face that a moment ago made him look hard and a little threatening now reminded me of the way my grandpa had looked right before he’d died. Weary. I could almost imagine this man smiling. Almost. “Look. I get it. This is a tough subject. You’ve been through something difficult. You’re confused. We’re just trying to help. We want the same answers you do. We want to help sort this whole mess out.” He did smile then. It wasn’t exactly endearing or anything, but it was nice enough. “Are you sure I can’t come inside?”
I bit the inside of my cheek. I was confused enough about who he was and why he was here without him playing both bad cop and good cop. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. . . .”
His hand was now on the door, gripping the wood as if I’d already given him permission. “We can talk about your father’s version of events. See what he thinks happened to you.”
My dad? Why was he talking about what my dad thought happened that night?
Or was he talking about that other thing, the one Tyler had mentioned where some of the people in town thought my dad might have had something to do with my disappearance in the first place?
He might as well have smacked me in the face with that enormous hand of his, the one that was still on my door, and I suddenly felt cornered, trapped. He was bigger than I was. And if his badge was real, then he actually had some authority and maybe could insist on coming inside. Maybe I had no right at all to keep him out.
Right now, though, none of that mattered. I lodged my foot against the bottom of the door to keep it from budging. “My father? He doesn’t have anything to do with this.” I didn’t wait for his rebuttal, because I didn’t care what he had to say. I leaned my shoulder and all of my weight against the door, surprised that Agent Truman was pushing from the other side in an effort to stop me. “I have to go,” I insisted. “I don’t have time to talk to you.” I shoved harder to emphasize my point.