Page 25
“Nobody’s allowed in Dad’s office,” Leah pipes up.
Alyssa blinks owlishly, then looks around like her dad might be listening or Leah might tattle if she doesn’t say the right thing. “You know I don’t. Why?”
There’s no way this is a surprise to her. “I want to see if he has anything on Jane Doe. Any old evidence that he’s been hoarding. Obsessing over. Whatever.”
“Nobody’s allowed in!” Leah repeats. “It’s against the rules.”
“Yes,” Alyssa says over her shoulder, “we know. That’s what I’m telling Morgan right now.” I scoff as she turns back to me. “Sorry. This is about the Jane Doe thing? I thought you were going to, I don’t know, go through your catalog, ask my dad. Not sneak into his room.“
“And I thought you were going to help,” I huff.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t.” Alyssa sets down her fork, tugs at the single pink bead on her charm bracelet, tries to find something to do with her hands. “If you want to talk to my dad, I can catch him when he gets home.”
If he’s not absolutely obliterated on whatever cheap wine the restaurant is serving tonight. “Your dad hates me.”
“He doesn’t.”
Leah makes a whimpering sound, frozen halfway across the open-concept kitchen with her hands tucked close to her chest. “Why are we arguing. I don’t like arguing.”
Alyssa stops moving and I shut up even though we are definitely not arguing. I’m pointing out the truth: Warren Hanover barely tolerates me. I am fully aware of what barely tolerating looks like.
“Can you get the key from him?” I ask.
“He’ll never agree,” Alyssa says. Behind her, Leah watches us warily. “You know that.”
“Then distract him while—”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
Alyssa doesn’t look at me. Or give me an answer. Instead, she says, “Are you done with your plate?”
I’m not hungry anymore. “Yeah. I’m done.”
“Great.” Alyssa grabs the plate and stacks it on top of her own. “If you actually want my help? I think—I think this isn’t good for you. This whole thing, it sounds bad, like you’re not ready for it. Or you’re going to end up hurting yourself, like you do every time you come back from visiting your dad. And if you’re going to hurt yourself, don’t ask for my assistance doing it.” The silverware clatters on top of the dishes in a pile. “I’m sorry. That’s how I feel. Leah, do you want to show Morgan your new game upstairs?”
Before I can say something in response, anything—Are you fucking kidding me, what is wrong with you, how dare you—Leah bounces up, our argument forgotten. “Upstairs?” she repeats.
I’m not hurting myself. Or, I’m not hurting myself more than I have to. Sure, I figured it’d sting, sticking my hand back into the mess, but what’s worse? This, or living the rest of my life with everyone breathing down my neck, waiting for me to snap? This, or letting others control the story forever?
I controlled the story once. I can do it again, and better this time. For real this time.
And if Alyssa doesn’t want to be involved, fine—I won’t involve her.
Leah leads me up the stairs to show me the object of her latest hyperfixation: an old game on a chunky older console she’s left running over dinner. She’s explaining it, but I didn’t catch the first thirty seconds of backstory while I was checking my phone, so I’m lost.
Morgan
okay plan B
FK
You literally never even explained what plan A was???
And oh my god okay can we promise that we don’t like bring up the camp b/c I cannot take it lol. lmao even
Morgan
