it being noticed. Though Holden is a wealthy city, and our location is smaller than many, we still go through a ton of food, and these cans rarely sit on the shelf for longer than a week.
Which means this was never about the search.
You only search when you think you’ll find something.
This was a message.
“So,” Rodney says, tossing a can in a high arc toward the garbage bag and clapping his hands when he sinks it. “Now you know my big plans. What about you?”
I try not to tense. My big plans, my future—those are not comfortable subjects. Hell, the past and the present aren’t much better. “What about me?”
Rodney looks at me like I’m obtuse. “How’d your big date go?”
“Oh. That.” It’s pathetic, but being asked about my phony relationship is better than being asked about my real life, and some of the tension in my shoulders eases.
“Yeah. That. What’d you do?”
“It was fine. We went to a show. Looked at art.”
Rodney makes a face. “Sounds boring.”
“You’re boring.”
“Am not.”
“It was a show about the environment.”
“Please stop.”
“There were dragons.”
Now Rodney’s laughing. “Okay,” he says. “Now I know you’re lying. There was no date. No one would ever want to go out with you.”
“It’s the truth,” I tell him. And I laugh, even as his words hit a little too close to home.
I LEAVE THE FOOD BANK at two o’clock, when my shift ends. There’s a lot of work left to do for the clean-up, but we’ve made progress. I managed to find Lola on my lunch break and ask about the search warrant, but she was flustered and merely waved a stack of forty typed pages in my face, no clue about its specifics. Not yet. But give her time to read through and she’ll find my name, or enough of it to connect the dots and realize I’m the reason for this mess. And many others.
I’ve made the drive to Wakeman so many times it’s muscle memory at this point, which is a blessing, since my mind is traveling a dangerous path of its own. It’s only when I pass the turn-off for the agricultural college that I realize how close I am. The road is deserted, so I pull off to the side and grab my change of clothes from the backseat, swapping my jeans and hoodie for a white blouse and fitted red pants with matching lipstick. I add some blush and mascara, and study my reflection in the rearview mirror. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this. Since I’ve tried. Since I wanted someone to see me and remember it.
I stare back at some imagined spot in the distance, where I let Chris fuck me against the trunk of my car. Unlike that night, when I swore I wanted nothing and felt nothing, the memory fills me with something hot and seething, my blood turning to lava in my veins. And though he’s a liar and a bunch of other things I haven’t figured out yet, Chris is not the one I’m most angry with. I put myself in this position. In that position.
I start the car and turn on the radio, flipping through the stations until I find one playing something inane and upbeat, a bunch of rhyming words that don’t need to make sense as long as they’re catchy. I try my best to let go of my anger and relax; I need to look happy if this visit is going to yield results. I need to look like I’m in love.
The music’s not enough, of course, and when I flash a smile at the guard and collect my visitor’s parking pass, he flinches, not used to the expression. Neither am I, apparently, because when I park in the half-empty lot and practice my brightest smile, I look like a possessed ventriloquist dummy. I tone it down so I’m not showing teeth, managing to appear marginally less frightening, then put on a pair of black heels and get out. It’s cold but I leave my coat behind, taking only my purse. It’s tempting just to get back in the car and drive anywhere but here, but that’s the coward’s way out. Running is Plan B. Getting answers is Plan A. And not only am I here for answers, I finally have a plan.
I square my shoulders. I feel like a boxer climbing into the ring against a far more skilled opponent, knowing everyone in the arena has bet against me. That’s where