Ripley said nothing, just listened, and I could tell he understood what I meant. My irritation ebbed.
“But she could be gentle, too. I never knew which Mom I was going to get. Sometimes when I couldn’t sleep, she’d hiss at me to lie quiet and still in bed. Other times, she would stroke my hair and sing me that song—you know that song, ‘Count Your Blessings’?”
Ripley shook his head. I ran a hand through my hair, and I could almost smell the smoke from her cigarette, feel the calluses on her palms as she held my face in her hands.
“Do you think you got it from her?” Ripley picked a thread off his jeans. “I mean, it’s genetic, right?”
“Oh, I definitely got it from her. That’s why I . . .” I dropped my hand into my lap. “Don’t think I’m crazy when I say this, okay?”
“I never would,” Ripley said.
I let out a heavy breath. “In a way, part of me is glad I ran out of meds.” I closed my eyes. “I’ve had a couple of moments in the last few weeks where I . . . I don’t know. I just feel like I understand her better now. The way she was sometimes. Is that stupid?”
“It’s not stupid,” he said. “But you’re back on them, right?”
I nodded. I didn’t want to explain how it took time for them to build up in the system.
“When I’m on meds, I’m more level. My edges don’t feel as sharp. But it’s like—is that the real me? Or is that just the pills?” I scraped my teeth against my bottom lip. “I want to be healthy. But sometimes I just want to ride the storm and I don’t care what happens.”
On the other side of the motel, I heard glass breaking. A car horn blared in the street.
A coldness sank into my chest. It was a vague and distant sensation—but still, I knew it was a warning. A dark cloud on the horizon.
Ripley said, “I’ve never heard you talk this much. Like, ever.”
“It’s a manic thing,” I said. “Easy to hide online. Harder on the phone. Impossible in person.”
“I dig it. It’s like you ate an extrovert and then burped her up.”
I laughed. “You’re insane.”
“Takes one to know one.”
I leaned in and wrapped my arms around him. The laptop pressed uncomfortably into my ribs.
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for coming. And everything.”
The hug lasted just long enough to be awkward, and then I broke it off, adjusted the laptop on my thighs, and woke up the screen.
“First things first,” I said, typing in my password. “I have to figure out where Devereaux keeps his flying rig.”
“You mean you already know how he does the trick?”
“I have a theory. The props will tell me everything I need to know.”
“Any ideas where to look?” Ripley sat back in his chair, took another chug of his Coke.
“No good ones.” I Googled Daniel Devereaux, clicked on the first hit, and started to read. “Jesus! He’s grossed over four billion dollars. He’s the highest-paid solo entertainer in history.”
“No way,” Ripley said, leaning over to look at the screen. “Wait. You’re on Wiki-fucking-pedia? Give me that.” He put down his can and seized the laptop. He opened a new browser tab, and then, using only the thumb and forefinger of each hand, he began to peck at the keyboard at an irrational speed. He typed faster than I could talk. He typed faster than I could think. Before I knew it, he was deep into a website called LotZilla.
“What is that?” I asked.
Ripley kept clicking and typing, ignoring me, until finally he said, “He owns a home in Vegas worth eighteen million dollars.”
“Devereaux?”
Ripley nodded. “It’s less than three miles from Higgins’s, up in the foothills. I bet that’s why Higgins bought there. He’s obsessed with the guy.”
“Do you think he stores his props there?”
“Good question.”
Ripley brought up Google Maps and turned on the satellite view. He typed in the address he’d found on LotZilla and zoomed in on the property. A giant, modern, glass-walled home stood on an isolated lot. The house was made up of three long wings pointing out from a cathedral-like central structure.
“Looks like a Scientology compound,” Ripley said.
“Are there any outbuildings? Sheds? Hangars like Higgins’s?”
Ripley scrolled and zoomed around the property. “There’s a detached four-car garage.”
“That could be it.”
“Hang on.”
He launched a new program, one I didn’t recognize and didn’t know I had installed; green letters