“That there are others,” supplies Nate, jumping in quickly, like he did with Cisco on the train.
Henry’s mouth closes, like he is not about to disagree with Nate, and he sits down at his computer. “Full name?”
“William Archibald Pride.”
Henry types alarmingly fast. “What are your years?”
“I was born in 1749 and became a vampire in 1768.”
“What date did you go into death-sleep?”
“February 13, 1769.”
Henry narrows his gaze, and Nate notices. “What is it?” he asks.
“That’s just rather early,” says Henry. “The plan began to make the rounds in 1773, a few months shy of the Tea Party in fact.” He is clearly a historian; Henry reminds William a bit of Ms. Floreville.
“What exactlywasthe plan?” chances William.
“I need to take your photo and get your fingerprints,” says Henry, who appears to answer only Nate’s questions. About an hour later, William has a fake New York license featuring Nate and Cisco’s home address, a US passport, a Social Security card, and a birth certificate.
“This is your new phone,” says Henry, yet when William holds out his hand for it, the forger/tour guide places it in an envelope. “I’ll have it messengered to Anne today.”
“Who is Anne?” William asks when they are on the train back to New York. “Why is she getting my phone?”
Neither Nate nor Cisco answers him.
There is no doubt the other vampires are keeping secrets. Yet beyondwhatthey are hiding, William wants to knowwhy.
What is it about him they distrust?
CHAPTER 30lorena
I’m sorry.
Please talk to me.
I know I fucked up, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make things right.
Sal, just give me one more chance.
I’m begging you.
I sit on my bed Sunday afternoon, scrolling through all the texts I’ve sent Salma over break. She hasn’t responded to a single one.
She and I were on the same flight home when we left Huntington, but she asked the person in front of her to switch seats. Then when my parents picked us up, Ma made the customary offer:Would you like to come home with us?To which Salma always agrees.
But this time, she said no.
I’ve tried visiting her, but the doorman at her building—who’s known me since we were kids—wouldn’t let me up. “She’s out,” he said all three times, but I could tell it was an excuse Salma made him give me because he called me by my real name and notDi Farafor my favorite pizza place. He and I have a long-standing debate about who makes the best pie in New York, so I call himJoe’s.
I only know Salma is alive from her social media posts. Since her page is public, I can see her recent updates without having an account myself. They’re all photos or short videos of her latest outfit or her iced coffee set against the skyline or her current read,The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue.
My parents were expecting her for Thanksgiving at our house, which included my whole family—grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins—but Salma never came. I had to lie and say she was spending it with another friend fromschool. I couldn’t say it was her dad because Ma checked in with him—well, his assistant—and she knows he’s still in Europe.
It’s a punch to my gut because I know Salma has spent all break in an empty apartment. She’s so put off by me that she would rather suffer her mom’s absence than my company.
At least I’ll see her soon because we’re sharing a car to the airport. She can’t keep ignoring me when we’re in the same back seat.
