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“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I say. “So when am I going? When she’s back?”
“No!” Betsey says in a low tone. “This is even better. You’re going to leave when she does. She’ll never know any of us left the house.”
“But what if she comes back before I do?” I ask. “We won’t know when she’s on her way home. Ella can’t go with her, and you just said you have cramps.”
“Oh,” Betsey says, as if she didn’t think of that.
“Call Sean,” Ella says evenly. “He loves this stuff, and he loves you. He’ll totally follow Mom.” She glances at the closed door at the end of the hallway. “But do it soon: You know how fast she gets ready.”
My conversation with Sean is quick and efficient. He’s up for anything, including staking out my mom. He’s only seen her that one time at the post office, so with just a few minutes left, Betsey logs on to the computer and sends a photo to his phone. We all take our places in the rec room again until Mom leaves, then after we hear the gate close, I dash to my room and grab two of the spy phones. I use one to call the other, then hand the one I called to Ella.
“Now you have the number on the ID,” I say.
“Good thinking,” she replies. “Okay, you need to go… like now.”
I run down the stairs and out the door with Bet and Ella trailing behind me.
“Call us with updates,” Bet says.
“Be careful,” Ella shouts.
“Okay,” I say to both of them before throwing myself behind the wheel and starting the car. I head up the driveway and through the gate, then down the hill, biting my bottom lip all the way.
I’m parking on the street about a block away from Mom’s office when Sean calls.
“She’s here at the store,” he says quietly. “I’ve got her.”
“Okay, great,” I say. “Remember to stay out of sight. She might remember you.”
“So?” he asks. “There’s no law against grocery shopping.”
“I guess you’re right,” I say. “Sorry.” Deep breath. “All right, I’m going in.”
I walk up the steps to the office that just has to hold all the answers. I’m not sure what makes me try the silver key first—I guess I just like silver better than gold—but it works. I’m half expecting an alarm to wail or someone to jump out at me when I open the door, but almost more terrifyingly, nothing happens.
I step inside and breathe in through my nose. The place has that metallic antiseptic smell to it like a dentist’s office. There’s a vacant reception desk and a doorway leading to a hallway; I walk through and turn left: the direction that Mom came from that day I saw her here. There’s an office at the end of the hall.
When I go in, I gasp.
Three walls are covered in corkboard and pinned with photos and notes. It looks like what you’d expect in the office of someone tracking a Mafia family. Except that the photos on the walls aren’t of criminals: They’re of me, Ella, and Betsey.
I take a step closer to the wall I quickly see is mine. There are tons of notes scrawled on yellow legal paper, but one in particular catches my eye: Tendency toward fight (vs. flight)—Sympathetic Nervous System difference when compared to #1 and #2.
I step over to Ella’s wall; the phone rings and I jump.
“You scared the hell out of me!” I say.
“Sorry,” Sean says, laughing a little. “Just making sure you’re okay. Are you in?”
“I’m in.”
“And?” I feel like he’s holding his breath.
“It’s… I don’t know,” I say. “It’s an office with walls of photos of me, Betsey, and Ella, with a ton of notes. It’s like she’s monitoring us, only she lives with us. And most of it is really stupid stuff.” I take a step closer to the photos of Ella. “Like, okay, here’s an example: There’s a note pinned here about how much sleep Ella gets. Apparently she averages eight point two hours per night.”
“What the…?”
