Page 211 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

She nods. “I was here a lot. But my room was down there.”

She points without fully lifting her hand, because the motion costs more than it should. I follow the line of it down a bright corridor where small hooks hold tiny coats, and my chest tightens in a way I wasn’t expecting. Not because the place is special but because she is. I can suddenly picture her here, laughing with kids, kneeling to zip little jackets, carrying glue sticks and unfinished ideas and scraps of wood in her pockets.

And these people threw her out.

The receptionist behind the front desk looks up at the sound of us walking in.

“June,” she says, standing too fast from her chair. “Oh, my goodness.”

June stops at the desk, shoulders squared, chin up, and I feel a ridiculous amount of pride in her right then. She’s nervous, I know she is, but she doesn’t make herself smaller with it. Doesn’t apologize for being here.

“Hi, Denise,” she says.

Denise’s eyes go shiny almost instantly. She presses a hand to her chest. “I… I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Yeah,” June says. “That was kind of the point.”

Denise looks from June to the three of us standing behind her and somehow manages to look both relieved and terrified at the same time.

“June, honey,” Denise says, then shakes her head because she hears how wrong the endearment sounds now. “I’m so sorry.”

June’s jaw tightens. “I need to ask you some questions.”

She nods, obliging “Of course. Of course. Anything.”

Wayne shifts beside me, not enough to interrupt but enough to let Denise know June didn’t come alone and won’t be made to feel small while she’s here. Rex folds his arms. I plant my boots where I am and keep my eyes on the receptionist’s hands. People tell on themselves there as much as anywhere.

Her’s are shaking.

Good.

June takes a breath.

“When I left,” she says, “I told you where I was going.”

“Yes.”

“You were the only person I told.”

“Yes.” Her voice wobbles. “Just for mail, and… in case anything came through.” She stops herself again, swallowing. “I thought if anything changed, I should know where to reach you.”

June nods once. “Did you tell anyone else?”

The woman blinks. “Pardon?”

“Did you tell anyone else where I was going?”

“No,” she says immediately. Then again, stronger. “No. I swear to you. I wrote the address in my notebook, and that’s it.”

“A notebook anyone else has access to?” June asks.

“My notebook. Left locked in this desk at night.”

I believe it before she’s even finished saying it.

Not because I trust her. Because this isn’t the face of somebody pulling strings. This is the face of somebody who’s been sick with guilt for having no spine when it counted. Different kind of failure.

June studies her. “You never mentioned Redwood Run to anyone?”