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That observation struck too close to home, and I said nothing. When I remained silent, Kace went on.
“Listen… I ain’t a person to tell anyone how they should feel about their father. I’m not going to. Just… I don’t know. You just had a look. That’s all. Wanted to make sure you were… you know.”
It wasn’t poetry. It wasn’t even particularly articulate. But his presence said more than his words ever could, and I felt a sudden rush of gratitude for the silent, observant boy. I leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder and inhaling the sweet, earthy scent of sage that was all Kace.
“Thank you,” I murmured. “I’m okay. Now.”
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my hair, and when he drew in a deep breath, I wondered if he was inhaling my scent too. I wondered what I smelled like to him, and whether the scent instantly relaxed him, like his did me.
When I finally drew away and sat up straighter, he stood. I watched him go to the window and slip on out. I leaned my forehead against the window, craning my neck to watch him as he headed down the sidewalk toward his foster parents’ house. I wanted so badly to call to him and ask him to stay. I wanted—maybe even needed—him to stay, but on some level, that wouldn’t solve anything.
Even if he stayed with me all night, my head would still be swimming with thoughts about what I was going to do. I’d still be wondering if it was even the right thing to do, and I’d still be questioning whether it was even fair of me to be thinking about my old life when I was settling so deeply into the new one here.
For a solid week, I grappled with what the hell I was going to do.
I was distracted all the time, my mind clogged with too many conflicting thoughts. I’d programmed Flint’s number into my phone in case I forgot it. The man with the raspy voice and access to possible answers about my father was just a phone call away, and even though I was desperate to call him, I found myself tensing up with anxiety every time I thought about it. My conversation with Kace kept playing over in my head, and the fact that I was still considering going behind the Lost Boys’ backs to call Flint felt like a slap in the face to the genuine concern Kace had shown the night he snuck into my bedroom.
Finals were just a few short weeks away, and our more ambitious teachers were starting to make threats about difficult exams and final projects that would be worth a high percentage of our grade—but I couldn’t focus on any of that.
Every day was a blur, and by the time the weekend rolled around, I’d realized I had to do something, if for no other reason than that I was going to drive myself crazy if I didn’t.
I was a confused mess about everything having to do with my father, but a big part of why I was such a mess was the fact that I didn’t know anything. I had heard so many conflicting stories about who my father was—from the kids at Slateview, from the Lost Boys, from his friends and acquaintances, from federal agents, and even from my dad himself. But I needed to form my own opinion of him. And to do that, I needed to know the truth.
If he’d been framed for the fraud he’d been arrested for, it wouldn’t automatically mean my father was blameless. But at least I would know what I should and shouldn’t be blaming him for. And if he was released from behind bars, maybe he could make up for some of the hurts he had caused undeserving people. He certainly couldn’t do that while in prison.
On Saturday night, I finally couldn’t take it anymore. I had nothing to do—no homework, and the boys were busy on a job.
I picked up my phone, scrolled through the contacts, and pressed the button to dial the number I’d f
ound on Bishop’s phone. And then… I waited.
“Yo.”
The voice on the other end was raspy and gruff, like the person it belonged to had spent a few too many years smoking cigarettes.
“Uh, hello.”
There was a pause. “Who the fuck is this?”
“Um—” I drew in a breath. Come on, keep it together, Cora. “My name is Cordelia. I’m a friend of the Lost Boys?”
Flint snorted. “Ah. Friend, eh? How’d you get my number? I’m not a fucking go-between for them and their women, so talk to them yourself if you have somethin’ to say to them.”
I grimaced.
“No. I’m—I’m actually calling for you. I’d like to speak to you. You see, I’m Cordelia van Rensselaer. I want to talk to you about my father.”
Silence followed. I thought for a moment that he may have hung up on me, and my heart lurched. Oh God, please, no. If he cut me off before I even had a chance to make my case, I’d be stuck at square zero, trying to figure out how to explain this to the Lost Boys before Flint went and told them I’d called him.
“Hello?” I asked, tugging the phone away from my ear for a second to make sure the call hadn’t disconnected.
“Rensselaer, you said?”
There it was. What I was looking for.
Recognition.
“Yes.” I nodded as I spoke, my tone growing a little more confident. “Will you speak with me?”
