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"I know you saw the picture. The night-vision picture." I didn't answer, so he continued. "That's the thing you know, that you want to tell the cops. Did they offer you a reward for it?"
"I'm not here looking for--" I said.
"But how can I ever know that, Aza? How will I ever know? With anyone? Did you give it to them yet?"
"No, we won't. Daisy wants to, but I won't let her. I promise."
"I can't know that," he said. "I keep trying to forget it, but I can't."
"I don't want the reward," I said, but even I didn't know if I meant it.
"Being vulnerable is asking to get used."
"That's true for anybody, though," I said. "It's not even important. It's just a picture. It doesn't say anything about where he is."
"It gives them a time and a place. You're right, though. They won't find him. But they will ask me why I didn't turn over that picture. And they'll never believe me, because I don't have a good reason. It's just that I don't want to deal with kids at school while he's on trial. I don't want Noah to have to deal with that. I want . . . for everything to be like it was. And him gone is closer to that than him in jail. The truth is, he didn't tell me he was leaving. But if he had, I wouldn't have stopped him."
"Even if we gave them that picture, it's not like they're going to arrest you or anything."
Suddenly, Davis stood up and took off across the golf course. "This is a completely solvable problem," I heard him say to himself.
I followed him up the walkway to the cottage, and we went inside. It was a rustic cabin with wood paneling everywhere, high ceilings, and an astonishing variety of animal heads on the walls. A plaid, overstuffed couch and matching chairs formed a semicircle facing a massive fireplace.
Davis walked over to the bar area, opened the cabinet above the sink, pulled out a box of Honey Nut Cheerios, and started shaking out its contents. A few Cheerios poured out of the box into the sink, and then a bundle of bills banded with a strip of paper. I stepped forward and saw that the wrapping read "$10,000," which seemed impossible, because the stack was so small--a quarter-inch high at the most. Another stack came out of the Cheerios box, and then another. He reached up for a box of shredded wheat puffs and repeated the process. "What--what are you doing?"
As he grabbed a third box of cereal, he said, "My dad, he hides them everywhere. These stacks. I found one inside the living room couch the other day. He hides cash like alcoholics hide vodka bottles." Davis brushed some cereal dust off the hundred-dollar bills, stacked them next to the sink, and then grabbed them. The entire stack fit in one hand. "A hundred thousand dollars," he said, and offered it to me.
"No way, Davis. I can't--"
"Aza, the cops found, like, two million dollars executing their warrant, but I bet they didn't even get half of it. Everywhere I look, I find these stacks, okay? Not to sound out of touch, but for my dad, this is a goddamned rounding error. It's a reward for not sharing the picture. I'll have our lawyer call you. Simon Morris. He's nice, just a little lawyery."
"I'm not trying--"
"But I can't know that," he said. "Please, just--if you still call or text or whatever, I'll know it's not about the reward. And you will, too. That would be a nice thing to know--even if you don't call." He walked over to a closet, opened it, stuffed the money into a blue tote bag, and offered it to me.
He looked like a kid now--his watery brown eyes, the fear and fatigue in his face, like a kid waking up from a nightmare or something. I took the bag.
"I'll call you," I said.
"We'll see."
--
I left the cabin calmly, then sprinted through the golf course, skirting the pool complex, and ran up to the mansion. I ran upstairs and walked along a hallway until I could hear Daisy talking behind a closed door. I opened it. Daisy and Mychal were kissing in a large four-poster bed.
"Um," I said.
"A bit of privacy, please?" Daisy asked.
I closed the door, muttering, "Well, but it isn't your house."
I didn't know where to go then. I walked back downstairs. Noah was on the couch watching TV. As I walked over to him, I noticed he was wearing actual pajamas--Captain America ones--even though he was thirteen. On his lap, there was a bowl of what appeared to be dry Lucky Charms. He took a handful and shoved them into his mouth. "'Sup," he said while chewing. His hair was greasy and matted to his forehead, and up close he looked pale, almost translucent.
"You doing okay, Noah?"
"Kickin' ass and takin' names," he said. He swallowed, and then said, "So, did you find anything yet?"
"Huh?"
