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The guy doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then I hear his voice, loud but faint like he’s yelling away from the phone. “Ethan, you won’t believe this. Gray has a fucking kept boy.”
I tilt my head. “What’s a kept boy?” Pretty sure we don’t have those in Iowa.
He comes back to the phone. “A rich guy pays you to sit around his house looking pretty and do whatever he wants.”
Okay, so maybe that’s kind of true. Was. For five minutes. But we’re working on it. “Well, an intern is where a rich guy pays you to work for him in a professional capacity, and that’s what I am.”
“I see.” I can hear whoever-it-is grinning, and I almost like him for a minute before I remember he’s probably going to get me in trouble for not doing my job right.
Another voice comes out of nowhere, getting louder. “God, Victor, you can’t just… Who are you talking to?”
“Gray’s kept–” The line goes dead, and I stare at the phone in my hand for a very long time, trying to figure out if I did something wrong or not.
My head jerks up when the door opens and Mr. Freeman comes in, pulling off his coat. “Sorry about that. I had to step out and meet someone.” He stops, frowning. “Is everything alright?”
“Someone called you. He, uh, didn’t want to leave a message.”
“Did you get a name?”
I set the phone gingerly back in its cradle. “Not really. It might have been a prank.”
“I see.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Well, read your document until it’s time to go home.” It does something weird to my stomach when he sayshomelike that, like it belongs to us. I always loved my home, and sometimes it hits me just how much I miss having one.
I sit and gather up the absolutely endless pile of pages I’m supposed to read. The letters crawl all over each other when I look at them too hard, and I always wonder how everyone else chases them down so much faster than I do. “Can we go to the grocery store on the way home?”
His eyes pin me to the couch. “Why?”
I try not to sigh, but it comes out anyway. “Can we go to the grocery store on the way home and youdon’task why?”
I expect anotherwhyor even ano, but eventually he just says, “I suppose.”
My heart skips a couple of beats when his phone rings again. “Hello?” A lot of feelings cross his face when he hears the voice on the other end. Care, sadness, anxiety, warmth. “Victor.”
I melt down into my chair.
“What is–” He breaks off, his eyes trailing up to mine. “Victor, for God’s sake, he isnot–” He holds the phone away from his ear. “What the hell did you tell him, Jonah?”
“Nothing,” I protest. A few minutes later he hangs up and puts his head in his hands. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t say anything weird, I promise.”
He rubs his forehead like it hurts. “I know you didn’t. This is Victor we’re talking about.”
Suddenly, I realize where I’ve heard that name before. “Is that Victor Lang, the…”
“The famous swimmer, yes. My previous client. And my friend, when I have the patience.” I’m not sure he intended to say this much, but the words just keep coming as he turns his pen around and around in uneasy fingers. Then I realize he’s looking at me. “How much do you know about that case?”
“Not a lot. Should I read up on it? I guess I should have prepared better.”
He shakes his head quickly. “I’d rather you didn’t. At least not right now.” His voice has a strange edge to it, but I think I understand. There are things I’d rather he didn’t learn about me, either. I’m starting to wonder which is worse—big, dark secrets or small, festering ones that hurt us slowly every day for the rest of our lives.
