I looked at her blankly.
“If you ever want to know for sure. I mean, maybe they have dental records or fingerprints.”
She meant if I wanted to know for sure if I was Jessie or not—because both of Jessie’s parents were dead and she thought there would be no other way for me to find out. She reached up for me then, took me into her arms, and embraced me. Her arms were as warm and as soft as I imagined they would be.
“Thanks,” I said as I stepped back and turned to walk away.
“Be careful, Jessie,” she said softly as she closed the door. I think she didn’t mean me to hear. I wished I hadn’t.
nineteen
“Did you know there were three other children abducted from this area in 1972?” I asked Detective Salvo.
I was sitting in my rented Jeep in the parking lot of the Hackettstown Public Library. After sitting in front of the microfiche for more than two hours, I’d been ejected from the building by the librarian, who wanted to go home. She’d let me in just minutes before closing, then let me stay as she finished her work for the night. Finally, she turned out the lights and told me it was time to go. Now, my head ached (yes, again)—eyestrain, probably. It was dark and I was tired, but hopped up on Frappuccinos. It was cold out and the car was taking a while to heat up. I could see my breath.
“I mean, like, literally within a five-mile radius,” I added for emphasis when he didn’t say anything.
He was quiet on the other end. Then: “I fail to see what this has to do with my case, Ridley. We’re talking thirty years ago in another state.”
Now it was my turn to be silent. It had
“You know the only thing more annoying to cops than private investigators? Civilians
“Maybe it ties in to what happened to Christian Luna,” I said. It sounded lame now, amateurish even to my own ears.
“What, like, maybe he knew something about it?”
“Exactly.”
“Ridley, if he knew something that would get him off the hook for murdering his wife, don’t you think he’d have brought it up thirty years ago instead of living the rest of his life on the lam?”
I didn’t say anything. He had a point.
“Where are you?”
“In Jersey.”
“Come on home, okay?” he said, his voice softer now. “I’ll look into it. I promise.” I couldn’t tell whether he was patronizing me or not. He had one of those voices that just sounded patronizing.
“Oh,” he said. “One other thing. That friend of yours? Excuse me, the guy you’ve never heard of?”
“Yeah?”
“Turns out he has a new address. Guess where? Your building.”
“How about that,” I said. I think I sounded pretty cool. But I had that sick dread you got in your stomach as a kid when you were caught in a lie. Scared, foolish, no idea what to say. Very much inclined to lie again, if pressed.
“Guess what else?” He could barely keep the smile out of his voice. “Guy says he was up in Riverdale last night, a bar up there he likes to hang out at. Jimmy’s Bronx Cafe. Stopped off for a bite at a pizzeria in Riverdale on the way home. But he didn’t see or hear anything in the park. And he’s never heard of you, either.”
“Huh,” I said. Keeping it simple. “Well, you know how it is in the city. You can live next door to someone for years and never get to know his name.”
“Quite a coincidence, though, don’t you think?”
“Certainly is.”
“Only I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said, his voice going flat. “Come back to the city, Ridley. I have a feeling you and I are going to need to talk again.”
“I have a lawyer,” I said weakly.
“Yes, I know,” said Detective Salvo. “He’s been in touch. You don’t know me very well yet, Ridley. Maybe you think Alexander Harriman intimidates me. Let me assure you that you’re mistaken. Just come home.”
I did go back to the city but held on to the Jeep, parked it in the same garage where Jake kept his car. I noticed that the Firebird was gone.
I had a lot of new information and no brainpower to process it. It felt weird going back to my apartment, as if it wasn’t really mine anymore. All the memories lingering there were ghosts from someone else’s life, someone silly and frivolous. For a second, I thought about turning around and getting back in the Jeep. Going somewhere, anywhere else. But I was too tired. The pizzeria was closed and the street was pretty quiet. I dragged myself up the stairs and into my apartment.
He was there, waiting for me. Of course he was. On some level I knew he would be, would have been disappointed if he hadn’t been. He had the light on next to the couch and was lying there, staring at the ceiling. He stood when I entered. He looked so relieved, like he might pass out from it.
“How’d you get in?” I asked.
“You left your keys this morning.” It was true. When I left earlier, I’d grabbed the set I’d made Zack return to me when I couldn’t find my own.
Anyone in her right mind would have kept her distance, asked him to leave, but I think we’ve sufficiently established that I wasn’t anywhere close to being in my right mind. He came toward me quickly and pulled me into him. I wrapped my arms around him and held on tight. He was so strong and that felt good because suddenly I barely had the strength to even stand. I felt the taut, hard muscles of his biceps, of his thighs. My heart thrummed like an engine in my chest. I couldn’t get close enough to him.
“Man,” he breathed into my hair. “I don’t think I’ve ever been as worried about anyone as I’ve been about you tonight.”
I looked up at him. There was that sadness I’d seen before and I thought about the things Detective Salvo had told me. An odd vulnerability resided in the features of his face, as if he was unaccustomed to being controlled by his emotions and a little afraid of how it felt. He moved a hand to my face. His touch was tender, though his hands felt calloused.
“There are a lot of things you should know about me,” he said softly for the second time since we’d met. This time I was prepared to listen.
“I know,” I answered. “Let’s start with your name.”
The only thing you can give to someone telling a story like Jake’s is silence. Silence and your complete attention. We sat on my couch with my legs draped over his lap. He spoke very quietly, hardly looking at me except in quick, shy glances. His speech was halting, as though it wasn’t a story he’d told often. And when he was done, I felt like he had entrusted me with something. Something I had to hold and keep and protect. It bonded us.
“The funny thing is that I remember her. I remember my mother. Or maybe I just dreamed her. But I remember what it was like to feel loved, safe, to be tucked in at night. Maybe that’s why I’m not more fucked up than I am.”
Harley Jacobsen started calling himself Jake in his first foster home.
