to be a young stay-at-home mom with twin two-year-olds.
“Why?” Milo asks, opening the passenger door to his car. “It’s just getting fun.”
He’s being generous. After I printed out the directory results for every woman in the city with our mother’s name, Milo and I spent hours canvassing last night and more this morning. Since I couldn’t just go home, I spent half the night online in a twenty-four-hour internet cafe, trying to narrow down our list of targets, with no success. None of these women have online social profiles. After catching a couple hours of sleep in the safe house, I met Milo at a coffee shop, and we started again. He doesn’t need to be here. He’s wasting his time.
I stand in the open space between the door, the car, and Milo. “This is pointless. There are three dozen Cassandra Gregorys in the city. She might not even be here anymore.”
She might not even be alive anymore.
Maybe our friends in the abyss got the message wrong. Maybe they aren’t trying to kill our mother—maybe she’s already gone.
I don’t say that last part out loud, but I’ve been thinking it, a lot. Sthenno said they’d lost contact with our mother a long time ago, and the last mention of her in our adoption file was when she tried to make contact four years ago. A lot can happen in four years.
Heck, a lot can happen in four
“It doesn’t hurt to keep looking,” Milo says.
“You’ve already spent all of last night and this morning.” I stare at my shoes. This isn’t fair to him. “I can keep searching on my own.”
“You need my car.”
“I have a bus pass.”
“Grace.” His tone is so serious that I look up. “Did you ever think I might like having an excuse to spend more time with you?”
My cheeks burn, and I can’t keep the smile off my face.
His gaze drops to my lips. I don’t wait for him to lean in. Heart racing, I curve my hands around his neck and lift my face to his.
When I drop back onto my heels, I’m in a daze.
“Now,” he says with a lazy smile, “if you’re done trying to get rid of me?”
“For now,” I tease.
“Then where’s the next Cassandra Gregory on the list?”
I pull out the printout of search results and scan past all the ones we’ve already crossed off. I draw a line through number twelve before reading the next entry to Milo.
“That’s in the Richmond,” he says as he walks around the front of the car. “We’ll be there in five.”
I sink into the passenger seat and pull the door shut. As I click my seat belt into place, Milo puts the car in gear and takes off for the next mom-hopeful.
My hand shakes as I press the doorbell.
This isn’t new; it’s been shaking ever since Nick and I autoported into the middle of a bad-guy meet-up. It was shaking as I knocked on the doors of the previous twenty-two Cassandra Gregorys, so it’s no shock that it’s shaking now.
Though after going through this so many times, I really should be past that.
Footsteps echo inside, followed by the sound of a deadbolt retracting.
The woman who opens the door has freckled alabaster skin and flame-red hair, but she’s the right age, and that’s an improvement over two-thirds of the other contenders.
“Cassandra Gregory?” I ask.
She scowls. “I am.”
“Did you by chance give your triplet daughters up for adoption sixteen years ago?”
My heart thuds in anticipation.
“Honey,” she says, placing her hand dramatically at her waist as she scans me from head to toe, “take a look at these hips. No child has ever passed their way.”
Another strike. “I’m very sorry,” I say. “Thank you for your time.”
As I turn to walk back to Milo and the car, she calls out, “I hope you find her.”
Me, too.
I look back over my shoulder. “Thanks.”
When I get back to the car, Milo guesses, “Not her?”
I shake my head.
“Maybe the next one,” he suggests cheerfully.
“You say that every time.”
He shrugs. “It’s always true.”
“Number twenty-four,” I say, scanning the list, “is in Chinatown.”
I settle in for the drive, listening to Milo’s crackling radio and hoping—desperately—that the next Cassandra will be the right one. At this point, the chances are getting pretty slim.
I try to imagine what I think she’ll be like. Do we get all of our features from her, or do we look more like our dad, whoever he is? Does she have powers and fangs? Is she tough or elegant or good with computers? Is she like all three of us or none of us?
Milo pulls to a stop in front of the address I gave him, jarring me out of my wondering.
“Be right back,” I say as I climb out of the car.
We have this down to a science now.
“Maybe not,” Milo calls out.
I smile. I hope that eventually he’s right.
This building has a set of buzzers with the residents’ names written in thick black marker next to the corresponding apartment numbers. I locate the one that says Gregory—4B—and push the small black button.
I wait patiently but get nothing but silence.
I buzz two more times, with no response.
Oh, come on.
I really don’t want to leave this Cassandra Gregory as a question mark on the list. Maybe her buzzer’s broken, I reason. She might be up there waiting for friends or pizza or long-lost daughters to show up and not even know they’re ringing her bell.
She might be grateful.
So, with my delusion in place, I start pushing every buzzer on the panel. Normally I would never do something like this. My only excuse is that my patience is in short supply and this is a desperate situation.
Someone finally buzzes me in.
I hurry inside and head for the stairs. Elevators aren’t exactly my favorite method of transportation after the situation at my apartment. I pound the steps two at a time until I’m on the fourth floor.
I’m so winded and tired that my hand doesn’t shake at all as I knock on the door to 4B. I’m too worn out to be nervous, I guess.
I listen carefully.
Maybe she’s really not home. Maybe I was making up that story about her buzzer not working—okay, I
Then I hear it: the soft shuffle of feet on a hardwood floor.
I get goose bumps.
I duck down, out of sight of the peephole. If she wants to know who’s at her door, she’ll have to open it.
I realize what a dumb thought that is—who in the city is just going to open their door to any old knock?—half a second before I see the handle turn. I bite my lips together, waiting, hoping . . . fearing.
As the door swings open, I bring myself back to my full height. I’m straightening my legs at the same moment when Cassandra Gregory’s face appears in the opening.
It’s like looking in a mirror.
Well, a fast-forward mirror in which I’m looking at my future self, but a mirror nonetheless. I’m frozen, gaping at this woman who is so obviously my biological mother.
