Earthbound

Samantha yesterday. “What if … what if they aren’t really my aunt and uncle?”

Benson’s eyebrows scrunch. “Is that even possible?”

“Sadly, yes. I didn’t know them before. They could be anyone. And it just seems too big a coincidence for them to be so into whatever is happening to me when they weren’t a part of my life until eight months ago.”

“How can you not know for sure?” Benson asks. “Didn’t you meet them before the crash?”

“It’s a little … complicated.” Like everything in my life. “They’re practically shirttail relatives who weren’t even around until the last, I guess ten years, and some of my memories from before the crash are shaky. I do remember Reese, I think, but it’s been long enough that it could be memories of someone who looks a lot like her.”

“Can’t your, I don’t know, grandparents tell you?”

“My step-grandma died a couple years ago. Her funeral was actually the last time I saw Reese, but she was all blotchy and had one of those fancy veil things on her hat that covered part of her face. When I think back, the veil is all I remember. It was sheer, I’m sure. But in my memories, it blocks out everything.”

“Other siblings?” Benson asks, though I suspect he’s expecting my answer.

“Well, you know I’m an only child. My dad was too, till Grandpa married Reese’s mom. And she mostly lived with her dad.”

“And you never reached out to anyone, like, back home?”

My memories of Michigan are the shadiest of them all; names and phone numbers flit away from my consciousness like sand through my fingers. But it’s more than that—and hard to explain to someone who still has a family. “When you lose … everyone … no one looks at you the same. Even the doctors and nurses who didn’t know me gave me these awful looks.”

“Pity?” Benson whispers.

“It’s more than pity.” I feel the tears build up in earnest now and shake my head. “My mom and dad—” My voice cracks and I take a breath and try again. If they were alive, none of this would be happening—well, I guess I don’t know that. But even if it was, I’d have them to turn to. “I was still trying to deal with everything, so when Reese and Jay basically offered me total seclusion at their house, I took it.” I realize, as I say it, that I really am a recluse.

If I disappeared, like that man outside the candy store … no one would know.

The possibility horrifies me.

“I just didn’t want to go back,” I finally say, “and be so much less of a person than I was before.”

Benson’s thumbs rub against the backs of my hands. “You’re not less. Different? Maybe. I didn’t know you before. But you couldn’t be less.”

I nod glumly. He’s brought me back from the edge of tears, but only just. Because I do feel less. Everything is just … less.

“So,” Benson says, distracting me again. “Let’s say Reese and Jay aren’t who they say they are—and they might be. How would they have even gotten you? You were still seventeen. Child Services isn’t going to just hand you over to someone claiming to be your next of kin.”

“They got custody through my parents’ will, I think. Would it be all that hard to make a fake ID?”

“I think you’d need more than that,” Benson presses.

“I don’t know. You can pull off just about anything with enough cash. And if they’re involved in some kind of organized crime, I guarantee they have resources.”

“Okay, let’s say that’s the case.” He spreads his hands to the side. “Where are the real Reese and Jay?”

I suck in a breath. I hadn’t thought about that. No. I force myself to be honest. I didn’t want to think about that. “Is it all that far-fetched to believe they killed them?”

“I guess not. Or,” Benson continues before I can go too far down that morbid path, “they might be living on a farm in Kansas with a fake death certificate and no idea you’re alive at all.”

“How pathetic is it that I find that idea remarkably plausible?”

“Well, one way or another, we’re going to figure this out. Together,” he adds, his eyes boring deeper into mine. “I’m not backing out now. Whatever you want to do next, I’m right there.”

“Well,” I say, leaning forward, trying to amp up my bravery. “Maybe we should take advantage of Reese being gone.”

“How so?”

I swallow hard, and it’s that moment when I realize how serious this next step is.

And how committed I am to it.

“I have an idea.”

Benson just rolls his eyes. “Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like this idea?”

“Well, that depends,” I say in a faux casual tone. “How do you feel about breaking and entering?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I’ve tried every key twice, and the door to Reese’s office remains stubbornly locked. Filled with frustration, I lean my head against the door, a total failure. Benson stands behind me, his arms crossed over his chest, saying nothing.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling utterly dismal. “I thought for sure one of these keys would do it.”

“It’s understandable,” Benson says with just a hint of humor. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many keys in one place.”

“I know, right?” I say wryly, holding up the weighty ring.

“Maybe you should just make a big hammer? Or, like, a chain saw or something.”

“And destroy the door?” I sigh. “Talk about massive evidence.”

“Touche.” Benson glares at the doorknob, his jaw muscles standing out. Then, making some kind of decision, he drops into a crouch and pulls his wallet out of his back pocket. “May I?”

“May you what?”

He removes what look like two slim sticks from his wallet and, after a little fiddling, unfolds them and snaps them into place.

“Are those lock picks?” I ask, completely shocked.

“Maybe,” he says, inserting one carefully into the doorknob.

“Wallet-size lock picks?” I press.

“First rule of Fight Club,” he mutters, focused on his task.

“Fight Club my ass,” I whisper, watching as he expertly works at the dead bolt.

After some fiddling, Benson cranks one of his sticks around—and the knob turns with it. The door glides open on well-oiled hinges. “There you go,” he announces, folding his little lock picks back down and dropping them into the bottom of his wallet.

“Where did you learn that?” I stare at him in shock. And possibly awe.

But he just shrugs, and I suspect that’s all the answer I’m going to get.

Reese’s office looks … normal.

It’s not as though I haven’t been in here before. Reese often leaves her door open while she’s working. I even asked her one day when I first moved in why she kept it locked, and she smiled and patted my shoulder. “I have a lot of trade secrets in there.” Then she sighed, looked away, and said, “But truth be told, it’s mostly just habit.”

Habit. Right.

Drawing a deep breath, I cross the threshold into the office. Everything is super-organized, with perfect stacks of papers on the desk, a file cabinet with a potted flower on top in one corner, and a corkboard mounted on the wall, covered with pins and Post-its.

I reach for the filing cabinet first.