“If they’re up at six, what time do they leave?”
“Seven. They’re both gone by 7:15. My bus comes at 7:30. So you should have fifteen minutes to get out and I’ll be able to lock the door behind all of us.”
“Thank you so much,” Rachel says.
Greenberry moves everything over to the dryer. The smell of mouse poop is gone. “It should be all dry in the morning, but pretty wrinkled,” she says.
“It’ll wrinkle in the back seat of my car, too,” Rachel says.
“Oh, yeah,” Greenberry says and giggles. She turns the dryer on and says, “Last chance before I go to bed. Do you need anything? If it’s an emergency, then obviously go upstairs, but please try not to; this is going to be so much easier if you just don’t run into my parents.”
“Dental floss,” Rachel says. “The popcorn’s stuck in my teeth.”
“Right,” Greenberry says.
I check news sites before we go to bed, looking for new stories from Marshfield. There’s one bit of new information, which is that the guy who owned the car that hit my father had downloaded something that let him reprogram the car to exceed the speed limit while on autopilot; the car manufacturer was blaming this for why the car got hijacked. “We make very, very secure cars,” the spokesman said. “But if you choose to introduce certain vulnerabilities, there’s nothing we can do beyond voiding your warranty. This is a problem that has to be solved legislatively.”
Rachel sniffs. “They’re going to regret not calling a crisis management firm,” she mutters.
We shut off the lights, and I lie awake in the dark. The bedroom is warm and comfortable, and I saw Greenberry lock the door herself so I know we’ve got a locked door between us and my father, and this house even has a security system, and Rachel goes right to sleep, I think, but somehow I’m awake.
Greenberry’s comment about slumber parties has me thinking about friendships—all the people I met over the years who seemed cool, who seemed like they could be real friends, maybe, but who I didn’t bother trying to get close to because I knew I’d just lose them. It’s not quite true that I was never invited to parties. I mean, I wasn’t invited to parties in the town where all the cool girls wore plaid, but I remember being included in group invites, handed notes, invited over, and just … never asking my mom for permission. It wasn’t worth it.
Will Mom make me give up CatNet when all this is over?
Will I let her?
I’m thinking about Julie again, and suddenly I know where it was I went on my eighth birthday. My mother’s computer is still in the laptop bag, and I get up as quietly as I can, open it, and turn it on.
PASSWORD: it asks.
NOT_UTAH, I type.
And that’s all it takes. I’m in.
Also, the battery’s dying because apparently I didn’t properly shut it down, it was just “asleep” this whole time, so I get out the charging cord, plug it in next to my laptop and Rachel’s phone, and go back to bed.
We wake up to the sound of Greenberry’s parents fighting.
“Are you driving Kari to the therapist this afternoon?”
“No, you are driving Kari to the therapist this afternoon. I have a meeting.”
“Thanks for telling me.” That’s in a super sarcastic tone. “Anything else I can take care of for you while we’re out?”
“Did you pick up the thank-you gift for Louise?”
“We already paid her—not sure why she needs a gift.”
On and on like that, for forty-five minutes. At 7:15 on the dot, they both leave, still arguing. At 7:16, Greenberry is downstairs, dressed in her school uniform, a little flushed. “Do you need anything before I go?” she asks.
There’s not a lot of time for breakfast, but she’s put together a care package of snacks for us and travel mugs of coffee. “We won’t be able to give the mugs back!” Rachel points out.
“Oh, no worries,” Greenberry says. “My father had a bunch of these made as gifts to give clients of his firm, and he made too many and we’ve got fifteen in a cabinet, which is good because my mother loses travel mugs constantly. Anyway, they won’t be missed.”
She gives us both awkward hugs and then lets us out the side door again. “Let me know what happens,” she says.
“I will,” I promise.
It’s a beautiful day—sunny, pleasant, and the leaves are changing, so the scenery’s really nice. Best of all, we are almost there. I mean, it’s a seven-hour drive and 450 miles, but given how far we’ve come, it really feels close now.
“I got into my mom’s laptop,” I say.
“You figured out the password?” Rachel asks. “So where did you go for your eighth birthday?”
“Not Utah. Not, underscore, Utah. Like, Utah was where I’d been begging to go—I wanted to go back to Utah to see Julie, and instead she took me to some stupid amusement park, and I was furious the whole day that it wasn’t Utah.”
Rachel glances over at me from the road. “Oh,” she says. “Oh, yeah. That makes sense.”
When we stop, she turns on her hot spot so I can connect from my mom’s laptop now that it’s charged. My mom has a bunch of unread email messages from Xochitl. One of them mentions texting me, so probably the message claiming to be Xochitl was actually her and not my father.
Xochitl also mentions hearing from “someone claiming to be R” and adds “watch your step,” which is not reassuring.
“Wasn’t there a guy named Rajiv?” Rachel asks when I read this to her.
“He’s dead! I think. The article I read said he committed suicide while waiting for trial.”
“Well, that
