I don’t know what you’re doing with him. I’m replaying Dr. Greco’s tone. Was she warning me? Just drunk? How much does she know about me?
I finally break the silence with Rusty about a half hour into the ride back, when ninety miles an hour is beginning to feel more like sixty.
“So?” I ask nervously.
“So … what?” he replies.
“Do you believe Dr. Greco’s story? It was like she was saying … Wyatt killed Trumanell.”
“Not news to me.”
“The doctor is … messed up, don’t you think? She seems so alone.”
“If you sell your soul to the devil enough times, that’s what happens. You end up in prison. Her prison just has big windows. Dr. Andrea Greco made snap decisions on testimony for criminals. Karma is paying her back. I have some cop buddies in Dallas who celebrated her retirement like it was theirs.”
He rolls down the window and spits. It doesn’t fly back in, pretty much a redneck Olympic skill at this speed.
Rusty has his eyes focused on my profile, not the road that’s whizzing by. Like he’s reading my mind. Like he’s a completely reckless human being. Like this is one of the interview techniques that got him the name Wonder. Maybe all of the above. Inside, I’m screaming for him to slow down.
“It was probably another dead end,” he says. “Don’t feel bad. I hit the brakes on Odette all the time.”
“Can you hit the brakes right now, just a little?” I beg.
“The twins have a soccer match at six. I want to make it.” But I watch the odometer pull back five miles an hour.
“I saw them at the memorial ceremony,” I venture. Anything, to cut the tension. “So cute. What are their names?”
“Olive and Pimiento. Unless, you’re asking for the names on their birth certificates. That would be Olivia and Penelope, after their grandmothers. But Olive and Pimiento is what I call them, Angelica, Angel, Angie.” I hold my breath as he swerves around an eighteen-wheeler. “The name on my birth certificate is Russell Arnold Colton, for my grandfathers. How about yours? I’m guessing not Angelica Odette Dunn.”
“I think you already know what it says.”
“Yes, I do. It’s pretty. Montana. The lovely Spanish word for mountain. That’s the name your mother gave you, isn’t it? The one you had to erase like it never existed. I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry your mom died. And I’m sorry that your dad is the fucking son of a bitch who erased her.”
One of my tears splashes on the seat. Did Rusty see? Does he know not just my name, but about my eye, too? Is he one of the stupid people who think I can only cry out of one? I still cry out of both, you asshole.
“Do you worry about your father wanting to … kill you?”
“You’ve gotta know I’m the reason he was sent away.” It rushes out of me, angry. “You want to know why I don’t trust cops? The cops lied to me. They told me if I testified to a grand jury he would get twenty years to life. Then the prosecutor pled him down to three because they couldn’t find the gun or another witness. I try to keep track of him, using social media, calling his parole officer. He shows up on Facebook for a month and disappears for six. I only know where he is if he makes the mistake of standing by a historical landmark, and anonymous bar stools aren’t historical landmarks. He’s had nine parole officers. Most of them call me honey, as in you have nothing to worry about, honey. I just take it one day at a time. And I’m doing fine.”
Because of my magic eye.
And Odette’s words.
Resilient being one of them.
Resourceful being another.
“Let me help you, kiddo. I can get cops to watch him until he fucks up and is put back where he belongs. Do you know where he is right now?”
The kiddo is grating. It strikes a creepy old person note, like dear or honey or babe. I just spilled everything to a man I don’t trust. Maybe that’s a sign that somewhere inside me I know that all of this is almost over.
“My partner and I have a very good idea where he is,” Rusty announces. Is this true? I feel like Rusty is inching toward some goal and I’m a lot of inches behind.
“In return for us taking care of your dad, you go on home to Ms. Bonita Martinez on Cliffdale Avenue. Deal?”
And there it is.
“You know about Bunny?” I can’t hold the panic out of my voice. “You talked to her?”
She was so proud when I walked across the stage for graduation. She wore a yellow-flowered dress and red heels, and she never wears heels because she says they make her sound like a goat. I never lied to her before, except early on about my eye. Not for a second, not for a single second, did she think about returning me after she accidentally opened the bathroom door.
“I haven’t talked to Ms. Martinez … yet. Now would be the time to tell me the truth about your psychic abilities.”
The hate I feel for him right now is overwhelming.
“I go to sleep,” I say softly. “And Odette comes to me. We’re always at the lake, so green it’s like a big paint bucket. She sinks away at the end. Her lips. Her nose. Her eyes. The top of her head. She leaves a perfect ring of ripples. Like X marks the spot, only it’s a circle.”
Rusty is swerving into the library parking lot, pulling beside my parked rental. I was so preoccupied with our conversation, I barely noticed we’d entered town. With every mile, Rusty’s expression has grown scarier, more furious.
The doctor, she revved him up.
All it took was a little gold glitter.
I don’t think Rusty is racing to a soccer field. I think Rusty is going after Wyatt, maybe for the last time.
“I need you to get out of town if you won’t cooperate,” Rusty growls. “Will you do that?”
I nod. Lying.
60
A group of noisy kids are exiting the library. Normal. Rusty had shot off as soon as I slung my backpack over my shoulder and started walking toward my rental car. Now I’m inside, windows rolled up tight, wondering if Wyatt is going to die because of me.
I don’t think Wyatt killed Odette. Or Rusty or Finn, for that matter.
That’s a problem. Because I never thought my father was a killer, either.
A tear splashes on my arm. This must be my new thing, crying one tear at a time.
I saw a dried tear under a powerful microscope once. It looked like a black-and-white aerial view of an Oklahoma ranch, all water squiggles and sharp architecture lines. The teacher said our tears look different under microscopes, depending on whether they are happy or sad.
That’s what it feels like I’m trying to do right now—find Odette in the aerial view of a single sad tear. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe our whole world is somebody’s single tear.
Odette had written Wyatt’s phone number in her Betty Crocker diary like she knew I would need it. The thing is, I can’t remember the order of the last four digits, just that they were eights and zeros. I remind myself that numbers are my thing, that they calm me down, that my perfect math score on the SAT is part of why I have a full ride scholarship. All I need is for my fingers to stop trembling.
There are only sixteen possible combinations of those four numbers.