“Oh.”
“It’s up to us,” he says. “They’re out there, being kept in a hole like we were, nobody giving a fuck. Or at least, that’s what they’re thinking. But they have us. They don’t know it, but they do.”
He’s silent for a bit, staring down at that pad.
They have you, I think. And it makes them amazingly lucky. I don’t know where the thought comes from, but I’m thinking it with all my heart.
“We’re going to find them,” he continues, “and we’re going to make everybody who put them down there sorry they were ever born.”
I nod, swallow past the dryness in my throat. I can’t believe my father would knowingly be involved in the horror of boys being imprisoned like that. But what do I say if he asks me point-blank about Keeper? I can’t let him hurt my dad.
There’s no way my dad is a part of this. Even if he let someone rent a property way back when, there’s no way he’s helping keep kids captive right now.
Stone opens the pad. “I need to show you this.”
My pulse races as he turns to a page full of pencil scribbles—words in circles with lines connecting them, a massive, tangled web, like a flowchart or mind map or something. “They’re going to see that somebody gives a shit. Finding out about these kids has changed everything for us.”
“And you’re sure about…more boys being held?”
“Oh yeah. It’s from somebody who wouldn’t have lied.”
I focus back down on the chart. It reminds me of the kind that police make when they’re trying to solve a crime, but instead of photos, there are names. Madsen is scribbled in one circle. Governor Dorman. Shock squeezes my chest. “The governor was involved?”
“That’s who we had a talk with,” Stone says. “That’s who helped to frame Grayson.”
“He died recently. It was in the papers. He had a heart attack.”
“Wasn’t a heart attack,” Stone says simply. He points to a small image. A house—the house. “Whoever owned the house we were kept in, that information is lost. Or more accurately, it was destroyed. We’ve been looking at all the big players in real estate from around that time. We’ve run down their information. Questioned a few…” He doesn’t elaborate on questioned. He means tortured. Maybe killed. “It’s a lot of dead ends. Nobody wants to talk. But then we were looking at who was small potatoes back then. Your father was just starting out as a real estate broker twenty years back.”
My pulse races. “Was he?” I say, as if the timeline has just occurred to me. Inside my organs have shriveled and tangled up, torn apart by guilt, but who do I feel guilty toward? Stone, for keeping information from him? Or my father, for even thinking of betraying him?
“I know it’s a long shot, but maybe he could remember something from that time. Maybe somebody asking around about abandoned places.” He points to a circle with Keeper written in it. “Or maybe he knows who this guy is.”
“Twenty years ago,” I say.
“It’s a lot to ask, but I wanted to show this to you, so that you’d know everything I do. And maybe you could talk to him. Even if he doesn't know this guy Keeper, he could know something important. If you could get even one piece of the puzzle. Like, maybe he knew Dorman back then. Or maybe he remembers something Madsen said, or somebody else who’s involved.”
My heart’s pounding like a jackhammer. “So you don’t know who Keeper is.”
“No, but see how many lines connect him to the other players?”
So many lines. Was my father really connected to that many players in this horrible underground kidnapping ring? How is it possible he had that many connections without knowing? “My father might not have known,” I say, but my voice is shaky. “He didn’t.”
“He knew something,” Stone growls, more impatient now. “Even if he doesn’t know Keeper, he has to know something. You don’t work in real estate in this city for this long without hearing something.”
Oh God. “He’s more on the construction side now.”
“Still want to talk to him.”
I nod, but there’s a lump in my throat. “Because boys are out there now.”
“Not for much longer.”
“You’re going to free them.”
“Fucking right we are.”
I reach up and straighten his collar. He really does seem different. It’s this new focus on saving those kids. I like it. I love it. But how can I keep something from him?
But God, how can I turn over my father on a silver platter?
I’ve seen my father come home, exhausted to the bone from trying to keep his company afloat. And I’ve seen him smile at me, asking to see the poem I’ve written or watch my new gymnastics routine. He always found time for me, no matter how young and silly I was. He could never be involved in something that hurt children. Not knowingly.
And Stone won’t ask questions. He won’t care about nuance. He’ll question my father using every method of torture he knows. Something tells me it’s a lot.
“I’ll talk to him,” I say, my throat tight. How am I going to ask something like that? Hey, Dad. Do you remember anything about selling young boys on the black market? That will be a fun family conversation, but it’s better than Stone doing it.
“Thank you,” he says softly. “This is important.”
I reach over and take his hand. Warm and soft. Heavy on mine, years of rough living forming calluses. I squeeze. It’s like holding a tiger by the paw. “Of course it’s important. You are important.”
He shakes his head. “The kids.”
Doesn’t he see that he’s one of them? Even after all these years. But then he never thought of himself as one of them. Even when he was locked in that basement, he saw himself as the caretaker. The one responsible for the children like Grayson. His guys, he calls them.
“Where is Grayson?” I ask, looking around the small cabin. “If this place is safe, why doesn’t he stay here?”
“Oh, we have somewhere else in the city. It’s secure as hell. Completely off the grid. This is a place that only I go.”
And now me. His guys are like little brothers to him. And he doesn’t bring them here? My heart seems to expand, imagining him trusting me. And then pop like a balloon. I’m betraying that trust by not telling him everything I know.
The cabin has one main room with the sofa that we’re on. Off in the corner I can see a rudimentary kitchen, a hot plate and a freestanding stainless steel sink. There’s a door that I assume leads to a bathroom. I wander toward it, because I can’t bear to be so close to Stone—and so far away, at the same time. It’s ripping me in two.
Instead of a bathroom, I find a bedroom with an actual bed with white sheets and a navy-blue wool throw over the top. Walls of rough pine. Does Stone sleep here? He said he only comes here to think, but I realize he means for longer than an hour. Maybe even days.
“Why did you come to prom?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the bed. I’m avoiding something, not looking at him, but I don’t know who it’s protecting really—me or him.