16 Things I Thought were True Part 24

"I trained with my dad for five years." She shrugs. "He doesn't have his black belt yet."

"Seriously?" Adam shakes his head and pushes away from where he's leaning and paces at the end of the bed. "Ninja Amy. That is seriously awesome." He frowns then, stops pacing, and turns to me. "You sure you don't want us to come along? For backup? Amy might come in handy."

I shake my head and swallow. And swallow again and swallow again. "I can handle it." I still have hope though, that it's going to go better than I fear- than they fear. Scooting off the bed, I take out my phone and the small purse I brought along so I don't have to haul around my backpack and all my stuff. It holds my wallet, my phone, and my ChapStick. Adam glances at Amy, and they both shrug as they grab their bags. I grab my backpack to lock it up and walk slowly behind them. After we put away the bags, I flip to my Twitter page and click on recent tweets.

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e "How many new followers?" Amy asks. I glance up; she's peering over my shoulder.

I look at her. "Only a few."

"We'll work on it," she says.

"Thanks," I say to both of them. "Here goes nothing."

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chapter fourteen.

T he cab smells faintly like cologne. I glance at the cabby with his shaved head and black leather jacket. I wonder if Adam wears cologne, and then shake him out of my thoughts and tell the cabby the address of Bob White.

"How long will it take to drive to the Rockland district?" I ask.

"About ten minutes," he supplies in his growly voice, low but not unfriendly.

Exactly what Google Maps predicted. My stomach rolls around.

"You visiting relatives?" He's polite in a nice- uncle way.

"Sort of," I tell him.

"Fair enough," he says and that's it. He doesn't say anything else. He must sense my desire not to have a long conversation.

Cabdrivers must be like doctors or bartenders. They read people's cues. Some want to talk. Some don't.

I lean back against the seat and stare out the window. There's an epic battle inside me, but when I catch my reflection in the window, my face looks calm and void of emotion. Years of practice.

I grab my phone from my purse and click to my Twitter page but can't read anything. I don't know what to tweet. This isn't something I feel like being pithy about. It's okay for now to know my friends are near.

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J a n e t G u r t l e r My eyes turn back to the world outside the cab window. We turn down a street, and it's easy to tell we're in a very well- to- do area.

The houses are surrounded by beautiful trees and rock paths and stone fences.

The further we go into the neighborhood, the bigger the houses get. My heart aches. It's not that he couldn't afford to have helped out. He didn't want to. He just didn't want to.

We're not dest.i.tute, the twins and Mom and I, but this area is in a different league. The majors. I try to breathe and, for the first time, understand how awful it must be for Josh when he has an asthma attack. I can't seem to get in a big breath.

"This is it," the cabby says as he pulls up to a big brick house. I wonder if my mom has seen the house. It's old but it's obviously been well preserved or renovated. The front yard is huge, filled with beautiful trees and big decorative rocks with pebble paths.

The house faces the water and mountains.

"Nice place. You have to pay for views like this," the cabby says as I stare at the house. He turns to me. "Everything okay, miss?"

"Fine," I manage and almost tell him to drive on. Just leave and take me with him. Instead, I lean forward to see what's owed. I pull my wallet from my purse for some of the funny Canadian money, hand him a green, slippery twenty, and tell him to keep the change even though it's less than fifteen dollars for the fare.

I try to catch my breath, but my heart is pounding fast, like I've been running. I sit completely still, staring at the house, won- dering what I'm doing- why this even remotely seemed like a good idea. I could have called or started off with an email. But 158.

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e no. No. I want to see him. I want to meet him. And I want him to meet me.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yes, thank you," I whisper to the cab driver and reach for the door.

He watches me, his face wrinkled up and worried. I open the door.

I pause, considering whether I should ask the cabdriver to wait for me. Instead, I slam the door and fight an urge to puke from fear. I'm all alone. On a strange sidewalk. In a strange town. A strange country. I can't swallow but take a deep breath. My hopes seem sillier now.

The cabby drives away slowly, and I lift my hand and wave but don't move from where I'm standing. I think about tweeting, but Adam and Amy will probably see it and know I'm stalling. They've got Twitter eyes on me.

Instead, I lift my phone and take a picture of the house to show them later. The long brick driveway runs parallel to a stone path that leads up to a huge wraparound porch. I glance around to see if anyone noticed me snapping shots, but there's still no one on the street. It's quiet. Too quiet.

I take a deep breath and wipe my clammy hands on my pants.

Maybe I should have changed or at least put on some makeup.

Then again, why should I try to impress him?

Yes, get angry, I tell myself. It's better than being afraid. "Okay," I say softly to myself. "You can do this."

I stare at the doorbell, trying to force myself to push on it. I imagine pressing the buzzer and running. I lift my chin and close my eyes.

I reach out and press the bell.

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chapter fifteen.

9. Parents only lie to their kids about Santa and the Easter Bunny. #thingsIthoughtweretrue H ello?" calls a woman's voice. The tall door is half shut and blocks most of her face. I only see dark, curly hair.

I'd hoped no one else would answer.

I can't tell her age. Is she a wife? Daughter? Maid?

I straighten my back, refusing to feel bad for his family if he has one.

I try to smile but my mouth quivers. I'm not the bad guy here. I didn't do anything wrong. The choices Bob White made weren't my fault.

"I'm looking for Bob White," I manage, and my voice sounds husky in my ears.

I wait for her to slam the door or send out a pit bull to chase me away.

"Yes?" she says and the door opens another crack. I see her whole face. She's slight, almost fragile, with thick, puffer- fish lips, bloated and kind of fake looking. She's wearing a black turtleneck that touches her chin. She's older than I thought. Dark chestnut hair cascades down to her shoulders in waves. I wonder if she recognizes me- if she hates me.

"Bob White. Who used to work in Seattle?" I prompt.

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J a n e t G u r t l e r "My Bob lived in Seattle. A long time ago." She tilts her head and narrows her eyes and she opens the door fully, leaning her hip against it. My Bob. She's not a housekeeper then.

"Do you work with Bob?" She sounds polite but cautious.

Taking a deep breath I say, "I'm Morgan McLean," as boldly as possible, as if my name is something to be proud of and not the name of the girl in men's underwear dancing on a video that went viral on YouTube a few months before. It suddenly occurs to me he may have seen the video.

She smiles, but her eyes don't flicker with recognition. My stom- ach drops as if I'm riding the rollercoaster at Tinkerpark. It's both a relief and an insult. Unless she's faking it, she's never even heard of me. This woman. Bob's person.

"Um. Is he home?" G.o.d. It sounds ridiculous. Soon I'll be asking if he can come out to play.

"Bob's working." She stands taller and she looks at me with nar- rower eyes. Suspicion crinkles the corners of them. "Can I ask what this is regarding?" She glances down at a silver watch on her wrist.

"He doesn't see solicitors."

My face heats. "Um. I'm not a solicitor." Am I? "It's, um, per- sonal." I fidget, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

"Personal?" She takes a deep breath, looking me up and down with her nose twitching a little, as if I smell. Bad. I might because my underarms are soaking and there's sweat on my upper lip despite the cool night air.

"What's this about?" She glances out past me and frowns as if she must notice there's no car. "Has Bob done something?" She glances 162.

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e behind her. There's a meow and a fluffy long- haired black cat swirls around her leg and swishes its tail at me.

"No," I say, watching the cat. "Nothing at all." He hasn't.

Not in eighteen years. I glance up. "Do you expect him soon?

Or is there a number I can reach him at? I'd really like to talk to him." I didn't plan for him not to be home when I rang the bell. I really should have thought this through more, but I'm good at blocking things- years of practice from a good teacher.

My mom.

The woman bends down and picks up the cat. The size of the cat in her arms makes her look even smaller. The cat stares at me with big, round, yellow eyes. They're judgmental and find me lacking.

The cat owner looks me up and down too. I see a flicker of suspi- cion in her eyes.

"I don't even know for sure if he's the right Bob," I say quickly. "I need to ask him some questions."

She strokes the cat and watches me. When the cat purrs, she pushes her hip off the door. "It's important, isn't it?" She's studying my face. I wonder what she sees.

"Very."

She stares at me so hard, I wonder if she's peering inside my head and reading my thoughts. Uncomfortable and lost, I wonder if I should just turn and leave when she steps back and opens the door a little more.

"Fine." She steps away from the doorway and drops the cat to the floor. With a mew, he scampers off and runs down the hallway behind her. "Come in. Wait here. I'll go check on him. Bob is 163.

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J a n e t G u r t l e r working and asked not to be disturbed, but he's in the office down- stairs." She blinks. "Who do I say is calling?"

"Morgan McLean," I repeat.

"That's right." She nods as I step inside, and she gracefully rounds me and closes the door behind me. "I'll be right back."

Her feet glide along dark hardwood, and she disappears down the hallway, out of the front foyer, around a corner. I glance up. The ceiling is high, and a huge chandelier hangs right over my head. I step off to the side, suspicious of the bolts. Down the hallway, a door opens and footsteps traipse down the stairs.

My body starts to shake. Inside and out. Even my bottom lip quivers. And then my mind trips. I want to run but force myself to stay still and calm.

There's another mew. The cat is back, sitting close to the corner wall, watching me. Staring. Disapproving. He's close to a dining room with French doors, which I only know because the twins talk about construction and house design. The doors are thrown open, but instead of inviting, it has a premeditated and staged aura. Dark hardwood flows into the dining room without a trace of dust or even cat hair. The furniture inside looks unused; everything about the house suggests lots of dollar bills. I shuffle my feet on the plush entry mat, breathing deeply to keep myself from keeling over. I'm tempted to take out my phone. I wish I were all alone, chatting with online friends or transported through time to the tweetup we keep talking about but never seem to make happen in Seattle.

I wonder if I've gotten new followers. I wish this stupid plan had never occurred to me.