Until I found his fake name and number in my mother’s things.
“Then you called me up out of nowhere, Girl One,” he said. “I didn’t expect to meet you. I thought you were in Chicago, miles away. And we met, and you trusted me, and you were so curious and adventurous. I saw all these doors just opening and opening, finally.”
“Finally,” I echoed, a bitter mockery.
Junior rubbed the back of his neck. “I was afraid if I told you, it would all end. Just when I was learning about my father and what his work really meant.”
“What was all that bullshit about your family? Your deadbeat dad that you never met?”
“A white lie. Barely a lie. My father was never around. He was always at the Homestead or on conferences and trips. Sometimes months would go by and the only way I’d see my father was in a newspaper with one of you. I was only thirteen when he died. I barely have any real memories of Dad. So, yes, my mother was a single mother. Same as yours.”
“But you still had his money,” I said. “You still had that.”
“There was no money,” Junior said, impatient. “My dad had sold everything to pay off debts we knew nothing about. My mother was traumatized. Her husband had just been murdered. She always waited for him to have time for us, always next year, next year. Then he was gone for good. Your mothers wanted to be part of the Homestead; they were willing participants. My mother didn’t ask to be part of anything. When Mom first married Dad”—he stumbled a little over Dad, the plain tenderness of it—“he couldn’t get a job cleaning pipettes. He was an outcast. She stuck by his side through everything, and once he got famous, the Homestead took over his whole life.” His face turned older and younger at once. “Bobby was always distant, so it fell on my shoulders to help Mom. I spent a lot of time with her as a kid. I favor her. I guess that’s why none of you recognized me. I kept waiting for somebody to say, it’s him, it’s that boy. Bellanger’s son. But I looked too much like her, and neither of us ever mattered much.”
I looked at him more closely. I realized I couldn’t even remember Mrs. Bellanger’s face enough to recognize hers in Junior’s.
“Emily,” I said. The betrayal was so sudden, so intense, that I could feel it rising inside me like a sickness. “Emily French. She said you’d lead me to my mother. Junior,” I said. “If you know where my mother is—if you hurt her in any way—”
I would kill him. Right here in this motel room. Nothing that had passed between us, no kindness or familiarity, would save him.
“What are you talking about?” Junior asked, sounding genuinely confused. I was gratified to detect the fear in Junior’s voice, the way his face was touched with both reverence and terror.
I explained about Emily’s prophecy in the attic, what felt like a thousand years ago.
Junior was silent. “I think I know what she meant,” he said slowly. “I promise, I haven’t seen your mother since I was a child. That phone call is the only contact I’ve had with her. Listen. Emily was … I think she was remembering the past. I helped you find your mother once. Don’t you remember?” He looked into my eyes, seeking forgiveness: I didn’t have any to give. “It was your birthday. It was a big day, visiting dignitaries. My suit was stuffy and hot and they had you in some stupid dress. You looked so miserable and scared. I felt bad for you. It wasn’t a kids’ party at all. Your mother was in some other room, stuck with the reporters. I noticed you crying. Nobody else saw it. So I went over and I took your hand and I brought you away from everybody, and I helped you find your mother again.”
A hand in mine, leading me away from the crowd, bringing me back to the one person who mattered. Emily’s prediction had kept me going for weeks and it had never been a prediction at all, just a fragmented memory. For a second my anger cooled into sadness, but then I focused again. “Is it your brother, then? Is he the one who’s been following us?”
“I haven’t been in touch with Bobby in a long time,” Junior said. “I don’t think he cares about any of you enough to even look you up, much less come after you. He has a wife and kids now. They don’t know anything about his past. So, no. I don’t know who’s after us.”
We stood there in the drowsy morning light that came through the thick motel curtains. Making a decision, I moved for the door.
“Where are you going?” Junior asked, sounding like he didn’t know whether to be scared for me or scared of me.