As I watch her, I realize there’s something wrong with her. She flinches at the smallest provocation. A street cleaner goes by and she looks ready to climb the nearest tree to escape. She stands outside the Apple store and stares at the window for so long it looks like she’s planning a major electronics heist. You’d think she was seeing everything for the first time. Like she’s Tarzan or something—raised by wolves in the deepest, darkest forest. And then there’s the fact that she keeps stopping people and asking their name.
I follow her as she roams the streets until well after dark, and watch as she finally walks into a guesthouse with a sign outside reading CATCHING DEW GUESTHOUSE: NO VACANCIES. I jog back to where I parked my car, hoping she doesn’t leave while I’m moving it. Once parked in front of the guesthouse, I settle in and keep an eye on the front door. That’s when my phone rings. Dad’s yelling before I even have a chance to talk.
“. . . called the home phone and when you didn’t answer, I got Mrs. Kirby on the line. She went straight over to the house and then called to tell me you weren’t there. Now you better have a good reason to—”
“I found her,” I say, cutting him off.
“You found her? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” my dad asks, confused.
“I’m in Seattle, and I think I found the girl you’re looking for.”
Dad is silent for a whole thirty seconds, and I wait to hear whether he’s going to start yelling again or if he’ll take me seriously.
“Where are you?” he asks, his tone clipped. Unreadable.
“I’m parked in front of a guesthouse I saw her go into,” I say.
“Where? Give me an address.”
Within minutes, one of Dad’s company Saabs comes down the street and parks a few places away. I stay in my car and watch as one of the men I saw earlier today walks up to my window and taps on it.
I roll the window down and stare at him. “Your father says for you to check into a hotel and then drive straight back to L.A. in the morning,” he says.
“Got it,” I say, and roll the window up in his face. I make no move to leave. He shakes his head and walks back to his car.
The guards and I spend the night in our cars. Finally, around 10:00 a.m., one of them goes into the guesthouse and comes back out at a jog. “She’s gone,” he calls to his partner, and throws me a scowl as they speed off.
Dad calls five minutes later and commands me to head home. Now I’m in a bind: if I go home without the girl, Dad will definitely kill me. I have to find her before his security team does and somehow convince her to come back to L.A. with me. I rest my head on the steering wheel and experience a moment of pure panic. What have I gotten myself into?
I breathe deeply and reason with myself. What worse can happen? I’m already grounded. I’m already going to be kept out of Yale until Dad feels like greasing some palms. I can’t think of a fate worse than the mail room, although I’m sure Dad could. I have to do this, I think, and start the car.
Three hours later I finally spot her, crouched down outside an ultramodern glass building, talking to a street person. Just then it starts pouring down rain. The girl stands, pulls her hood over her head, and sprints into the building.
I turn the car around, park in the building’s parking lot, and make a dash to the door she disappeared through. I just hope she’s still here. If she’s not, I’m going to seriously consider admitting failure and going home.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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19
JUNEAU
I HAVE SEARCHED THE STREETS OF SEATTLE FOR several days, looking for the person my oracle spoke of, without the foggiest notion of what he looks like. Yesterday I felt he was near, but I had to run from my pursuers before I could spot him.
Used to being the hunter, I am now the hunted. Men are chasing me—they aren’t dressed like Whit’s captors, so I have no idea who they are. I just know I have to continue looking for the person I’m supposed to meet while keeping the men at bay. It would help if I knew what he looked like instead of just trusting my hunter’s instinct that he is following me.
But the second he walks into the library, I know it is him.
I am sitting at my usual table: the one I use whenever the rain drives me off the streets, reading magazines and newspapers to familiarize myself with the events of the last thirty years.
I keep my head down, scanning the pages of a Time magazine while I see him glance my way and take a seat at the end of my table. Only when he pretends to be reading a book do I allow myself a peek.