a stool, his legs propped up on the counter in front of him. As I walked over, he looked up and pushed back his long, greasy fringe. âHey,â he drawled. âI just told your boyfriend. Two minutes.â
âI know,â I said. âI was just wondering if you knew where this was?â I laid the scrap of paper on the counter.
The man scratched his head. âI got no idea about Lincoln Heights, but Leavingtonâs ten miles or so,â he said.
I stared at him, then back at the scrap of paper. âLeavingâ wasnât âleavingâ. It was the start of . . .
âLeavington?â
âYep. Itâs on the way to Burlington. But I thought you wanted to go straight to the airport?â
My heart pounded. I ran back to Jam.
He was looking out of the window. âI canât hear any police up by the motel. But if Tarsenâs been watching us . . .â He turned and saw my face, all eager. âWhat?â
I explained about the address. âItâs got to be Soniaâs. She might still be there,â I said, breathlessly.
Iâd expected Jam to suggest we went to Leavington immediately. But instead he shook his head.
âGet real, Lazerbrain,â he said. He wasnât smiling.
My heart sank. âWhat?â
âThis could be anyoneâs address . . .â
âBut it was in my file,â I said.
âPlus itâs at least eleven years old.â Jam rolled his eyes. âLook, we tried to find your file. It wasnât there. What else can we do? Donât you . . . I mean, doesnât it seem to you like youâre getting kind of obsessed?â
I donât think I would have felt more shocked if heâd slapped me. âNo.â I blinked and stepped away from him. âIâm not obsessed.â
âThen why do you want to go to an old address on a random scrap of paper? Itâs ridiculous.â
âNo itâs not,â I said, stung. âIf it was in my file, then it must have something to do with my adoption. And MrTarsen virtually admitted Sonia Holtwood was my mother, so . . .â
âEven if the address
is
to do with your adoption, if you were stolen from your real family itâs not likely to be genuine, is it?â
I was sure he was wrong. But what he said sounded so logical I couldnât see how to disagree with it.
âFine,â I snapped. âThanks for your help.â
Jam turned on me. âJesus, Lauren,â he hissed. âIâve just broken into a building for you. How much more help dâyou want?â
I stared at him, my breathing fast and my jaw clenched.
âIf thatâs how you feel about it, Iâll go there by myself.â
I marched over to the chairs on the other side of the room and slumped into the seat in the corner. The floor was stained and dirty. I kicked at a scuff mark. How dare Jam say I was obsessed? Let him try and live not knowing about his past. Heâd soon realise how hard it was. Like walking through an earthquake. The ground always shifting under your feet as you imagined one possible history after another.
I bent over, determined Jam shouldnât see me cry.
Silence. Then the cab operator called Jam over to his booth. I could hear them speaking in low voices.
I wiped my eyes. Footsteps. A shadow fell over the scuff mark on the floor. Jam squatted down in front of me.
He leaned towards me, his head tilted sideways, trying to see my face.
âThe cabâs ready,â he said. He paused. âDâyou really want to go to this Leavington place?â
I nodded, still not trusting myself to look up at him.
Jam put his hand on the chair next to me. âOn your own?â he said.
I gritted my teeth. It was no good. Just the thought of doing all this by myself was enough to turn me into a quivering wreck.
âNo,â I sobbed. âI want you to come.â I looked up at him, a tear trickling down my cheek.
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