“You won’t need it anymore.”
I hesitated. As stupid as it was, under the circumstances, I didn’t want to give up my dress. It was mine, goddamn it. “What are you going to do with it?”
Grant shrugged. “Fillmore will burn it, probably.”
“Burn it?”
“No one can know you were ever here,” Grant said. “It’s too dangerous.”
“For who?” I demanded. My stomach dropped. They were going to cover up all proof of my existence. Soon there would be no trail of bread crumbs for anybody to follow.
“For all of us, including you,” Grant said. “I told you nobody would hurt you, didn’t I? This is for your protection.”
Something went slack within me. I felt as if I was falling down a long, dark shaft; black clouds roiled in my peripheral vision and I had to sit down on the edge of the bed before I fainted. The dress slipped out of my hands and onto the floor.
“Grant,” I murmured. It was the only call for help I could find the strength to make. He passed in front of me, crouching down so that our eyes were level. I searched his for any sign of tenderness and he, maybe sensing my intentions, avoided meeting my gaze.
“Just breathe,” he advised, his own breath growing shallow as he sat there watching me. I gripped my knees, riding out wave after wave of nausea. What is wrong with me? I thought.
“Grant, I swear to you, if you just take me home I won’t tell anybody what happened,” I begged. It was the only offer I could think to make, though it was a lie. My knuckles had turned a ghostly white color. “My grandfather has incredibly high blood pressure—if I don’t show up, like, yesterday, he could have a heart attack!”
My own heart buckled at the thought of what Granddad must be going through. I imagined him waking up at dawn and going to check on me, only to find me missing. In my mind’s eye he was picking up the phone, dialing my cell—once, twice, fifteen times before giving up—then Gina’s house, then Grant’s if he could find the number, and then, finally, with a heaviness he almost couldn’t bear, the police.
Grant fixed me with a hard look. “I’m going to say something that won’t make very much sense to you at first, but I need you to listen. I need you to hear me say it.”
“There’s nothing you can say that will make me understand.”
He took a deep breath, bracing himself. “I’m not Grant Davis.”
Of all the lies in the world, that was the one I was least prepared to hear.
“My name isn’t Grant,” he continued. “It’s Thomas. Thomas Mayhew.”
“You must think I’m a real idiot,” I snapped.
He shook his head somberly. “I don’t think you’re an idiot, and I’m not lying to you. I’m not Grant Davis. You don’t know me. My name is Thomas Mayhew. I need you to understand that.”
“This is ridiculous,” Fillmore barked. “Who cares if she understands? It’s not going to change anything. She’ll do what you tell her to do because if she doesn’t you’ll shoot her and leave her here. If there’s two, then there’s more, am I right?”
What the hell did that mean? This was nonsense, all of it. I wanted to grab Fillmore and throw him to the ground. Grant, at least, looked about as sick of him as I was.
“Fillmore, shut up!” he growled. He turned to me. “Don’t listen to him. He talks a big game, but he won’t do anything without my permission, and I’m not going to let him touch you, all right? I’m not the guy you thought I was back … back there, but I have no intention of harming you.”
He looked away at the oblique mention of Oak Street Beach, the prom, the living room of Granddad’s Hyde Park Victorian, the quiet caverns of 57th Street Books—all those things that signified back there .
“If you’re not Grant, then who are you?”
“I already told you,” he said matter-of-factly.
“You told me your name is Thomas Mayhew,” I said. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“If it did,
I hesitated. As stupid as it was, under the circumstances, I didn’t want to give up my dress. It was mine, goddamn it. “What are you going to do with it?”
Grant shrugged. “Fillmore will burn it, probably.”
“Burn it?”
“No one can know you were ever here,” Grant said. “It’s too dangerous.”
“For who?” I demanded. My stomach dropped. They were going to cover up all proof of my existence. Soon there would be no trail of bread crumbs for anybody to follow.
“For all of us, including you,” Grant said. “I told you nobody would hurt you, didn’t I? This is for your protection.”
Something went slack within me. I felt as if I was falling down a long, dark shaft; black clouds roiled in my peripheral vision and I had to sit down on the edge of the bed before I fainted. The dress slipped out of my hands and onto the floor.
“Grant,” I murmured. It was the only call for help I could find the strength to make. He passed in front of me, crouching down so that our eyes were level. I searched his for any sign of tenderness and he, maybe sensing my intentions, avoided meeting my gaze.
“Just breathe,” he advised, his own breath growing shallow as he sat there watching me. I gripped my knees, riding out wave after wave of nausea. What is wrong with me? I thought.
“Grant, I swear to you, if you just take me home I won’t tell anybody what happened,” I begged. It was the only offer I could think to make, though it was a lie. My knuckles had turned a ghostly white color. “My grandfather has incredibly high blood pressure—if I don’t show up, like, yesterday, he could have a heart attack!”
My own heart buckled at the thought of what Granddad must be going through. I imagined him waking up at dawn and going to check on me, only to find me missing. In my mind’s eye he was picking up the phone, dialing my cell—once, twice, fifteen times before giving up—then Gina’s house, then Grant’s if he could find the number, and then, finally, with a heaviness he almost couldn’t bear, the police.
Grant fixed me with a hard look. “I’m going to say something that won’t make very much sense to you at first, but I need you to listen. I need you to hear me say it.”
“There’s nothing you can say that will make me understand.”
He took a deep breath, bracing himself. “I’m not Grant Davis.”
Of all the lies in the world, that was the one I was least prepared to hear.
“My name isn’t Grant,” he continued. “It’s Thomas. Thomas Mayhew.”
“You must think I’m a real idiot,” I snapped.
He shook his head somberly. “I don’t think you’re an idiot, and I’m not lying to you. I’m not Grant Davis. You don’t know me. My name is Thomas Mayhew. I need you to understand that.”
“This is ridiculous,” Fillmore barked. “Who cares if she understands? It’s not going to change anything. She’ll do what you tell her to do because if she doesn’t you’ll shoot her and leave her here. If there’s two, then there’s more, am I right?”
What the hell did that mean? This was nonsense, all of it. I wanted to grab Fillmore and throw him to the ground. Grant, at least, looked about as sick of him as I was.
“Fillmore, shut up!” he growled. He turned to me. “Don’t listen to him. He talks a big game, but he won’t do anything without my permission, and I’m not going to let him touch you, all right? I’m not the guy you thought I was back … back there, but I have no intention of harming you.”
He looked away at the oblique mention of Oak Street Beach, the prom, the living room of Granddad’s Hyde Park Victorian, the quiet caverns of 57th Street Books—all those things that signified back there .
“If you’re not Grant, then who are you?”
“I already told you,” he said matter-of-factly.
“You told me your name is Thomas Mayhew,” I said. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“If it did,
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