What Caleb and I have is strong enough to weather some temporary storm.
I lock him deep inside, and let the con take over.
“The director wants to see you,” I toss over my shoulder as Grayson and I take the stairs down to the first floor.
Dr. O may have set this assignment, but it’s time to get some answers of my own.
* * *
“HERE’S THE KITCHEN,” I say, motioning to the cooking show setup of marble and stainless steel as Grayson stumbles to keep up. A couple of underclassmen are milling about, but after a few waves and hi’s, they make themselves scarce, leaving only our silent housekeeper, Ms. Maddox, dusting in the dining room. She might not be able to speak, but she’s always listening, and I don’t chance talking freely until Grayson and I are out the back doors, beside the pool.
That’s when I grab his elbow and drag him down the stone steps toward the lawn.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“I was just going to ask you the same thing.” He shakes free, raking his hands through his shaggy hair. “That guy, Min something…”
“Belk.”
“Yeah. He found me in Nashville.”
“Tennessee?”
Grayson nods. “Who is Odin? Is he a cop? Are you with the cops?”
“Do I look like a cop?”
His scowl draws my focus. I’ve forgotten how hard his expressions can be—the sharp lines of his jaw and nose, the intensity of his glare. I’ve prided myself on the ability to fit in, slip in and out of groups unnoticed. But Grayson is no chameleon. He wears his anger like a weapon.
“I don’t know. Private security maybe? Did my dad set this up?”
“No.”
He exhales, pacing in a short arc in front of me. “If he finds out I’m here, I’m dead.”
“I know.”
“I won’t go to jail, he’ll kill me.”
“Grayson, I know.”
Dr. O thinks Matthew Sterling made that intern, Jimmy Balder, disappear, just as he did the truth about Susan. Grayson’s right to be afraid of him.
This whole mission is a bad idea. I’ve met the senator—I still remember the look on his face when he told me Grayson was a troubled young man. If I remember him, then he might remember me. If he sees me on the job, he might think I had something to do with Grayson running away.
Which I did.
It doesn’t matter. This is my assignment.
I reach for Grayson’s shoulder, a gentle squeeze to let him know I’m on his side. When his hand raises, I expect him to brush me off, but instead he grabs my fingers and holds them against his arm.
I go still.
Grayson does seem fond of you.
“What am I doing here?” he asks.
I close my eyes for the briefest second, then step closer. “Dr. O wants to help.”
As I speak, his gaze darts to my mouth.
“You told me he couldn’t help. You said he couldn’t protect me.”
“I know I did, I…” I scrunch his shirt in my fist. I’m walking the edge of a blade. Grayson is my assignment, but he knows more truth than any mark.
In some twisted way, he’s my friend.
“I thought he couldn’t help you, but that changed.”
“How?”
I’m not certain how much I can say. Friend or not, Grayson’s part of Dr. O’s larger scheme, and saying too much may put his safety at risk.
“What did Dr. O tell you?”
Grayson releases my hand, but he doesn’t back away. We’re close enough to touch, too close for casual conversation.
I need to play into this, to secure his belief that I understand.
“He said he’s been looking for me since you and I split up,” Grayson tells me. “He wants to help.”
“What did you tell him?”
Grayson kicks at the ground, unearthing a plot of grass. “Nothing much.”
“Elaborate.”
“He knew Susan Griffin died in the … crash. The accident.” He tilts forward, like he might be sick. “I didn’t know they were related—that he’s her brother. He has that picture … that giant painting on his wall.” He shudders as Susan’s self-portrait fills my mind. “God, does he want to kill me?”
“No,” I say, squeezing his arm before his panic takes hold. “He’s a school director. He looks out for kids in trouble. That’s all.”
It’s not exactly all.
And Grayson doesn’t exactly look comforted.
“Does it look like we’re in danger here?” I motion to the mansion and give a small, encouraging smile. “What else did Dr. O say?”
“He knows what my dad will do if he finds out I leaked what happened. Basically, he knows everything you told him.”
I can’t tell if he’s angry or resigned to this reality. “Does he know I told you to run?”
Grayson’s eyes turn to the ground. “He thinks I ditched you. I didn’t correct him.”
He’s helped me without even realizing it, which makes how I’m going to play him even worse.
“Thanks.”
He kicks another clod of grass. “He says my dad’s going to answer for his crimes, and that I can go home if I testify against him.”
His voice wobbles the faintest bit, and I can tell this hurts, even if it’s what’s best.
“What do you think?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “It would be nice to go home.”
Use his pain, I think, even while my chest clenches in genuine sympathy.
I reach for his hand, and he takes it, weaving his fingers with mine. I can feel his fear in the heat of his palm. His loneliness in the clench of his grip. It hits me then: I may be the reason he’s in this position, but I’m also the only anchor he has.
“Grayson, does the name Jimmy Balder mean anything to you?”
His head jerks toward mine, wariness flashing in his blue eyes.
“No. Who is that?”
“A guy who might have worked for your dad. An intern.”
“I don’t know any of the interns. They do the grunt work. Open his mail and plan his events and stuff. Why are you asking?” Worry tightens his tone, but there’s no recognition in his voice.
“I think he might be missing.”
Grayson’s head falls forward. “Great.”
Just because he doesn’t know Jimmy’s name, doesn’t mean he hasn’t heard of him. I make a mental note to revisit this once I know more.
“So what’s in Tennessee?” I ask.
He groans. “Cowboy hats and terrible music.”
I angle toward the gardens, and soon we’re walking down the path, away from the main house. He doesn’t let go of my hand, and I’m aware of how stiffly I hold his, and the unevenness of our gaits.
“Have you been there this whole time?” I ask.
“The last three weeks.”
Another pang behind my ribs. I had no idea Grayson was in Nashville. I’ve checked my phone excessively since he left, hoping to get some sort of message, but none ever came.
“Doing what?” I ask.
“Laying low,” he says. “Watching standard cable. I stayed in a motel outside the city.”