“She took the boys to school,” he said. “And then she has a shift at the hospital.”
I looked at him again and noticed he was all dressed in a suit and tie. It was a weekday. Of course he was on his way to work. How had I not noticed that before? My mind was hazy from lack of sleep.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
I turned to go.
Don’t cry until you get in the car, I told myself.
“Charlie, wait—” Greyson called, and he rushed after me down the sidewalk. I started to run to my car but he beat me there and stood in front of the driver’s-side door, blocking my escape. “Charlie, what’s going on?” Greyson asked.
Then he did the unforgivable. He wrapped his arms around me and I broke apart. I started to cry. Like really cry. Giant, heaving sobs.
He rubbed my back and held me tighter.
“It’s okay,” Greyson said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
And his words comforted me, even though I knew they weren’t true.
When I woke up, I didn’t know where I was. I looked around the room. The curtains on the window were shut, and I was lying in a bed, but it wasn’t my bed, and it wasn’t my room.
It was a queen-sized bed with dark plaid sheets. There were a television and an Xbox sitting on a black dresser, and a desk and laptop against the other wall. And there were football trophies sitting on floating shelves, and pictures. Pictures of a boy with blond hair. Greyson. I was in Greyson’s room.
I sat up. I remembered now—what a colossal wreck I had been, and how Greyson had held me in his driveway until I couldn’t cry anymore and I just felt raw. How he carried me to his room and tucked me into his bed like I was a child, closing the curtains tight, telling me to get some sleep, and how I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.
I padded downstairs. Greyson was in the kitchen cooking something on the stove. It smelled savory and delicious, and I was hungry in spite of myself.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“Breakfast burritos,” he said. “They’re the best grief hangover food.”
“It smells amazing,” I said.
“You look like you’re feeling better,” he said.
“I am.”
I sat down on the stool at the island, and he fixed me a burrito and slid the plate across the counter to me. I ate like I was famished and licked my thumbs and fingers when I was done. Then I accidentally burped. I clamped my hand over my mouth and blushed. Shit.
“Compliments to the chef?” I said.
“That’s the highest form of compliment,” Greyson said, and I laughed despite myself, a deep sidesplitting laugh. Greyson laughed, too.
When we recovered ourselves, Greyson asked, “So, I take it your uncle gave you the PI’s files?”
“He did,” I said, and I filled him in on everything—from my aunt Grier’s revelation that my gold-digging mother had apparently been hunting for a husband in the Calloway family, to the discovery of Jake’s mysterious death in my father’s yearbook, to my grandmother’s interview, to my uncle Hank’s reaction when I had shown up at my grandparents’ house this morning.
“Jeez,” Greyson said. “Forget my grief burritos. If I had known all that, I would have made you my post-traumatic stress omelet.”
“Yeah, I’m feeling a little overwhelmed, to say the least,” I said.
“What can I do to help?” Greyson asked. “Put me to work. What can I do?”
“I need to talk to your mom, actually,” I said. “She would know about Jake. How he died, how he might be connected to my mother’s disappearance.”
“I’ll get my keys,” Greyson said.
Greyson sat next to me in the ER waiting room. We had paged Claire about ten minutes ago. Suddenly, the double doors to the hallway flew open and Claire rushed in in her scrubs.
