We. What do we do now. We are in this together, it seems, which warms my heart, even if it’s taken us to this all-night diner in South Austin, far from our home. Even if it’s taken us into territory we never wanted to be in. That I would give anything so that Bailey didn’t have to be in. We are here together and we both want to keep going. We both want to find Owen, whatever he has been hiding—wherever he is now.
“Now,” I say. “We fix this.”
Two Can Play at That Game
I wait until the morning to call him. I wait until I feel calm and I’m sure I can do what I need to do.
I gather up all of my notes and throw on a sundress. I close the door to the hotel room quietly, careful not to wake Bailey. Then I head downstairs, through the bustling lobby, and go outside, where I can walk along the street, where I can control better what he hears in the background.
It is still quiet out—the lake placid and peaceful—even with the morning rush, commuters on their way over the Congress Street Bridge, heading into their offices, their children’s schools, on their way to start their blessedly normal days.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the napkin from Fred’s, Grady’s cell phone number underlined twice.
I turn on my cell phone, pressing *67 first before I tap in the number, hoping this will help block my call a little bit longer—if he is so inclined to unblock it, if he’s so inclined to try and figure out where I am.
“This is Grady,” he says when he picks up.
I brace myself to lie. This is, after all, what there is left to do. “It’s Hannah,” I say. “I heard from Owen.”
This instead of hello.
“When?” Grady says.
“Late last night, around two A.M. He said he couldn’t talk in case someone was listening to the call. Tracking him. He called from a pay phone or something. It came up as a blocked number and he was talking fast. He wanted to know if I was okay, if Bailey was okay, and he was adamant that he didn’t have any part in what is going on at The Shop. He said he’d had a feeling Avett was up to something, but he didn’t know the depth of it.”
I can hear Grady on the other end of the phone, rustling around. Maybe he is looking for a notepad, something on which to write down the clues he seems to think I’m going to give him.
“Tell me what he said exactly…” he says.
“He said it wasn’t safe for him to stay on the phone, but that I should call you,” I say. “That you’d tell me the truth.”
The rustling stops. “The truth? About what?”
“I don’t know, Grady. Owen made it sound like you’d know how to answer that.”
Grady pauses. “It’s early in California,” he says. “What are you doing up so early?”
“Would you be able to go back to sleep if your husband called you at two A.M. and told you he was in trouble?”
“I’m a pretty good sleeper, so…” he says.
“I need to know what’s going on, Grady. What’s really going on here,” I say. “Why does a U.S. marshal based in Austin, Texas, come all the way to San Francisco seeking out someone who isn’t a suspect?”
“And I need to know why you’re lying to me about Owen calling you when he obviously did not.”
“Why are there no records of Owen Michaels before he got to Sausalito?” I say.
“Who told you that?” he said.
“A friend.”
“A friend? You’re getting some faulty information from your friend,” he says.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Okay, well, did you remind your friend that one of the primary functions of The Shop’s new software is to alter your online history? That it helps you erase a trail you don’t want to leave, correct? No online trail as to who you are. That includes online databases to universities, housing records—”
“I know how the software works.”