The Last Thing He Told Me

“Not exactly.”

“What exactly?” she said. But she says it softly. Which is also her way of saying I don’t need to explain right now.

“Bailey is missing,” I say.

“What?” she says.

“She took off. She left the hotel room. And we can’t find her.”

“She’s sixteen.”

“I know that, Jules. Why do you think I’m so scared?”

“No, I’m saying, she’s sixteen. Sometimes disappearing for a bit is what you need to do. I’m sure she’s fine.”

“It’s not as simple as that,” I say. “Have you heard the name Nicholas Bell?”

“Should I have?”

“He’s Owen’s former father-in-law.”

She is silent, something coming to her. “Wait, you don’t mean Nicholas Bell… like, the Nicholas Bell? The lawyer?”

“Yes, that’s him. What do you know about him?”

“Not a lot. I mean… I remember reading in the papers when he was released from prison a couple of years ago. I think he was in there for assault or murder or something. He was Owen’s father-in-law?” she says. “I don’t believe it.”

“Jules, Owen’s in big trouble. And I don’t think there’s anything I can do to stop it.”

She is quiet, thoughtful. I can feel her trying to add up some of the pieces that I’m not helping her see.

“We’ll stop it,” she says. “I promise you. First we’ll get you and Bailey home. Then we can figure out how.”

My heart clutches in my chest. This is what she has always done—what we have done for each other. And this is why I can’t breathe suddenly. Bailey is wandering the streets of this strange city. And even when we find her—and I have to believe they’ll find her soon—Grady just informed me that I’m not going home. Not ever.

“Did I lose you?” she says.

“Not yet,” I say. “Where did you say you were?”

“I’m home,” she says. “And I got it open.”

The way she says it is loaded. And I realize she is talking about the safe, the small safe inside the piggy bank.

“You did?”

“Yep,” she says. “Max found a safecracker who lives in downtown San Francisco, and we opened it about an hour ago. His name is Marty and he is about ninety-seven years old. It’s insane what this guy can do with a safe. He listened to the machine for five minutes and opened it that way. Stupid little piggy bank, made of steel.”

“What’s inside?”

She pauses. “A will. The final will, for Owen Michaels né Ethan Young. Do you want me to tell you what it says?”

I think about who else is listening. If Jules starts to read, I think of who else will be listening to Owen’s will—not the will I pulled up on his laptop computer, but the will that the other will alluded to, as if in a secret message to me.

Owen’s real will, his more complete will. Ethan’s will.

“Jules, there are probably people listening to this call, so I think we should stick to a few things, okay?”

“Of course.”