“I need to find George,” I said.
“He’s not here.”
The receptionist. She was standing with her arms folded, and she looked considerably less forgiving than Mrs. Shelley.
“Where is he?” I said.
“Well, I imagine he’s at home. He called in sick a little while ago.”
The alarm went up a notch. That couldn’t be a coincidence. And it meant he was with Jake right now.
“Where does he live?”
“I’m not at liberty to reveal staff details.”
I thought about marching straight past her and getting into the main office. The groundskeeper was standing there, blocking the way, but the man was in his sixties and I could win that fight if I tried. There would be police and charges to answer then, but it would be worth it if I had enough time in the office to search the cabinets and find the information I wanted. But not much use to me if I couldn’t. And not much use to Jake if I ended up in custody.
“You’ll give it to the police?” I said.
“Of course.”
I turned and walked across the hall, back the way I’d come. They followed me, making sure I left. After I stepped outside, the door was closed and locked behind me. The playground was almost entirely empty now, but Karen was waiting for me by the gate, an anxious look on her face.
“Thank fuck,” she said. “You know you could have got arrested for that?”
“I need to find him.”
“This George? Who is he?”
“Classroom assistant. He drew something for Jake to copy—a butterfly. One of the ones they found with the body in the garage.”
Karen looked skeptical. And hearing myself say it out loud again, I didn’t blame her. But just as with Beck, it was impossible to make other people understand. The person who had taken Jake had known about the remains, I was sure of it, so they would know about the butterflies and the boy in the floor. My son wasn’t psychic. He was vulnerable and lonely, and he had to have learned about those things from someone. Someone with access to him.
Someone with access to him right now.
“The police?” Karen said.
“They don’t believe me either.”
She sighed.
“I know,” I said. “But I’m right, Karen. And I need to find Jake. I can’t bear the thought of him being hurt. Of him not being with me. Of it all being my fault. I need to find him.”
She was silent for a moment, considering that. And then she sighed again.
“George Saunders,” she said. “He’s the only George listed on the school website. I got his address while you were inside.”
“Christ.”
“I told you,” she said. “I’m good at finding things out.”
Sixty-one
“I don’t think you should be drawing that.”
The little girl sounded nervous. She was pacing back and forth across the small attic bedroom. Every now and then she’d stop and look down at his work. Before now, she hadn’t said anything, but that was when he’d been drawing the house and its elaborate garden, the way he was supposed to, copying the intricate scene George had drawn for him. Before he’d given up and started drawing a battle scene instead.
Around and around the circles went.
Force fields. Or portals. He couldn’t decide which, and maybe it didn’t matter. Something for protection or something for escape: either would do. Anything that would make him safe or take him away from here, from George, from the awful presence he could feel throbbing just out of sight at the bottom of the stairs. He wasn’t sure George had even locked the door when he left earlier, and he thought the little girl wanted him to sneak down and try it. No way. Even with a clear path to the front door, there was no—
“Please stop, Jake.”
And he did. His hand was trembling so much he could hardly hold the marker. He was pressing it down so hard that the portal was beginning to cut through the paper.
“I’ve done as well as I can,” he said. “I can’t do it.”
George had given him four sheets to work on, and he’d used three already trying to replicate the picture of the house and its garden. But it was too complicated. A part of him suspected George had done that deliberately—that it was a test, the same way that the disgusting breakfast had been. With the tests at school, you could tell that the teachers wanted you to pass, but he didn’t think that George wanted that at all. When Mrs. Shelley had put him on yellow that first day, Jake thought that she probably hadn’t wanted to. But with George, it felt like he was looking for any excuse to put him straight onto red.
So he’d tried. He’d done his best. And there was one sheet left, so he was drawing a battle. It was good to be creative, wasn’t it?
Daddy always liked his pictures.
But he didn’t want to think about Daddy right now. He started drawing again. Around and around. And maybe the little girl was right, but he couldn’t stop himself now. It was all that was holding back the panic, even though his hand seemed to be totally out of control, so maybe this was panic after all—
The door opened at the bottom of the stairs.
Around and around.
Footsteps coming up.
And then there was so much ink on the sheet that the paper tore. The figure popped out.
You’re safe now, Jake thought.
And then George entered the room.
He was smiling, but it was all wrong. Jake thought it was like George had put on a parent costume, except it was uncomfortable and didn’t fit, and what he really wanted to do was take it off as quickly as possible. Jake didn’t want to see what might be underneath. He stood up, his heart trembling as hard as his body was.
“Now, then!” He walked across. “Let’s see how you’ve done.”
He stopped a short distance away. He could see the picture.
The smile disappeared.
“What the fuck is that?”
Jake blinked at the swear. As he did, he realized there were tears in his eyes. He had started crying without even noticing, and the urge to let himself—to break down and sob—was tremendous. It was only the look on George’s face that stopped him. George wouldn’t want real emotion. If Jake broke down, then George would simply wait until he was finished and then give him something to really cry about.
“That’s not what I told you to draw.”
“Show him the others,” the little girl said quickly.
Jake rubbed his eyes and then pointed down at the drawings he’d been meant to be doing. I want my Daddy. The words were bubbling up inside him, threatening to come out.
“I did my best,” Jake said. “I couldn’t do it.”
George looked down, examining the pictures blankly. The room was silent for a few seconds, the air humming with threat.
“These aren’t good enough.”
Despite himself, the comment stung Jake. He knew he was no good at drawing, but Daddy always said he liked them anyway, because—
“I tried my best.”
“No, Jake. Evidently you didn’t. Because you gave up, didn’t you? You had another sheet to practice on, and you decided to do … this instead.” George waved his hand contemptuously at the battle scene. “Things in this house cost money. We do not waste them.”