“About what?”
“My—” I swallowed. “My father is in prison, being tried for—”
“Yeah, I know.”
My heart jumped, and I stood up from the bed to pace restlessly around my room. Gideon van Rensselaer was a big enough name that several papers had covered the story of his arrest, and a few were running updates periodically about his case.
“Well, I…” I spoke slowly, choosing my words with deliberate care. I didn’t want to get the Lost Boys in trouble by admitting how much I knew about what they did for Nathaniel Ward. They were already going to hate me enough for this—for trying to defend my father after everything. “I think there’s a possibility he might’ve been set up. Had documents stolen or had evidence planted. I’m not totally sure. But I thought… you seem to know a lot about a lot of things, and I thought maybe you’d have an idea whether that’s true or not. Or at least, you might know someone who knows. Could I ask you a few questions?”
There was another drawn out pause, and I held the phone tighter to stop my hand from shaking. I’d done what I could. I’d finally bitten the bullet and made my choice and laid it all out there.
Now it was time to see if my gamble would pay off at all.
Finally, Flint cleared his throat. “Yeah, sure. There’s a diner on Flannery and Milton. Carrigan’s. Meet me there. An hour.”
My footsteps slowed as my stomach churned. “Can’t we just talk over the phone?”
“You wanna ask me questions or not, little girl? The least you can do is buy me a damn burger while you do.”
I flushed angrily at his patronizing tone but didn’t protest. He had agreed, and if I pushed too hard, I was afraid he’d take it back. Besides, a diner was a public place. There would be witnesses around, and it was a far cry better than some abandoned alley like the ones the Lost Boys usually met him in.
“Okay. I’ll meet you there.”
“Yup.”
That was all he said before the line went dead.
Thirty-One
I was able to take the bus to Flannery and Milton. It turned out to be about thirty minutes from the rental house, in a slightly nicer neighborhood than the one mom and I lived in.
I had to fight down anxiety and guilt the whole way there. I didn’t like going behind the Lost Boys’ backs to do this. I hated feeling like I was betraying them somehow, repaying everything they’d done for me by sneaking around behind their backs.
But wouldn’t they of all people understand that I was just doing what I had to for the people I loved? I might not always get along well with Mom and Dad, but they were all the family I had.
I shoved those thoughts out of my mind as I pushed into the diner. Focus, Cora. Worry about the nuclear fallout later.
Carrigan’s was a run-down little place, but it was brightly lit and looked relatively clean for a greasy-spoon diner. As I walked alongside the counter fronted by several stools with cracked leather seats, I scanned the booths looking for Flint.
I knew who he was the moment I saw him. I’d never gotten a good look at him when I’d seen him meeting with the Lost Boys, but it didn’t matter. There was no doubt in my mind this was the man I’d come to meet. He didn’t look like any of the other diner patrons—who are a mix of high school kids and blue-hairs. He was an older man, maybe in his forties, who still looked good for his age. Shiny black hair was slicked back from his face, and he lounged casually in a booth near the corner, his eyes drooping and half-lidded, as if being here was the biggest bore imaginable.
“Flint?” I asked softly as I approached his booth. He looked up, brows rising toward his hairline.
“Cordelia?” He tilted his head, his gaze scanning up at down my body as he took in my appearance. “You don’t look like a millionaire’s daughter.”
I glanced down at the clothes I was wearing. I’d gotten used to my new wardrobe, and I liked how comfortable it all felt—but the man wasn’t wrong. I definitely didn’t look like a millionaire’s daughter.
Don’t really feel like one so much anymore ether.
Still, I tilted my head at a perfect angle, giving off what I hoped was a confident, imperious air. Even when I had felt like the daughter of a millionaire, I’d never taken delight in ordering the house staff around. I wasn’t really that kind of person. But something about Flint put me on edge, and the snobby princess act was like an armor I wrapped around myself.
“I see you know who I am.”
“I don’t think there’s a person in Baltimore who don’t know.” He waved to the booth. “Sit.”
I did so, and a moment later when the tired-looking waitress came over, I ordered a water while he ordered a burger. When she was gone, I looked to Flint.
“So, what do you want?” he asked me, picking at his teeth.