malls and Indian casinos. After dropping off the rental car, I should have waved down a cab and returned to Chinatown. Instead, I stood on the corner of Eighty-Third Street and let the wind touch my collar and the hem of my coat. Usually my Spark manipulated my Shell like the construction worker sitting in a cage on the back of a truck-mounted crane. But that evening my Shell was in control. It wanted to return to Emily’s apartment and lie back down on her bed. I felt like I was watching a computer screen as my body marched down to Eightieth Street and entered the brownstone.
The only light in the stairwell came from the wall sconces on each floor, and I climbed upward through patches of darkness and illumination. Voices leaked through closed doors, and I smelled the slippery odor of fried onions. Key in the lock. Push open the door. Switch on the light and—
Everything in the room had been destroyed. The lamps were smashed and the papers from the little desk had been scattered onthe floor. Someone had slashed open the chair cushions and cut the bear’s neck—exposing a tuft of yellow padding.
Entering the kitchen, I stepped on broken dishes, then glanced into the bathroom and saw that the angel shower curtain had been ripped off its pole. All the suits and blouses hanging in the closet had been slashed with a knife and the clothes from the dresser were scattered across the room. The mattress had been cut open and the foam rubber pushed out—like fat from a wound.
I picked up a night lamp, switched it on, and turned to the wall. Someone had used a can of spray paint to cover the message on the wall. Red paint had dribbled down the plaster to the baseboard. It looked like the residue from a shotgun blast that had cut through a target’s body.
I centered the mattress on the box spring, sat on the edge of the bed, and tried to figure out who had done this.
Lorcan Tate. That was the only logical conclusion. Miss Holquist had given him the address and he had searched the apartment while I was visiting Uncle Roland.
I held up my phone and whispered to Laura, “Are you there?”
“Yes, sir. How may I help you?”
“Display most recent photo.”
And Emily’s letter appeared on the phone screen, the words glowing in the dark room.
Dear Uncle Roland—
If you’re reading this, it’s because I’ve stopped checking in with you. I’m in trouble. I made a choice and I can’t take it back. Just remember—Home is where the heart is.
Emily
I read this message several times until it was absorbed by my Spark. Why was the word “Home” capitalized? Was that important? Was she telling her uncle a secret that I needed to understand?
Home.
The word meant nothing to me. Sometimes, when I wanderedthrough the city at night, I peered through windows framed by half-open curtains and saw families eating dinner or watching television. I assumed they were doing those activities in a home. It looked warm, and there was light.
I returned to the living room, got down on my knees, and found the little music box with the bear, the logger, and the shack with two doors. The shack was a home—the only one to be found in the apartment. My fingers fumbled with the roof until it clicked open. Inside, I found the music box cylinder and—taped to the wood—a flash drive wrapped in a slip of white paper.
Good work, Roland!
I knew you would find this. Stored on this flash drive is a download of the illegal black money transactions of the Pradhani Group, a family-owned company based in India.
This is a COPY! I’m going to send these files to Thomas Slater at the We Speak for Freedom Web site.
But I want YOU to send this backup to them if you haven’t heard from me in two weeks.
I love you, Rollie! You were my real father and mother when I was growing up.
Emily
The dead animals seemed alive at that moment, gazing down at me with emotions that I couldn’t understand. I remained on my knees.
I took the subway back to my loft,
The only light in the stairwell came from the wall sconces on each floor, and I climbed upward through patches of darkness and illumination. Voices leaked through closed doors, and I smelled the slippery odor of fried onions. Key in the lock. Push open the door. Switch on the light and—
Everything in the room had been destroyed. The lamps were smashed and the papers from the little desk had been scattered onthe floor. Someone had slashed open the chair cushions and cut the bear’s neck—exposing a tuft of yellow padding.
Entering the kitchen, I stepped on broken dishes, then glanced into the bathroom and saw that the angel shower curtain had been ripped off its pole. All the suits and blouses hanging in the closet had been slashed with a knife and the clothes from the dresser were scattered across the room. The mattress had been cut open and the foam rubber pushed out—like fat from a wound.
I picked up a night lamp, switched it on, and turned to the wall. Someone had used a can of spray paint to cover the message on the wall. Red paint had dribbled down the plaster to the baseboard. It looked like the residue from a shotgun blast that had cut through a target’s body.
I centered the mattress on the box spring, sat on the edge of the bed, and tried to figure out who had done this.
Lorcan Tate. That was the only logical conclusion. Miss Holquist had given him the address and he had searched the apartment while I was visiting Uncle Roland.
I held up my phone and whispered to Laura, “Are you there?”
“Yes, sir. How may I help you?”
“Display most recent photo.”
And Emily’s letter appeared on the phone screen, the words glowing in the dark room.
Dear Uncle Roland—
If you’re reading this, it’s because I’ve stopped checking in with you. I’m in trouble. I made a choice and I can’t take it back. Just remember—Home is where the heart is.
Emily
I read this message several times until it was absorbed by my Spark. Why was the word “Home” capitalized? Was that important? Was she telling her uncle a secret that I needed to understand?
Home.
The word meant nothing to me. Sometimes, when I wanderedthrough the city at night, I peered through windows framed by half-open curtains and saw families eating dinner or watching television. I assumed they were doing those activities in a home. It looked warm, and there was light.
I returned to the living room, got down on my knees, and found the little music box with the bear, the logger, and the shack with two doors. The shack was a home—the only one to be found in the apartment. My fingers fumbled with the roof until it clicked open. Inside, I found the music box cylinder and—taped to the wood—a flash drive wrapped in a slip of white paper.
Good work, Roland!
I knew you would find this. Stored on this flash drive is a download of the illegal black money transactions of the Pradhani Group, a family-owned company based in India.
This is a COPY! I’m going to send these files to Thomas Slater at the We Speak for Freedom Web site.
But I want YOU to send this backup to them if you haven’t heard from me in two weeks.
I love you, Rollie! You were my real father and mother when I was growing up.
Emily
The dead animals seemed alive at that moment, gazing down at me with emotions that I couldn’t understand. I remained on my knees.
I took the subway back to my loft,
Similar Books
