Love, Your Grandfather, Sonny Lee Greenwood
A phone number was scribbled underneath. It had been erased and rewritten, crossed off and changed, so often the paper was worn thin.
She flattened out the money and put it in a little stack.
Two fifties, four twenties, two tens. Two hundred dollars. With what she’d saved from the sale of the guitars, that made . . . $3,200. Walking-around money for a while.
Tyler Boykin. Who was he, and why would he look out for Emma? And why would she want him to? Maybe she could stay in Memphis. She had a little money, and a roof over her head, and all the music she needed within a city block. If she stayed, she could pretend like Sonny Lee was still around. He’d might be just around the corner, or down the block, his whiskey voice and slide guitar leaking out of some after-hours club.
It wouldn’t seem so much like she’d lost everything.
The question was—would Mickey let her stay? Could she stay out of the way of the police and the county?
As if called by her troubled mind, Emma heard footsteps on the stairs. She hurriedly stuffed the money under the mattress.
Someone pounded on the door. “Emma!” It was Mickey.
“Come on in,” she said, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed.
Mickey pushed open the door and closed it carefully behind him. When he turned back toward Emma, his face was taut with worry. “Emma,” he said. “The police was just here, looking for you.”
Emma’s heart sank. “Looking for me?”
Mickey nodded. He crossed the room and gripped Emma’s hands. “They said Sonny Lee’s dead. Did you know that, honey?”
Emma looked up into Mickey’s kind face, and her control crumbled. “I—I f-found him in the shop, on the floor. I guess he fell, and hit his head.” Then she let go and cried, big, heaving sobs that shook her whole body.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” Mickey said, enfolding her in his meaty arms. “What a world this is. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just—I was afraid I’d have to talk to the cops, and be sent to foster care,” she said. “I just—I felt like if I didn’t talk about it, it wouldn’t really be true.”
“They said you called it in, but you left before they got there.”
Emma nodded against Mickey’s broad chest. “Sonny Lee—he was still alive when I got there. But . . . then he died.”
“That’s all right,” Mickey said, stroking her hair. “That’s all right, honey. At least you got to see him before he went. The thing is—you can’t hide in Memphis. It ain’t that big a town. Everybody knows Sonny Lee, and most everybody knows you. You should go to the police. Otherwise, they’ll keep looking until they find you.”
Emma stiffened and pulled away, panic rising within her. “Me? They think I had something to do with Sonny Lee’s death?” She searched Mickey’s face.
“No, of course not,” Mickey said. “It’s just . . . you have been a handful. Plus they have to try to keep you safe. It’s the law.”
“No,” Emma said. “I’m only sixteen, and I have nobody. You know they’ll put me in foster care until I’m eighteen, even if they don’t put me in jail.” She hesitated. “You know, Mickey, I was hoping . . .” She stopped talking when she saw the no in Mickey’s eyes.
“You got to go to the police,” Mickey said. “If you stay here, they’ll find you—they already been here once. It would be better to turn yourself in and answer a few questions, show Sthem you had nothing to do with it. And they’ll make sure you get taken care of, till you finish school.”
Emma would have kept arguing, but she could tell it wouldn’t do any good. Mickey was right: they would find her, sooner or later, if she stayed in Memphis. If they found her staying with him on the down-low, he might lose his liquor license.
“You know, Mickey, I just remembered. There is someone I can call,” Emma said. “Let me sleep on it and maybe we can figure something out in the morning.”
“All right, Memphis.” Mickey hesitated. She knew he didn’t quite believe her, but also didn’t want to deal with not believing her. “Good night, then. You need anything?”
Emma shook her head. “I’m fine,” she lied.
After Mickey clomped back downstairs, Emma stuffed the money back into the envelope. Before she could chicken out, she pulled out the note Sonny Lee had left for her and punched the telephone number into her cell phone.
It rang, several times, and just when Emma thought the call would go to voice mail, a man answered in a gruff voice. “Boykin.”
Her heart did a flip-flop. “Are you Tyler Boykin?”
“Now, what’d I just say?” After a pause, he added suspiciously, “Who is this?”
“My name’s Emma Greenwood,” Emma said. “My grandfather, Sonny Lee Greenwood, said I should call you.”
Tyler Boykin was quiet so long Emma thought maybe he’d hung up.
“You still there?” she said, her fingers sweaty on the phone.“Emma Claire Greenwood,” he said finally. “I knew this day would come. What happened?” It was like he knew it was something bad.
“Well . . .” Emma cleared her throat. “Well, Sonny Lee is . . . he’s dead. He fell. In his shop.”
Tyler Boykin swore softly. Then went quiet. Finally, he said, “Did he fall or did somebody knock him down?” Hmm, Emma thought. It seems like both Sonny Lee and this Tyler Boykin suspect foul play. “He was down when I found him,” Emma said, “so I don’t know. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“I didn’t say you did.” Seconds passed, and Emma could hear him breathing in the phone. “Where are you now?”
“I’m in Memphis. At a club.”
“That figures. What club are you at?”
“Mickey’s,” Emma said. “Do you know it?”
“Yeah.” More silence, as if Tyler Boykin were thinking hard. “Look, sit tight, and I’ll come get you. Take me about twelve hours if I drive straight through.”
“Twelve hours! Where are you?”
“Up north in Ohio. Near Cleveland,” Boykin said. “You ever been there?”
“No, never,” Emma said. One thing she knew: she wasn’t going to be getting into a car with someone she didn’t know, even if he came recommended by Sonny Lee. “Give me the address. I’ll drive there myself.”
“You can drive?” Boykin sounded stunned. “How old are you now?”
“I’m going to be seventeen,” Emma said. “Next March.”
“Time flies,” Boykin muttered. “You got a car?”
“Well. Sonny Lee has—had an old van he’d drive to gigs,” she said. “It’s not much to look at, but it runs good.” That Swas stretching it, but she’d need a car to get around. Emma didn’t worry that the police would be looking for it because Sonny Lee had never transferred the title from the man he’d bought it from. It was kind of an informal deal. “Now, what was that address?”
“I’d rather come get you,” Boykin said.
“And I’d rather drive.”
He sighed. “All right, but you can’t tell anybody where you’re going. I don’t want anybody following you up here.”
“Why would anybody follow me up there?” Emma said, about to lose patience.
“Just promise, okay?”
“All right,” Emma said. “I won’t tell anyone. I don’t want anybody coming after me either.”
He gave her the address and she scribbled it on the back of Sonny Lee’s note.
But she wasn’t going to drive all the way to Cleveland without getting some answers. “Look, I know Sonny Lee said I should call you, but . . .” There just wasn’t any other way to put it. “How do you know him? Who are you and what’s your connection to me?”
Boykin laughed a low, bitter laugh. “Me? I’m Sonny Lee’s son. I’m your daddy.”
Chapter Five
Debriefing
“Mr. Kinlock!”
Jonah lifted his head from his desk and peered, blearyeyed, at Constantine. If it was Constantine teaching, it must be calculus. At the Anchorage, the teachers moved from classroom to classroom while students stayed put, to allow some of the more physically challenged students to be mainstreamed.
But staying put made it that much more difficult to stay awake. And even harder to keep track of what class was in session.
“Sorry,” Jonah mumbled. “I was just resting my eyes.” All around him, muffled laughter.
“Well, rest your eyes on your own time. I’m not up here to compete with your dreams, delicious as they may be. I’m up here to teach you a little something about differential equations.”
Constantine was a recent hire, and a bit less missiondriven than most of Gabriel’s handpicked faculty. And, of course, he knew nothing about Nightshade. What he thought
She knew about Jonah’s delicious secret life was totally wrong. I will never use calculus, Jonah thought. I won’t live long enough to use differential equations. I have other problems I need to solve. But part of the bargain at the Anchorage was that students cooperate with their Individual Education Plans, or IEPs. It went along with the shared fiction that any of them would live long enough to need a career.
Jonah was an erratic student, mostly A’s with the occasional F. He didn’t obsess much about the failing grades. What was Gabriel going to do, flunk him out? When he missed things in class, it was because (a) he hadn’t had enough sleep because of his work with Nightshade, or (b) he was distracted by the background drama. Right now calculus was the least of his worries.
Even on the best of days, Jonah felt like he was under siege in class. On this particular morning, it didn’t help that he was jet-lagged and emotionally bruised from the events in London. Any gathering of teens was bound to be a cesspool of emotions, and the classroom was no exception. Jealousy, embarrassment, grief, unrequited love—it was all there on any given day.