sounded like you were trying to say something, but nothing came out."
Cameron wasn't surprised. Pop had taught him how to keep silent early on. He jerked at the sheets and freed himself, then shivered slightly in the air-conditioning. "I was dreaming about the man who took me," he said shortly. Then he looked at the smaller boy, who frowned back at him under his thick tangle of dark hair: Neil's brother.
"Listen," he said. "Don't ever go anywhere with a stranger, Stevie. Run away from him."
Stevie scrunched up his face. "I know that. You think I don't know that? Mom and Dad have told me about a million times."
Cameron sighed. "Well, don't forget it, okay? It's really important."
Stevie shrugged. He climbed out of bed and dragged off his pajamas, then pulled on shorts and picked up a faded surfing T-shirt. "Hey—why didn't the ocean say hello?"
Cameron closed his eyes. He didn't know how long he could keep trying to think up riddle answers. Why was the boy asking about the ocean, anyway? Cameron thought of the surfing T-shirt, and grinned. He opened his eyes. "Because it waved."
Stevie actually grinned back, just for a moment. Then he said, "Come on. Mom told Mrs. Pierson to make pancakes for you, and it's late."
Mrs. Pierson had been the housekeeper before Neil disappeared; Cameron remembered that from the articles. She came on weekdays, when Mrs. Lacey was at the museum and Mr. Lacey was at his law office. Cameron wondered what she'd expect him to be like.
He sat in his bed and looked around the room, half of it cluttered with Stevie's toys and half of it eerily bare in contrast. He wondered if any of the books or games on Stevie's side of the room had belonged to Neil once. Had the Laceys saved Neil's things, hoping he would come home, then finally realized that even if he did he'd be too old for them? What had they done with the things then? Thrown them away? Saved them for Stevie?
Even if he could have gotten back into his own house, there was nothing Cameron would have taken with him. He'd never had toys, like the other kids in school had. He'd used school bats when he played ball at recess, and the books he'd read had all been from the library or from school. Had Pop ever given him anything except clothes? Cameron didn't think so, but maybe he just didn't remember. No birthday presents—he had a birthday set down on the school records, but Pop never acknowledged it when the day came. No Christmas presents, either. Santa had been a larger-than-life version of Pop, knowing whether he'd been bad or good. Cameron had always been too bad to be given presents. It had been a relief to be sure that Santa was only a made-up story.
He punched the sweat-soaked pillow angrily. He had no memories, no souvenirs of growing up. Between the amnesia and his jail-like existence, Pop had stolen his past. Cameron glared at the room around him. Well, now he was getting even by stealing Neil's future.
He slid out of bed and walked unsteadily into the bathroom. He stripped off his sweaty pajamas and stepped into the shower, wishing he could wash away the dream and the exhaustion he felt even after sleeping late. He'd lain awake the night before, listening to Stevie's soft, steady breathing, thinking how hard it was to guess the right thing to do or say, like stepping blindly out into space and hoping there was a step there to catch you—like going into dinner in the dining room Tuesday night. It was the first time they'd eaten there, and Cameron had a bad moment when he saw the places set at the table: one chair at either end for the adults, then two chairs on one side and only one on the other. Everyone was waiting for him to sit down, and Cameron's appetite for the roast had died as he realized they expected him to sit in Neil's regular place. But which one was it?
His mind raced—would the two boys sit on one side, and Diana on the other? Or would the two older kids sit together, so Stevie could sit all alone where he
Cameron wasn't surprised. Pop had taught him how to keep silent early on. He jerked at the sheets and freed himself, then shivered slightly in the air-conditioning. "I was dreaming about the man who took me," he said shortly. Then he looked at the smaller boy, who frowned back at him under his thick tangle of dark hair: Neil's brother.
"Listen," he said. "Don't ever go anywhere with a stranger, Stevie. Run away from him."
Stevie scrunched up his face. "I know that. You think I don't know that? Mom and Dad have told me about a million times."
Cameron sighed. "Well, don't forget it, okay? It's really important."
Stevie shrugged. He climbed out of bed and dragged off his pajamas, then pulled on shorts and picked up a faded surfing T-shirt. "Hey—why didn't the ocean say hello?"
Cameron closed his eyes. He didn't know how long he could keep trying to think up riddle answers. Why was the boy asking about the ocean, anyway? Cameron thought of the surfing T-shirt, and grinned. He opened his eyes. "Because it waved."
Stevie actually grinned back, just for a moment. Then he said, "Come on. Mom told Mrs. Pierson to make pancakes for you, and it's late."
Mrs. Pierson had been the housekeeper before Neil disappeared; Cameron remembered that from the articles. She came on weekdays, when Mrs. Lacey was at the museum and Mr. Lacey was at his law office. Cameron wondered what she'd expect him to be like.
He sat in his bed and looked around the room, half of it cluttered with Stevie's toys and half of it eerily bare in contrast. He wondered if any of the books or games on Stevie's side of the room had belonged to Neil once. Had the Laceys saved Neil's things, hoping he would come home, then finally realized that even if he did he'd be too old for them? What had they done with the things then? Thrown them away? Saved them for Stevie?
Even if he could have gotten back into his own house, there was nothing Cameron would have taken with him. He'd never had toys, like the other kids in school had. He'd used school bats when he played ball at recess, and the books he'd read had all been from the library or from school. Had Pop ever given him anything except clothes? Cameron didn't think so, but maybe he just didn't remember. No birthday presents—he had a birthday set down on the school records, but Pop never acknowledged it when the day came. No Christmas presents, either. Santa had been a larger-than-life version of Pop, knowing whether he'd been bad or good. Cameron had always been too bad to be given presents. It had been a relief to be sure that Santa was only a made-up story.
He punched the sweat-soaked pillow angrily. He had no memories, no souvenirs of growing up. Between the amnesia and his jail-like existence, Pop had stolen his past. Cameron glared at the room around him. Well, now he was getting even by stealing Neil's future.
He slid out of bed and walked unsteadily into the bathroom. He stripped off his sweaty pajamas and stepped into the shower, wishing he could wash away the dream and the exhaustion he felt even after sleeping late. He'd lain awake the night before, listening to Stevie's soft, steady breathing, thinking how hard it was to guess the right thing to do or say, like stepping blindly out into space and hoping there was a step there to catch you—like going into dinner in the dining room Tuesday night. It was the first time they'd eaten there, and Cameron had a bad moment when he saw the places set at the table: one chair at either end for the adults, then two chairs on one side and only one on the other. Everyone was waiting for him to sit down, and Cameron's appetite for the roast had died as he realized they expected him to sit in Neil's regular place. But which one was it?
His mind raced—would the two boys sit on one side, and Diana on the other? Or would the two older kids sit together, so Stevie could sit all alone where he
Similar Books
