Sliver of Truth by Lisa Unger Page B

have been disappointment, disbelief.
    “Come. On, ” I said to him, yelling now. I stood up and started moving toward the door. “I thought you had something real to tell me, Jake. This is just more insane speculation on your part. More craziness. What are you trying to do to me?”
    He looked at me sadly, stood, and followed me out into the loft space. “I’m sorry, Ridley.”
    “You’re not sorry!” I screamed. I took a deep breath and lowered my voice. “You just want me to be as miserable and obsessed as you are. You want me trapped with you in a past that neither one of us can ever change no matter how badly we want to. It’s not fair. I don’t want to be here with you anymore.”
    He didn’t react, though I could see the pain in his eyes. He walked back into his office for a second, returned with a file folder.
    “Just read this stuff, Ridley. I’m not going to say another word about any of this to you . . . ever again. Just read my research and come to your own conclusions. Call me when you’re ready.”
    I wanted to throw the file at him. I wanted to throw myself at him and punch him as hard as I could a thousand times. I wanted to take him in my arms, comfort him and be comforted by him. Instead of any of these options, I exited the loft in silence. I could have left him and the file behind and never looked back. But, of course, you know me better than that by now. Once we’ve started on the road toward the truth, there’s no turning back. The Universe doesn’t like secrets.
    Following the directions I’d printed out from MapQuest, I pulled off the highway and onto a smaller main drag that led past strip malls and office buildings. This suburb of Detroit seemed like a parade of prefab buildings, indistinguishable from every other American ’burb: Chick-Fil-A and Wal-Mart, Taco Bell and Home Depot, the mandatory Starbucks. Peppered among the chains, small run-down independent stores—a butcher, a mechanic’s garage, a consignment shop—stood like rebel soldiers protesting the encroachment of the corporate giants. They seemed dilapidated and near defeat. I noticed that there were no sidewalks, though I could see houses on the back streets. I drove for miles and didn’t see one person walking. And people think New York City is scary.
    The area seemed to improve after a while and started to look familiar as I neared my grandparents’ old neighborhood. I knew that their one-story ranch house, where my father and later Max had been raised, had been purchased by a young professional couple and torn down, replaced by a much larger, brand-new home. I turned onto their old street, narrowly avoiding a side-impact collision that would have been completely my fault. (I’m the world’s worst driver, partially from inexperience and partially from my mind’s tendency to wander. Many New Yorkers, most maybe, don’t drive—we walk or we ride. We take the subways or—too often in my case—hail cabs. These are activities where mind-wandering is perfectly acceptable, even preferable. Driving, I’ve noticed, requires more focused attention.)
    I looked for my grandparents’ lot on the street, but it seemed that most of the homes had recently been erected. I couldn’t remember the street number nor could I pick it out based on any of the nebulous memories I had. The old ranch houses that had once characterized the neighborhood were now mostly gone, except for a few that looked dwarfed and gray among the gleaming new two-stories. At the end of the street, I found the address I was looking for: 314 Wildwood Lane. It was easily the oldest and most run-down house on the street, with an old Chevy up on blocks in the driveway. I pulled along the side of the lawn and came to a stop, felt my heart start to hammer.
    You’re probably wondering, What the hell is she doing in a Detroit suburb? It was a question I asked myself as I sat in the rented Land Rover, heat blasting. I was starting to wonder if I was as