The Book of Lies

47

I—I’m sorry,” the curator apologizes to me. “She said you were armed and wanted. I can’t risk the exhibit—”

“Stop talking,” Naomi barks at the curator. Over her shoulder, my dad sits there, devastated. Ex-cons know the consequences best. Next to him, attached to the wall, are two TV monitors: One has a view of the front desk, where we bought tickets; the other alternates among security cameras throughout the exhibit. As the screen blinks, I spot Serena still walking through the exhibit. That’s why Naomi didn’t grab her. She was in the restroom when we bought the tickets. They have no idea she’s with us. It’s the only thing going our way.

Turning to me, Naomi approaches with another set of PlastiCuffs, her gun still pointed at my chest. “Arms out, wrists together,” she insists.

“Before you—”

“Wrists together!” she explodes, surprising even me. “You helped him, didn’t you? Did you know he threatened my family?”

“Wha? Your family?”

“Cal, I saw Ellis! I saw him waiting outside your place!”

She yells so loud, the curator can’t stop blinking. Whatever Ellis did, he clearly lit Naomi’s fuse, which means she’s not listening until she gets what she wants.

I toss the comic book on the conference table and calmly stick out my wrists. “Go ahead—put the cuffs on.”

She stops, knowing I’m up to something. “Cal . . .”

“Put the cuffs on,” I repeat. “I’m not fighting.”

She steps in close and threads both my hands into the open circles of the PlastiCuffs. But she doesn’t pull them tight. “Tell me what happened on Alligator Alley with Timothy,” she adds.

I glance at my dad, who shakes his head. He still hasn’t said anything. So if Naomi’s asking, that means they haven’t found the body. Good for us. Still, if I tell her Timothy’s dead—or even place us at Alligator Alley—there’s no way we’re not going right back to Miami for questioning. “I spoke to him that night, but that’s the last I—”

She pulls the zipper as the PlastiCuffs bite my wrists. “Ow! What’re you—!?”

“You think I’m taking your word for it, Cal? Especially after what you did with Ellis!?”

“I didn’t do anything with Ellis!”

“How’d he find my address!? How’d he find where I live!?”

“Are you—?” I take a breath, knowing that the only way to keep her calm is by leading the way. “Please, Naomi—if I were really trying to kill you, you really think I’d let you put me in these cuffs?”

For once, she’s silent.

“Exactly,” I say. “And for all we know, Timothy may be fine.” It’s an awful bluff, but we’re not leaving here without it.

She shakes her head. “I saw the records. And the video, Cal. I know he helped you take that container from the port.”

“And this is why he took it,” I say, pointing my chin at the comic. “But Naomi, I promise you . . . I swear to you . . . whatever did happen to Timothy, you have to know it was Ellis.”

“I don’t have to know anything.”

“Sure you do! You could’ve stayed in Florida and just called in some local agents here. Instead, you had such a bad feeling about Ellis . . . about everything . . . you came all the way to Cleveland to solve it yourself. We’re in the same exact boat, Naomi—and if you just take a moment instead of dragging everyone off by their PlastiCuffs, you’ll actually find out what the hell’s so important that Ellis wanted this stupid comic book so badly!”

Naomi looks down at the comic, then to my father, then to me.

“Think about it, Naomi: If we really knew what was going on, would we even be here searching for an answer?”

From the table, she picks up the comic and turns to the curator. “You know what this is?”

“Y-Yeah,” he says.

“You know why it’s important?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Tell me.”