Now You See Her - Michael Ledwidge [50]
Then all I had left to do was try not to get killed by Peter as I saved a man from execution.
In a week’s time.
“Piece of cake,” I mumbled as I rolled my bag into the kitchen.
Em was listening to her iPod and drumming a pencil against her open trig book in front of a bowl of Cap’n Crunch. I stole a spoonful as I e-mailed Harris’s lawyer, a man named Charles Baylor, to tell him I was coming down.
I winced when I turned on the kitchen laptop and opened Internet Explorer. In “History,” I found searches for “Bloom Family” and even “County Wicklow,” the place I’d said Emma’s fictional dad was from.
Great! Another headache. What timing. As if my in-box weren’t currently full of disaster. The tape I’d made before Emma’s party had only whetted her appetite for more, I realized. More juggling. I was getting it from all sides at once. Leave my secret identity alone! I felt like yelling.
“Mom, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Emma said, taking back the spoon. “Why don’t I look more like my dad?”
That was one of my biggest worries. That Emma might notice that Aidan Beck was fair instead of black Irish like Peter.
“I have no idea,” I said cheerfully, making it up as I went along. “I do know you have his good nature and his laugh.”
Emma, no dummy, frowned at my utter bullshit. “Why do I get the feeling that you don’t want me to find out about him?” she said.
I had to struggle to keep from pulling my hair out. “Do I give you that impression?” I said.
“Whatev,” Emma mumbled, fat tears suddenly springing into her big blue eyes.
I knew that Em was just being a sixteen-year-old girl, a ball of hormone-charged emotion. But I couldn’t let her do this. I couldn’t afford it, and neither could she. What the heck was I supposed to say? Sorry to have to tell you this, kid, but your dad’s a psychopathic killer, and I’m a pathological liar?
Instead, I used my secret weapon.
I dropped my keys loudly on the countertop, collapsed onto the island stool, and started crying myself. “I wish I could make your life make more sense, but I can’t,” I said, sobbing.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Em finally said, coming around to embrace me. “You don’t think I know what you’ve done for me, but I really do. I’ll stop freaking you out with all this stuff.”
“No, I’m sorry. You could look up your Irish roots, just not right now, OK? You have college prep and so many other things on your plate. When I get back, we’ll rent The Quiet Man. And eat Lucky Charms for breakfast. I hear they’re magically delicious.”
My iPhone rang as Emma hugged me again. It was a number I didn’t recognize. Terrific. What now?
“Hello?”
“Hi, this is Carl Fouhy from Exonerate NYC. Is this Nina Bloom?”
“Yes, Carl. What’s up?”
“Since you’ve got the Justin Harris case now, I thought it would be a good idea for you to meet Harris’s mother.” Mary Ann must have called him, I surmised. No backsies indeed. “What’s your schedule looking like?”
“Real tight, Carl. I’m actually on the ten o’clock flight to Florida,” I said.
“Could you come by Rockefeller Center before you leave? Justin’s case is making big news now. The Today show is doing a piece on it this morning, and we’re actually out here right now, protesting. Trying to get some national publicity.”
The Today show? Publicity? That would really help my fly-below-the-radar strategy.
A fist-sized ball of fear suddenly clenched in my stomach. I knew I shouldn’t have done this. Taking this case on had been a mistake.
“Nina? You still there? I know it’s a crunch, but I feel it’s really imperative that you meet.”
I couldn’t think of an excuse. I’d have to figure it out. If I was asked to get anywhere near a camera, I’d just refuse and walk away. Run away, if it came to that.
“Um, OK, I guess,” I said, checking my watch. “But only for a minute. Give me half an hour.”
Chapter 62
“AND FOUR, THREE, TWO,” said some wimpy bald guy all in black and wearing a headset. He pointed at the massive high-tech television studio camera