How did you find it? Whose is it? How long can we hide out here?” I’m pacing the length of the house in full journalist mode now: digging for information, putting pieces together, and trying to come up with a solution. Eyeing a yellowed magazine on an end table, I flip through it to find a fairly empty page to write on and look around for a pen. I always think better when I can write notes down. Marco grabs a chair from the kitchen, flips it around, and straddles it, resting his forearms on the back. “It belongs to my mother’s father. I haven’t seen my mother since I was ten, and I don’t think my dad is even aware that I know about its existence. We’re safe here for a little while longer.” His words should reassure me, but something is nagging at me. A slight pull at the back of my mind, like I’m forgetting something. I begin to doodle on the magazine cover, running through a checklist in my mind while hoping it’ll come to me. “Where did you go last night? Did anyone see you?”
