“If I thought there was any chance they would seek you out or that you or your father were in danger, I would tell you, Merriel. Does that set your mind at ease?”

“It does,” I lie, because there doesn’t seem to be anything else I can say. “Thank you, Mr. Webster.”

“You’re welcome, Merriel. And don’t worry. The police are closing in on this gang as we speak. They won’t disrupt the peace and safety of the city much longer. Good day.”

The call goes dead before I choke out a good-bye. I stand at the window for several minutes watching—waiting for the dark blue car with the two men still inside to move or for something to happen.

Nothing does. That should make me feel better. Instead, I feel trapped.

I pace the living room, then turn on the screen and flip through the channels. There have to be a dozen logical reasons why Mr. Webster didn’t tell me about the detectives stationed outside the house, I tell myself. But as much as I try to keep calm, I can’t help but wonder and worry about everything I have seen and heard.

Had I found the paper on the ground like I told everyone, I wouldn’t have so many questions. But I didn’t find the paper on the ground. I’m aware of far more than I have admitted.

I know my mother’s paintings are the reason I was standing in the very place the man with the umbrella found me. He handed me that paper because I was there. That’s the reason I learned the word “verify.” While I want to think that is a coincidence, I can’t make myself believe it.

Mom’s paintings lead straight to that bridge for a reason. But why? If she had wanted me to learn the word, she could have just told me about it. Right?

And what does my mother have to do with a bunch of strangers who are being hunted by the government? Who was she really? And what had she hoped for when she created those canvases?

I ask those questions of myself as I prepare dinner, walking back to the living room every few minutes to see if the blue car has moved from its spot next to the curb. It’s still there.

By six o’clock the meatballs are out of the oven, the spaghetti is cooked, and I have decided to tell Dad about everything. Maybe he knows something, anything, that can help me make sense of what’s going on. But when my father comes through the door, he holds his right arm tight to his side and hurries past, saying that he will wash up quickly before dinner.

He’s hoping I didn’t notice the bag in his hand. I wish I hadn’t.

When he comes back downstairs, I tell him about my finals first, not mentioning Mr. Webster’s visit. Before I can do that, I have to ease the conversation toward the topic of my mother. I use my art final to broach the subject. “It’s hard to imagine Mom ever being happy drawing a bowl of fruit.” Maybe not the greatest transition, but it was the best I could come up with. Dad flinches. His fork stills, and I force myself to forge ahead. “We never talk about her,” I say quietly. “We should talk about her more.”