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Back Whirlwind Save as PDF
Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. 85
  87. 86
  88. 87
  89. 88
  90. 89
  91. 90
  92. 91
  93. 92
  94. Also by DAVID KLASS
  95. Copyright Page

“You’re wrong about that,” I tell her. “But judge for yourself. Here goes. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” I suck in another big breath, and this time I know exactly where to begin. “It started that day I scored all the points in that stupid football game. Afterward, we went to the Hadley Diner to celebrate. I thought I saw a man’s eyes flash. You laughed and said I must be on mind-bending drugs.”

“I remember.” P.J. nods. “People were taking your picture. I thought you must have seen a flashbulb …”

“There were no hallucinogenic drugs or camera flashes involved. A tall man’s eyes flashed white to silvery. They marked me, somehow. And, even weirder, when I got home, my dad knew what it meant.”

“What did your dad say?” she wants to know, drawn in.

So I tell her. Odd step by step, harrowing adventure by adventure, mind-blowing event by event.

P.J. doesn’t listen passively or accept things on faith. She interrupts with probing questions.

“Why didn’t you at least call me?” she wants to know when I describe my escape to Manhattan. “Or e-mail me?”

“I was afraid you were being watched. I wasn’t sure who was chasing me, but I knew they were powerful. I was scared that if I tried to contact you, I might put you in danger.”

“Okay. I see that. But you could have dropped a postcard in a mailbox. Or called a mutual friend and left a message for me. You could have tried something, anything …”

“Maybe you’re right,” I concede. “My dad had just told me he wasn’t my real father and my mom wasn’t my real mother. Then he sacrificed his life for me to get away. My whole world flipped upside down and backward. It was a hard time to know what to do …”

“A very hard time,” P.J. agrees, and the pain in her voice is palpable. “The police were convinced I knew something. They interrogated me for days. Meanwhile I was worrying about you so much I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. I lost fifteen pounds. My hair started to fall out. I was certain that if you were still alive, you would call. You would reach out to me. You would know what I was going through and you’d find a way. But you didn’t …”