Page 6 of I Am Salvation

The piece of flannel is attached to the lid of the box with some simple scotch tape. I pull it off and examine it closely.

I remember buying those pajamas for Griffin. It was a few days before Christmas. Mom and I went to a discount store. It might have been Target. Maybe Walmart. I don’t remember.

When I saw those pink flannel pajamas with rainbows, I knew they would be perfect for Griffin. They ended up being her favorites—even more than the ones with the light-blue hearts.

The blue hearts were what she was wearing the night she was first attacked.

God, I remember. All the blood. Soaking through the flannel, all over the little blue hearts…

I don’t know what ultimately happened to those pajamas. Mom and Dad probably threw them out. Or they’re in an evidence bag somewhere.

But the next time, when Griffin was taken, I wasn’t there to protect her. I wasn’t there to take the blame.

She must’ve been wearing those pajamas I gave her that last Christmas I was in my parents’ house.

No.

I shake my head to clear it.

Someone is fucking with me. The same person who claims to know where she is. The same person who keeps telling me to call off my private investigator.

I don’t even know if Griffin was wearing those pajamas the night she disappeared. My parents never came to get me. They just went on with their lives. They lost a child, and they apparently forgot they had another who’d been unjustly blamed for something he didn’t do.

Who would want to fuck with me?

And why now?

I got out of foster care when I was eighteen. And that was a glorious day, let me tell you. When I entered that last group home for boys thirteen to eighteen years old, I was the new kid, and small for my age.

I paid for it.

By the time I got out, though, I was no longer the new kid, and I’d grown into my current height.

I don’t let myself think about those days. Those days when I should’ve been home with my parents because I hadn’t done what they thought I had.

Things happened to me during that time that I can’t let myself think about. Things I’ve never told anyone—not Jesse, not my therapist.

Things I’ll take to my fucking grave.

There are also things I did during those years. Things I never would’ve done otherwise.

One thing in particular, and I’ll also take that to my fucking grave.

How long have I been standing out here?

I walk back inside, nod to the security guard on duty, and head to the elevator, carrying the box back up to Diana’s penthouse.

She’s at work, of course, so I have the place to myself. I’m expecting a call or an email from Antonio Carbone about when I’ll start my work as a percussion instructor at his music shop.

But until then…

Do I dare call this number?

A better idea would be to give it to Alayna. Let her deal with it.

But already I know, as I rub this piece of flannel between my fingers, that I will call.

I can’t not.

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