“Well, if not, then at least we’re not stuck being bored at home. At least we’re having some fun, right?”
“ This is your idea of fun?” he asked. “Lying to the cops?”
“It wasn’t lying,” she said. “It was just pretending.”
“There’s a pretty important difference.”
“Oh, come on,” she said. “I’m sure the police have better things to deal with than stray dogs.”
“What about stray kids?”
“You don’t really mind,” Emma told him with such certainty that Peter glanced over at her. “This is just about your dad.”
“What?” he said, his voice coming out in a telltale squeak. He tried to laugh it off, but this too sounded strange and forced. “No, it’s not.”
But he knew, of course, that it was true. They were almost to Washington now, with nearly three hundred miles of highway behind them, conspicuous as the sun in the blue car and toting a lame dog who drew attention wherever they went. But nobody had stopped them, and even once someone had, there had been no sign of recognition, no dramatic arrest or abrupt ending to the trip.
And it was only now dawning on Peter that this was no coincidence. They hadn’t been lucky to scrape by, and he hadn’t been fooling anybody. The fact was that no one was looking for him. And he understood now that this was a choice his father had made—this decision to await his return rather than chase after him—one that Peter knew was no small sacrifice for him to make.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Emma asked, twisting to face him. “That’s why you’re acting all jittery? Because of your dad?”
He hesitated, about to brush away the question as he always did, hedging his bets that despite what she said, Emma wouldn’t really be interested, or at least not for very long. But when he looked over, he saw that she was now watching him with her head tilted, an expression on her face that fell midway between affection and concern, and Peter wondered if maybe—just maybe—he’d misjudged her.
He turned back to the road ahead of them, feeling somehow lighter. They passed another police car, parked along the side of the highway, half hidden by a length of overgrown bushes so that just its headlights flashed in the late-day sun. But this time Peter drove past confidently, feeling almost invincible.
“Maybe,” he said. “But I think I’m okay now.”
Emma sat back and smiled. “I think so too.”
Chapter fifteen
It wasn’t long before they reached the outskirts of Washington DC, the sprawling brownstones and colonial houses that bridged several surrounding states. Peter swung the car lazily onto an exit for the city, and Emma resisted the urge to remind him of her sister’s address; he seemed so pleased at the challenge of finding it on his own, apparently reluctant to refer to the needlessly large pile of maps in the back.
The sun was low in the sky ahead, draping the trees in honey-colored light, and the roads were busy with commuters returning home after work. At a red light Peter looked at her sideways.
“Do you ever wonder what he would’ve been like?”
Emma yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Who?”
“Your brother.”
“Oh,” she said, sitting up. “I don’t know. Not really.”
This, of course, wasn’t the least bit true; she had, ever since she found out about him, been pondering that very question. And what she’d come up with was a wide assortment of theories and possibilities, a hypothetical resume that accounted for everything from what kinds of foods he would have hated as a baby right on up to what his grade point average might have been this year. But even to Emma this all seemed a little bit much—just a tad on the wrong side of crazy—and so she only shrugged at Peter’s question.
“C’mon,” he said, his voice insistent. “You must’ve thought about it a little bit. I mean, he was your twin. I wonder if you guys would have been very much alike.”
“Two of me,” she said with a grin. “Scary, huh?”
But Peter only smiled. “Not the worst thing in the world.”
“I don’t know,” Emma said. “I mean, how many geniuses can fit into one family, right? It’s nice to think he might’ve been more like me.”
“A genius at other stuff,” he said. “Like talking your way out of things.”
“And wandering off.”
“And avoiding people.”
“And not really listening.”
“Oh, yeah,” Peter said, laughing now. “You’re brilliant at that.”
Emma smiled, sitting forward as they caught their first glimpse of DC. It wasn’t anything like New York in size or scope, but there was still something about driving into a city at dusk, the lit buildings rising like silhouettes against a pale sky, a kind of glowing energy that came from leaving behind the stark emptiness of the highways. When she glanced over at Peter, she saw her own reaction mirrored in his face, and Emma realized this was all new to him, that strange and wonderful feeling when you first crest a hill and look out across a concrete landscape pulsing with shadow and light.
“Think he would’ve been a city mouse or a country mouse?”
“Country,” Emma said. “But he wouldn’t have really known it.”
“Popcorn or candy at the movies?”
“Popcorn, definitely. With extra butter.”
“Obviously,” Peter said with a firm nod. “Dogs or cats?”
“Dogs,” she said, reaching behind to give the sleeping dog a pat on the head. “Especially funny-looking ones.”
“Think he would’ve been good at directions?”
“Better than me,” she said, “but worse than you.”
Peter was quiet for a moment. “Do you think …” He lifted one hand from the steering wheel and rubbed at the back of his neck. The red taillights from the car ahead of them reflected off his glasses. “Do you ever feel like maybe he’s sort of looking out for you?” he asked, glancing over at her quickly as if to gauge her reaction. “Not in a really obvious way; I don’t mean like a ghost or angel or anything like that. But just …”
“Just sort of out there?”
“Right,” he said. “More like a feeling.”
Emma nodded. “Yes.”
“Yes?” he repeated, looking surprised. “Not maybe, or possibly? Just … yes?”