“Yeah,” she said. “It’s like one of your maps. There’s never just one way to get somewhere, right? There are a bunch of different possibilities. Some of them take you where you want to go, some bring you home, and others go somewhere else entirely. You can be really certain about really uncertain things.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Well, isn’t that kind of the point? It would be pretty hard to believe in any of that stuff—ghosts or angels or anything else—if it all made sense.”
“Yeah, well, maps are different. They’re logical.”
They were nearly to Annie’s by now, and they made the rest of the trip in silence, Peter frowning out at the road with a look of deep concentration. Emma didn’t blame him; after all, she’d insulted his entire system of beliefs. But how were you ever supposed to get anywhere if you always stuck to the same route? He spent so much time charting out the world that he barely had a chance to get lost in it.
And even now he was doing it again, proving himself better than an atlas in getting to Annie’s. In spite of herself Emma couldn’t help being impressed with the way he zipped around the mixed-up alphabet of streets in the heart of the city, taking shortcuts as if he did it every day.
“I guess it’s a good thing that one of us is logical,” she said. “You’d give one of those electronic navigational thingies a run for its money.”
“GPS.”
“Whatever.”
“It’s short for Global Positioning System.”
“Don’t you know how to take a compliment?” she said, though she could tell he was pleased.
They found a parking spot near Annie’s house, on an orange-tinted avenue lined with streetlamps, just beside a mostly empty pub. As Emma collected her things, she could feel the low buzz of her phone ringing inside her bag, and she knew it was her parents calling again, as they’d been doing with impressive regularity since she left Patrick’s, the phone lighting up nearly every hour like clockwork, though she still hadn’t worked up the nerve to pick up.
Peter stood beside the car, his arms raised skyward in a mighty stretch, and Emma held the door open to let the dog hop out, realizing for the first time that they didn’t even have a leash. She crouched beside him, taking his face in both hands.
“You’re gonna have to be on perfect behavior if we want to pull this thing off,” she told him sternly. He wagged his tail and licked her nose.
“Should we wait to bring our stuff in later?” Peter asked, casting a nervous glance up the street. “Maybe we should try calling first? Or maybe you should go up alone?”
Emma straightened and grabbed her backpack from the trunk. “Relax,” she said, starting down the block. “It’s not like we’re planning a robbery.”
But when they found the right building—a weathered brownstone with curved windows and a hanging plant beside the door—the voice that came rasping over the intercom was about as friendly as if they had been planning some sort of heist.
“No solicitors.”
“We’re not—,” Emma began, but was cut off abruptly.
“We didn’t order any food, either,” he said. “You’re probably looking for the guy in 4A.”
“No, we’re looking for my sister.”
There was a brief pause.
“Emma?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry,” he said, the words drowned out by a loud buzz that made the door vibrate. Peter grabbed the handle. “Come on up.”
“It’s Charles, her boyfriend,” Emma explained, breathing hard as they climbed the stairs, the dog bounding ahead of them, zigzagging along the echoing stairwell like a misguided ping-pong ball. “He’s a little bit …” She searched for the right word, but most of them seemed to describe Peter nearly as well as Charles, and so she just trailed off, pulling herself up the banister as if it were a rope.
When they reached the fourth floor, Peter whistled for the dog, who had climbed up ahead of them. He came trotting down again, his tongue lolling out, his tail fanning the air, and took a seat beside Peter, who hung back as Emma approached the door.
“Sorry about that,” Charles said, sticking his head out before she had a chance to knock. “Wasn’t expecting anyone, and I’m on a deadline.”
Emma waited for him to move aside or invite her in, but he was staring at the boy and the dog waiting beside her in the hallway, seemingly dismayed at the idea that they might belong to her.
“Uh, I heard you’ve been on the run,” he said, his feet still planted squarely in the doorway. He had shocking red hair and too-pale skin and a serious look that rarely failed to disappear.
“Yeah, just call us Bonnie and Clyde,” Emma said, and Charles seemed uncertain whether or not she was humoring him. She tilted her head. “Get a lot of visitors here?”
“Some, why?”
“Because it’s normally polite to ask people in.”
“Right,” he said, stepping aside. “Sorry.”
Emma walked past him and into her sister’s apartment, which looked impossibly tidier since Charles had moved in. The living room was carpeted in white, with black leather furniture and glass tables on top of which stood glass bowls filled with glass fruit.
“Is Annie home yet?” Emma asked, turning around to find that Charles had once again moved to the center of the doorway and was now blocking the entrance of both Peter and the dog, stammering and gesturing and trying to be generally polite about the whole thing.
“Hey, they’re with me,” she said, ducking back under his arm and trying to shoo the dog forward. Charles stuck out a foot to stop him, and the dog sniffed at it for a moment before losing interest.
“Peter Finnegan,” Peter said, holding out a hand.
“Yeah, I know,” Charles said, looking from the outstretched hand back to the dog. “The car thief.”
Emma thumped Peter on the back. “Hey, you’re famous.”
“Look, I’m allergic to dogs,” Charles said. “And we just had the apartment cleaned, and—” He paused to sneeze loudly, looking torn between retreating to get a tissue and standing guard at the door.
Emma folded her arms, ready to square off. She’d come this far and wasn’t going to be turned away by anyone but her sister, but a moment later the heavy door behind them swung open again. The dog leaped to his feet, and Charles heaved another sneeze as Annie emerged from the stairwell, looking worn out from the day behind her and none too pleased about being greeted by the strange little entourage in her doorway.