Page 125 of The Five Year Lie

“And it arrives in Cadillac at five fifty a.m....”

For one glorious second this sounds like a reasonable plan.

“... the day after tomorrow. You transfer buses four times. Total cost is four hundred and ninety-six dollars.”

A day and a half on a bus with a four-year-old, for five hundred bucks. That’s the cost of chasing a ghost.

I unzip my pack and dig into my envelope of cash.

45

I spend another hundred dollars at the Boston aquarium, pretending for Buzz that our sudden trip is just a fun outing with Mommy.

He picks out a fuzzy tiger shark stuffy in the gift shop, which I dutifully buy, in spite of the fact that I’m carrying two full backpacks already.

We eat an early dinner, then I make him brush his teeth in the bathroom of Legal Sea Foods.

“Can we just go home?” he whines when I have to remind him again not to touch the toilet seat and the trash can and every other surface he encounters.

“No, buddy, I’m sorry. We’re not done with our trip.”

We walk back through the crowded bus station, and I wonder how many cameras there are in the terminal.

Zain told me that LiveMatch was gone from the Chime Co. network. But once a technology exists, it doesn’t just disappear. LiveMatch probably found its way to a competitor. My presence in this station may be lighting up with my full name and address on a network right this second.

Before now, I wouldn’t have worried. But nothing wakes a girl up to privacy issues like running for her life.

“When can we get on the bus?” Buzzy whines.

“Any minute now,” I say, holding his hand a little more tightly.

I hope it’s true.

When they finally call our bus, I have another moment of anxiety. I approach the driver with our tickets in my hand. The name on my ticket is Allie Grant, and Buzz is listed as Billy Grant.

Please don’t say our names aloud, I privately beg the driver as I hand them over. Who knows what Buzz would say if the guy called us by the wrong names?

And please, God, don’t ask for ID.

But the man just glances at the tickets, hands them back, and waves us on.

“Let’s find you a window seat,” I say magnanimously to Buzz as we climb aboard. He picks one out and settles in. I hand him the coloring book and the box of crayons.

We’re probably still within Boston city limits when he gives up on the coloring book. Within a half hour, he’s bored and squirming. There isn’t any good scenery to distract us. Just the gray interstate, and my terror.

“Can I have a granola bar?” he asks.

I stun him by giving him two. Then he has to go to the bathroom, so I carry my backpack with us down the aisle and discover that a long-haul bus bathroom is even dirtier than I had the capacity to imagine.

Yikes.

Back in our seats, Buzz starts fidgeting almost immediately.

“Can I play with your phone?” he asks.

“I don’t have it, baby. I’m sorry.”

He gives me a disbelieving look, and I don’t blame him. When he asks the same question again a half hour later, though, he gets the same answer.