Page 126 of The Five Year Lie

Eventually he falls asleep in my lap, the shark wedged under his arm, and I fight my own drowsiness. Our itinerary requires us to change buses in New York at eleven p.m., in Scranton at four in the morning, in Harrisburg at seven a.m. and Detroit sometime tomorrow night. If I fall asleep, I could miss a transfer.

Unfortunately, that leaves hours of empty time for my mind to spin. The bus darkens, and so do my thoughts.

I think one of the Zarkeys killed Zain for digging too deep.

I think Ray and Bryan Zarkey were responsible for the wrongdoings at Chime Co. And maybe my dad, but maybe not.

I think Drew turned up asking too many questions, too. He found some things he wasn’t meant to find.

Then I came along and kicked over the barrel of secrets again. Zain and I dug for the truth, and now he’s dead. I feel responsible. The least I can do is listen to the last piece of advice he gave me.Run.

We arrive in New York more or less on time, and most everyone on the bus stands up to depart.

I ease my sleeping child off my lap and onto the seat. Instead of waking up, he screws his eyes shut and curls up like a potato bug. So I unzip the pocket where my valuables are, removing the tickets and stuffing them into the pocket of my jeans, where I’ll be able to reach them. Then I put on my backpack.

Buzz sleeps through it all.

I ease the fuzzy shark out of his sleeping arms and stuff it, tail first, inside his backpack. Then I lean down and lift my sleeping child off the seat.

He whimpers in protest. But then he wraps his arms around my neck as his head sinks onto my shoulder.

Okay. That works. If I can prop one arm under his butt and use the other to carry his backpack, then I’ve got this. Except I didn’t plan ahead, and his backpack is still on the floor.

Shit.

I bend over very slowly, trying not to let my own pack and Buzz’s weight destabilize me. I close my fingers around the strap and start to straighten up.

My pack collides with someone in the aisle, and the bump almost sends me toppling. “Hey, watch it,” someone snarls.

“Sorry,” I murmur as Buzz’s arms tighten around my neck like a hungry anaconda.

“Relax, man,” another male voice says. A pair of hands stabilize my pack. “She don’t mean nothin’. Take your time, miss. You okay now?”

“Yes. Thank you.” I get a grip on my various burdens and maneuver into the aisle. The three steps off the bus feel like a cliff descent, and I stumble at the bottom, breathing in diesel fumes. Then I follow the other passengers into Port Authority.

The place is gross, not to put too fine a point on it. I’m glad our layover is only a half hour.

A giant monitor provides the departure location of our next bus—Gate 204. An escalator delivers me up one level, which is no more appealing than the one I just left.

I approach our gate, and it occurs to me to wonder if Drew passed through this very same place after he left Portland.

Sleepy passengers gather in clusters, some of them seated on the drab tile floor. There’s only one bench in the rough vicinity of the gate. I linger near it for a moment, but none of the five lucky seated people makes eye contact with me, and nobody offers me a seat.

Hard to blame them.

But I still do.

Rolling on through the night, my head lolls from side to side whenever the bus takes a turn. I wake up with a start at every stop, listening for Scranton.

This time, Buzz wakes up for the transfer, but I have to carry him again nonetheless. He’s groggy and unhappy with me.

We take a trip to the dingy bathroom. “Want to put on your pj’s?” I ask Buzz.

He shakes his head, giving me a look that implies I’m insane.

Under the flickering fluorescent lights, I look like the worst, most exhausted version of myself. I wash my hands and my face and take a swipe at Buzz’s while he fights me off.

We troop back onto the bus. I can’t believe there’s another twenty-six hours of this to endure.