Page 46

46

Even though I haven’t spoken to Elijah Myers in over a year, when I tell him I want to meet, he is available within the hour.

We end up meeting at our usual location: a relatively quiet park in downtown Manhattan that is nowhere near where either of us lives. I’ve never been to Elijah’s apartment, but I know he lives in Brooklyn. When we meet, he takes the D train into the city.

Elijah is waiting on a park bench, wearing the same Linux baseball cap with a penguin on it that he’s had since high school, which now looks like it has seen better days. His goatee is trimmed a bit better than the last time I saw him, but other than that, he looks exactly the same as always. He’s barely even put on any weight since high school.

He stands up when I arrive, his eyes lighting up the way they always do when we see each other after a long time. “Whitney!” he says.

“Krista,” I correct him, even though I secretly love it when he calls me Whitney. He’s the only person who does anymore.

“Of course, sorry,” he says quickly. “It’s just…it’s so good to see you.”

He looks like he wants to give me a hug, but he doesn’t, and I’m glad. Elijah and I don’t have that kind of relationship, although I strongly suspect he would like it if we did. He isn’t deluded though. He knows this is not a social call.

We sit together on the bench, and Elijah tugs on the collar of his Carnegie Mellon T-shirt. He peers at me curiously through his wire-rimmed glasses. “So what’s going on?” he asks me. “What do you need?”

“Do you think,” I say in the quietest voice I can, “there’s a chance that somebody has started using my name?”

“No way,” he says. “When I got the ID for Krista Marshall, it was clean. I checked and double-checked. Nobody else is going to be using it.”

When I first left home at age seventeen, Elijah was the one who helped me get the new ID. He was the biggest tech nerd at our high school, and there were rumors around school about his hacking skills. We met in computer science class during junior year, back when I thought I would go to college and have a career in the field. So much for that. But I met Elijah, and it was the most important connection I had ever made.

“No,” I say. “I mean Whitney Cross. Could someone be using my old identity?”

That question gives him pause. I appreciate that he’s not just shrugging off my concerns. Elijah is thoughtful in that way.

“It’s possible,” he admits. “Whitney Cross was listed as a missing person, and you haven’t used the name in a long time. And I scrubbed the internet of all mentions of you and Jordan. If somebody else was searching for an alternate identity, it would be up for grabs.”

That’s not the answer I want to hear. “Oh.”

He frowns. “Why do you ask? Is there someone you think has been using the name?”

I hesitate, not wanting to share more than I have to. Elijah has a tendency to ask too many questions. “Maybe.”

“I could look into it for you,” he offers. When I start to protest, he adds, “I wouldn’t charge you anything.”

He never does. He only charges me for the materials themselves, like the cost of the new passport for Krista Marshall. And even then, I’m pretty sure he footed some of the cost.

“Okay,” I agree. “Look into it.”

“Will do.” He leans back against the park bench. “So how is…uh…Blake? Still together?”

For some reason, it doesn’t surprise me that he remembers my boyfriend’s name from over a year ago. But I’m surprised he didn’t notice the giant diamond on my left fourth finger. I reach for the ring instinctively and fiddle with the large stone, twisting it counterclockwise.

“Yes,” I say. “We’re engaged, actually.”

“Oh,” he says. “Good. Good for you.”

He has to know that even if Blake weren’t in my life, he and I would not be together. But those are not words I have ever said to him.

“How about you?” I ask politely. “Anyone special?”

His cheeks color slightly. “No. Not really.”

“Well…” I glance over my shoulder. A street performer has set up shop behind us and is simultaneously playing an acoustic guitar and a harmonica. A small crowd has formed that is tossing money into his open guitar case. “I better get going. I really appreciate this, Elijah.”

“No problem.”

When I stand, he stands too. He’s always been short—he’s about the same height I am in my heels, which means he’s roughly five foot five. That isn’t the reason he and I will never be together. But it doesn’t help.

“Bye, Whit—er, Krista,” he says. “I’ll call you when I get any information.”

“Thank you, Elijah,” I say.