Ghost Time

bounced, clapping one hand on top of the other in his lap, and he said, No. No, thank you for reminding me. The main reason I’m here is that I wanted you to know that we received the results of your blood test, and we’re certain it’s not your blood, he said, and I said, I told you it wasn’t my blood, and Foley smiled. Yes, well. We’ve actually had your test results for some time, but I didn’t want to say anything while we were cross-checking our database, going back quite a few years. What’s most perplexing is that the blood found in Cam’s trunk matches the blood type of a little girl who died over five years ago in a fire in Southern California that was started by a boy named Jeremy Naas, a twelve-year-old arsonist. Which, statistically, is one of the first signs exhibited by serial killers, he said, leaning back, smug as could be. Jeremy Naz, I said, almost laughing, and Foley said, Naas, Theadora. N-A-A-S. The name is German, or in this case, more likely Norwegian in origin, and you know what it means?Naas means fiery—purely coincidental, I’m sure, if you believe in coincidences. I said, I believe in coincidences, Foley; it’s you I don’t believe.
    He just stared at me, so I stared back, looking at him, like, are you insane? I said, Foley, what are you talking about? And Foley said, Theadora, I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but the boy you know as John Cameron Conlon was born Jeremy Naas, and he and his mother, Liv, changed their names ten months ago, when Jeremy was released from prison, after serving five years in a juvenile correction facility for the arson of a warehouse building that resulted in the death of a security guard’s four-year-old daughter. Apparently, the guard was a single father, and he had no choice that night but to take his little girl to work with him. No one knew she was sleeping in the man’s office, that he’d locked her inside, to be sure she was safe while he did his rounds, Foley said, twirling his thumbs.
    No. All I could do was say no, no, no…. I don’t believe you, I said, no fucking way. Foley goes, The boy you knew as John Conlon was in a serious lockdown facility, believe it or not, Theadora. And I have to say, it couldn’t have been easy for such a pretty boy, being in prison, and I cut him off: I don’t believe you, I said, not a word. Foley nodded his head, sympathetically, and he said, Maybe not, but doesn’t it make you wonder how much you truly know about the boy, Theadora? Then he pulled a file out of his briefcase, this huge manila file, and he opened it, showing crime scene photos of the warehouse, what appeared to be a little girl’s body, hidden under a white sheet, and I had to look away, disgusted. No, I said, it doesn’t make me wonder. Why should Ibelieve you, anyway? Because I’m here, Theadora, and I have the proof, he said, showing me a picture of Cam, his police photo, headshots. Go on, Foley said, pushing the folder across our coffee table: look for yourself. No, I said, glaring at him, because he was enjoying this. Foley had known all along—he’d been waiting for this moment, telling me, and I felt so, so violent , my hands clenched in fists as I was gritting my teeth.
    It was so absurd, but Foley just sat there, calmly, watching me, nodding. When I stopped, he goes, Also, Theadora, as I mentioned when we first met, there were two NSA agents on their way to arrest a renowned hacker named Jeremy Naas, alias John Cameron Conlon, when he left your house, here, on the afternoon of April 4, and I said, If that’s true, Foley, then why don’t you ask the agents where he is? And Foley said, Because they’re dead. Both NSA agents are dead, Theadora, he said, and my jaw dropped, clunk.
    I looked at my mom, the lawyers, none of them could look me in the eye, but I didn’t care. I managed to shut my mouth, and then I said, That’s not funny—that’s not funny at all, and Foley raised his brow, tilting his head to the side. He said, I couldn’t agree with you more, Theadora. It’s not funny that your boyfriend is missing, and two federal agents are dead. It’s not funny when local authorities handling the missing person’s investigation, Detective Knox and his colleagues, failed to discover blood in the trunk of John Conlon’s car that is not John Conlon’s blood, which matches the blood of the girl he inadvertently killed, six years ago. I said, If that’s true, about the agents, then why isn’t it in the