Miranda [Watty Awards 2013]

Chapter 31

I had no idea how I was supposed to find Amelia Locke, but I figured my best shot to start with was a phone book. After we arrived in Macungie, I swung by a post office, praying that they would have one of these books available. I got lucky.

            “It’s right over there.” The man pointed, smiling. “We don’t normally have them anymore.”

            I gave him a tight smile back, although I didn’t reply. Instead I rushed over to the book as quickly as I could without seeming suspicious, Jack tagging along behind me like a baby duck. Flipping it open, I leafed through the pages, skipping all the way back to the L’s. Finding her name was a process that took far longer than I’d thought.

            But it was there.

            Lock, Daniel. Lock, Anna. Locke, Dina.

            Locke, Amelia.

            I stared at the name, mouth hanging open. It was there? Jack looked over my shoulder; he saw her name too.

            “Locke, Amelia? Isn’t that her?”

            Numbly, I nodded.

            “Easy,” he noted, pursing his lips.

            I glanced over my shoulder at him. “Too easy.”

            Nonetheless I took out my cell, not bothering to even write down the number. I dialed it in, turning on my heel and walking out of the post office while it rang. Jack struggled to keep pace with me, but I didn’t slow down.

           In the back of my mind I knew that this was far too convenient, that this couldn’t possibly be the answer. No, my life was far too complicated for a simple aspect like this to be easy. But I had to check anyway. I had to be sure.

             The ringing lasted forever. One, two, three, four. . . . It rang so many times that I was certain she would not answer. It rang longer than I thought a phone could. I should’ve hung up, should’ve tried again, should’ve continued my search, but I wasn’t going to throw away an option I could cross out.

            “Hello?”

            The voice was hoarse, a smoker’s lungs. I jumped at the sound.

            “Hello?” My back went stiff. “Is this Amelia Locke?”

            Pause. “Who is this?”

            “My name—my name is Miranda.”

            I heard a slight breath over the line; she was probably smoking as we spoke. No doubt it would kill her. “What do you want?”

            It was not a sign of familiarity.

            “My name is Miranda,” I repeated, this time louder. “And my sister’s name is Mia. Do you remember us?”

            “Doesn’t ring a bell.” I could just imagine her eyebrows meeting, mouth curling down in contempt. “How did you get my number?”

            “It’s in the phone book.” I shook my head, cutting to the chase. “Ms. Locke, do you know a man that goes by the name Grim?”

            Then came the longest pause in the entire conversation. I thought I’d struck a nerve, a memory, and she would spill out her emotions and know who I was, and would be willing to help. But instead, I got rejection.