Found by Margaret Peterson Haddix Read Free Book Online Page B

offered him. He punched in Dad’s work number.
    “Hey, Jonah buddy,” Dad said, too heartily, as soon as Jonah said hello. “Did you have a good day at school?”
    “I think I got an A on the social studies test,” Jonah said, trying to sound however he would normally sound on a normal day.
    “Great!” Dad said with way too much enthusiasm.
    Neither of them said anything for a moment.
    “Well,” Dad said. “I called the adoption agency today, just like I promised.”
    He paused. Jonah could tell he was supposed to say, “Oh, thanks, Dad,” or “Really, Dad, you didn’t have to do that,” or even just, “Yeah?” But Jonah found that his mouth was suddenly too dry to say anything.
    “Eva, the social worker who helped us—such a great lady—she’s not there anymore,” Dad said. “But I talked to another woman, who looked up your file, and…Jonah, there is new information in your case.”
    Jonah pressed the cell phone more tightly against his ear. He swayed slightly.
    “Oh?” he said, and it took such effort to produce that one syllable.
    “A name,” Dad said. “The social worker was a little confused—she wasn’t even sure at first that she was allowed to tell me, but…it wasn’t one of your birth parents. It was just someone listed as having information about you. A contact person.”
    “Who was it?” Jonah asked, pushing the words out through gritted teeth.
    “Some guy named James Reardon,” Dad said. “And—get this—he works for the FBI.”

EIGHT
    The world spun around Jonah. He clutched the cell phone tight against his ear. Normally he was a big fan of cell phones—it was so frustrating that his parents had decided to buy only one cell phone for him and Katherine to share, which meant that Katherine usually had the cell phone and he got nothing. But right now he wanted something a lot more substantial than a cell phone to hold on to: a phone rooted in concrete, maybe.
    He settled for grabbing the Winstons’ brick-encased mailbox.
    “James…Reardon?” he repeated numbly.
    “Yeah—have you heard of him?” Dad said, puzzlement creeping into his voice.
    Was his name written on a Post-it note stuck to my file? Jonah wanted to ask. A yellow Post-it note just like the one that was in Chip’s family’s safe, probably stuck on his adoption records? Identical Post-it notes, even though Chip was adopted through a different agency and lived in Illinois his whole life until now?
    Jonah felt so dizzy, even solid brick was barely enough to hold him up.
    “Jonah?” Dad said, sounding worried now.
    Jonah realized he’d probably let a lot of time pass, not answering Dad’s question, trying to make his vision stop spinning.
    “I’m here,” Jonah said. “The phone must have cut out for a minute.” If in doubt, blame the technology. He gulped and tightened his grip on the bricks. “This guy…what does he know about me?”
    “I’m not sure,” Dad said. “The social worker said it was highly unusual, the way the name was entered in your file….”
    Post-it note, for sure, Jonah thought.
    “She offered to call him for us, but she was so scattered I thought it might be better if we met with him ourselves.”
    Jonah glanced over at Chip, who looked as shell-shocked as Jonah felt. And Chip had heard only Jonah’s end of the conversation.
    “Would you like me to arrange that, Jonah?” Dad asked, in the same super-patient, super-careful voice that he’d used when Katherine was a toddler throwing temper tantrums.
    No, Jonah wanted to say. Tell him to keep his information to himself. Tell him, if he’s not busy hunting down terrorists right now, I’d appreciate him taking care of whoever’s sending strange letters to thirteen-year-old boys. Tell him…
    “Yes,” Jonah said.

NINE
    Jonah sat in a molded plastic chair. Mom sat in the chair to his right and Dad in the chair to his left, and Jonah knew that if he gave either of them so much as a flicker of encouragement, they would