Chapter 64 True Name

Chapter 64 True Name

The phone lit up. A message from Seer: "Letter arrived. From Washington, D.C. Real name this time?"

Kyle picked up the phone. "Open it."

"A piece of paper. Just one name on it."

"What name?"

"Arthur Miller."

Kyle stared at the screen. The third name. Not Jack, not him.

"Look it up. This name."

Seer went silent for a moment. "Found it. Arthur Miller, born 1987, died 2019. Your fingerprints are on the death certificate."

Kyle put down the phone. Irene came out of the kitchen, drying her hands, and sat across from him.

"The name came?"

"It came. Arthur Miller. A dead man. My fingerprints are on his death certificate."

She looked at him. "He gave you a dead man's name."

Kyle picked up his phone and typed: "He gave me a dead man's name. Wants me to admit I'm Arthur Miller. If I admit it, I'm dead. If I don't, the deal's off."

Seer replied instantly: "He says—you choose. Arthur Miller is you. Jack isn't you. Pick one."

Kyle stared at the screen. "Neither."

Seer went silent for a moment. "He says—then the deal's off."

Kyle put down the phone. Irene looked at him.

"The deal's off."

She said nothing. Kyle stood up and walked to the mantelpiece. The key was still there, the voice recorder was gone, the authorization was gone. All he had left was the key. Klaus had two names, one real and one fake—whichever he chose would be wrong.

The phone lit up. A message from Seer: "He says—there's one more way."

"What way?"

"You change Amy's birth certificate. Leave the father line blank. He'll wipe all your records. You're not Kyle, not Jack, not Arthur. You have no name."

Kyle stared at the screen. No name. The father line on Amy's birth certificate blank. She'd have no father, she'd only have Kyle.

"Change it."

Seer went silent for a moment. "He says—you mail him the birth certificate. He'll change it, then mail it back."

Kyle put down the phone, stood up, and walked to Amy's room. Her backpack hung on the chair, blue with a sticker on it. He took it down and opened it—inside was a textbook with a worn cover. He opened the first page. Written there was "Amy Harper," and below it, in pencil, crooked letters: "Kyle." His finger pressed on those four letters, pressed for a while, then he tore out the page, folded it, and stuffed it in his pocket. He hung the backpack back up. Went downstairs. Irene stood at the foot of the stairs.

"Kyle, you tore her textbook."

"Yes."

She said nothing. Kyle sat down, picked up his phone, and typed: "How do I mail the birth certificate?"

"You mail it to Washington, D.C. I'll mail it to Oak Town. At the same time."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

When dawn came, Kyle stood up and walked to the window, pulled back the curtain—the street corner was empty. He let the curtain fall, went upstairs. Amy was still sleeping. He stood in her doorway watching for a while: she slept on her side, one hand out from under the covers resting on the pillow, that copy of "Knights and Dragons" peeking out from under the pillow. He quietly closed the door and went downstairs. Irene stood in the kitchen doorway, holding coffee.

"Kyle, are you taking her today?"

"Yes."

She made a sound of acknowledgment and handed him the coffee. He took it and drank a sip. Footsteps upstairs, Amy ran down, hair tied up, blue ribbon.

"Kyle, are we having bread today?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Ask your mom."

Irene came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of cereal and set it in front of Amy. Amy picked up the spoon and took a bite.

"Kyle, you're wearing short sleeves today."

"Yes."

"Aren't you cold?"

"No."

She nodded, finished the cereal, jumped down from the chair. "Let's go."

Kyle stood up. Irene looked at him. He pushed open the door and walked into the sunlight with Amy. She walked fast, didn't hold his hand. At the school gate, she stopped.

"Kyle, see you this afternoon."

"See you this afternoon."

She ran in. When she reached the building entrance, she stopped and looked back at him, looked for two seconds, then pushed open the door and disappeared into the hallway.

Kyle stood there, watching that closed door, then turned and walked back. At the street corner, he stopped—on the ground was an envelope, white, no postmark. He bent down to pick it up and opened it. Inside was a piece of paper with just one address: Washington, D.C.

Kyle folded the paper and stuffed it in his pocket, walked quickly home, pushed open the door. Irene stood by the window, curtain pulled back a crack. Dorothy sat at the dining table, knitting needles in hand.

"He came?"

"He came. The address."

He pulled out the paper and put it on the table. Irene picked it up, glanced at it, put it down. Kyle picked it up and stuffed it in his pocket, walked to the mantelpiece—the key was still there. He glanced at it, didn't touch it, came back and sat down.

The phone lit up. A message from Seer: "He's asking, did you mail it?"

Kyle typed: "Mailing it today."

"He's waiting."

Kyle stood up, walked to the door and pushed it open, stood on the steps. The street corner was empty. He walked down the steps toward the post office, reached the corner and looked back—the door was open, Irene stood in the doorway. He looked for a while, turned and kept walking.

The post office was small, a white single-story building. He pushed open the door. Behind the counter sat that woman, painting her nails. She saw him and put down the nail polish.

"What are you mailing?"

Kyle reached into his pocket—empty. He walked back home, pushed open the door. Irene stood by the window.

"Forgot it."

He walked to Amy's room, picked up the textbook, turned to the torn page—the gap was still there. He pulled the folded paper from his pocket and put it in an envelope. Went downstairs, walked to the post office, pushed open the door. The woman glanced at him.

"Back again?"

Kyle put the envelope on the counter. The woman picked it up and glanced at it.

"Where to?"

"Washington, D.C."

The woman took a large envelope, stuffed the envelope inside and sealed it, stuck on a stamp. Kyle handed over the address. The woman glanced at it, wrote it on the envelope, tossed it into the basket behind her.

"I'll let you know when it arrives."

Kyle nodded, pushed open the door and walked out. Sunlight hit his face. He stood on the steps looking at the street corner—empty. He turned and walked back, pushed open the door. Irene stood by the window.

"Mailed it?"

"Mailed it."

She made a sound of acknowledgment. Kyle sat across from her, reached into his pocket, felt the key—empty, the paper was gone. He pulled out his hand, looked at the doorway. The street corner was empty. The birth certificate was mailed out. Klaus would wipe all his records. Kyle didn't exist anymore, Jack didn't exist, Arthur didn't exist. He was Raven, with no name. Amy's textbook was missing a page, the father line blank. If she asked, what would he say? He wouldn't say, and she wouldn't ask. He put his hand in his pocket, felt the key—empty, the paper was gone. Kyle remained.