I give my sisters a brief description of the oracle, of her dark robes, wrinkled face, and hunkered body. Hopefully enough to make her stand out against a crowd. And they agree to text a photo if they think they’ve found her.
Minutes later, we emerge from the gym. Grace and Greer head for Greer’s Porsche to make a circuit of the city along its outer edges. Nick and I take Moira back to the storefront. By the time night falls, we’ve found nothing. Exhausted, I drive Nick back to his apartment and then head for the safe house. I hope my sisters have had better luck.
CHAPTER 13
GRACE
You’re driving too fast!” I squeal as Greer speeds through the same intersection for the third time. “We’re not going to find the oracle if you get arrested for reckless driving.”
Greer throws me a warning look. “It’s called offensive driving.”
“It’s something offensive,” I mutter under my breath, and when she asks what I said, I reply, “Nothing. Haven’t we been down this street before?”
“Yes,” she growls. “But I had to cut back through here to get across Mission.”
This is our third straight afternoon of searching, and as the sun dips down into the west, it looks like Friday is going to be just as fruitless as Wednesday and Thursday were. It’s no surprise that Greer is getting testy. Driving back and forth along the streets of San Francisco isn’t exactly all fun and games. It’s also panhandlers and homeless people and kids playing soccer in the street. I’ve stopped counting how many times her car has been hit by something. Soccer ball, dragon kite, and an overeager taxi.
Right now Greer’s hands are gripping the steering wheel so hard, her knuckles are snow white.
“Maybe we should take a break,” I suggest. “Stop for a coffee or something.”
Instead of answering, Greer jags the car hard to the left, U-turns in the middle of the street, and speeds back the way we came. Before I can ask her what she’s doing, the Porsche is pulling into a tiny parking spot and Greer is climbing out of the car.
I guess that’s a yes.
I follow her down the sidewalk and into a store with a bright pink-and-orange sign that reads JUST GELATO.
“Better than coffee,” she mumbles as she walks up to the counter. “A double scoop of hazelnut and espresso, please.”
The girl behind the counter nods and starts scooping two big balls of gelato from the freezer display. I’ve never had gelato, but it looks kind of like ice cream. And I do love ice cream.
“I’m buying,” Greer says. “What do you want?”
I study the case for a minute, trying to decide if I want something sweet and yummy, like strawberry or cotton candy, or rich and sophisticated, like Greer’s choice. In the end I can’t resist the allure of cotton candy anything.
The gelato girl hands me my cup, and while Greer pays, I take a seat at a table in the front window. It’s a tiny table, small and round with delicate black scrolls for legs. There’s barely enough room for two. It reminds me of something from a European café. Well, what I imagine a European café would look like. I bet Greer has firsthand experience.
When she sits down across from me, though, I don’t ask her about Europe or cafés or even gelatos. She’s a little—a lot—intimidating. Especially with that stormy scowl in place. Even though she’s my sister, I still feel like she’s far above my reach. I can’t think of anything to say that won’t make me look stupid, so I remain silent.
“This is precisely what I needed,” she exclaims as she swallows her first bite of gelato. “Sugar, cream, and caffeine. Perfect.”
I smile and take another bite of my cotton candy. No caffeine, of course, but it’s beyond amazingly good. I could eat an entire tub.
As we sit there, silently eating our frozen treats, my mind wanders. I wonder what it would be like to be Greer, to be raised with so many extra advantages. I’ve never wanted for anything—nothing truly necessary, anyway—but the kind of money she comes from boggles my mind.
There is a cost, I’m sure. From what I’ve gathered, she doesn’t have a very close relationship with her parents. Or much of a relationship at all. As much as she acts as if the topic is off-limits, I’m curious.
“What are your parents like?”
She looks startled for a moment, pausing to lick her spoon before answering. “They’re …” She sounds like she’s trying to choose her words carefully. “Very successful.”
“I know that. But what are they like as people? As parents.”
She shrugs and I think she’s about to shut down. To pull the shutters and keep me out of her personal life. We might be sisters, but that doesn’t mean we’re family.
Then, to my surprise, she says, “Absent.”
She takes a big bite of gelato. I don’t try to force the conversation by saying or asking anything more. I leave her the option of continuing.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she says, as if I’m passing judgment. “They’re great people. Truly great. Smart, dedicated, and they give back a lot.”
“But …,” I prod.
She takes a deep breath and sighs. “Sometimes I wish they were a little less driven and a little more … around.”
“It must have been hard,” I say, “growing up with parents who were rarely home.”
“I shouldn’t complain,” she says with a small smile. “I’ve had every advantage. The best nannies, the best schools, the best everything. I could have been far worse off.”