Free Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 01 by Billy Straight Page B

algebra.
    Without rowdy kids or Moron distracting me, I could concentrate; it only took two months to get through all the books. Even algebra, which I’d never had before and looked hard—all those letter symbols that didn’t make any sense at first—but the beginning was all review, and I just moved ahead page by page.
    I liked the idea of variables, something meaning nothing by itself but taking on any identity you wanted.
    The all-powerful X. I thought of myself as X-boy—nothing, but also everything.
     
    I took all the books back to King Middle School one night and left them at the fence. Except the algebra text, because I wanted to practice equations. I knew I had to keep my mind busy or it would get weak, but I was tired of schoolbooks, wanted some vacation. Different types of knowledge—encyclopedias, biographies of people who’d succeeded. I missed my presidents book.
    No storybooks, no science fiction; I don’t care about things that aren’t true.
    I found a library right off Los Feliz, just a few blocks down on Hillhurst, a strange-looking place with no windows, stuck in the middle of a shopping center. Inside was one big room with colorful posters of foreign cities trying to imitate windows and just a few old people reading newspapers.
    I was dressed neat and had the algebra book, pencil and paper, and a backpack. Sitting at a table in a far corner, I pretended to be doing equations and checked the place out.
    The woman who seemed to be the boss was old and sour-looking, like the librarian back in Watson, but she stayed up front talking on the phone. The young Mexican with the really long hair was in charge of checking out books and she did notice me, came over smiling to ask if I needed help.
    I shook my head and kept doing equations.
    “Ah,” she said, in a very soft voice. “Math homework, huh?”
    I shrugged, just ignored her completely, and she stopped smiling and walked away.
    The next time I came in, she tried to catch my eye, but I kept shining her on and after that she ignored me, too.
    I started to show up once or twice a week, always after 1 P.M., starting with phony homework, then examining the shelves till I found something, and reading for two hours.
    Sometimes I could finish a whole book in that time. On the third week, I came across the
exact
Jacques Cousteau book I’d had back in Watson and thought: I am definitely in the right place.
    I found the other presidents book soon after. It was the first one I took. It’s the only one I kept and I’m still not sure why. I took excellent care of it, wrapping it in dry cleaner’s plastic. So there was no real crime.
    Still, I felt bad about it. Kept telling myself that one day, when I was an adult and had money, I’d give books
to
the library. Sometimes I wondered if I’d last long enough to be an adult.
    Now, after what I’ve seen, everything seems shaky. Maybe it’s time to leave the park. But where would I go?
    My foot catches on a rock, but I keep my balance—finally, here’s Five, the smell of the zoo blowing through the fern tangle. Time to hide, get some rest, do some thinking.
    I’ve got to do some
serious
thinking.

CHAPTER

10
    Seeing Ramsey’s house, Petra thought back to her
architectural history course and tried to come up with a label. Confused Spanish pseudo-Palladian? Postmodern Mediterranean Eclectic? Hot-shot Hacienda?
    One big heap of stucco.
    The structure sat atop a peak so steep Petra had to crane to see the top. Pink, as the guard had promised, a rosy hue darker than the columns behind another set of columns and gates—cage within a cage. The driveway up to the house was stamped to look like adobe bricks, lined with Mexican fan palms. Through the posts she saw a shiny black Lexus parked in front.
    They drove up to the gates, and now Petra could see at least an acre of sloping front lawn. The house was two and a half stories tall, the half being a bell tower above limed-oak double entrance doors. A real-life