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notorious killer named Albert DeSalvo.
    At the time, Castillo figured the family’s name was Baum (“Al Baum,” taking away the squiggle thing), but he’d done a search and there were, like, 20,000 Baums in the United States.
    He said it’d be impossible to find the right one because, he figured, the kid would be totally “off the grid.” And by “off the grid” he meant there’d be no official record of the adoption (just like me). Probably homeschooled (just like me). No Social Security number (just like me).
    Castillo pointed to the squiggle between “Al” and “Baum” and asked me if I thought it was some kind of scientific notation or even a weird musical symbol. At this point, I could barely understand a word this guy was saying. I was exhausted and confused and scared and really wanted to just crawl into a ball on the floor mat and maybe die.

    I didn’t know. To say something, anything, I told him I played the bass. He didn’t care at all, then asked me about the birdthing. I had no clue there either and told him so.
    I’m surprised he didn’t just throw me out of the car.
    •  •  •
    We’d been driving for an hour. I think north toward New York. I wasn’t sure. I was so exhausted. To be honest, I might have cried some. Call me a pussy if you want. I don’t care. Castillo said: Anyone thinks you’re a pussy for crying, just means nothing bad’s ever really happened to them. So, there’s that. Please try to keep that in mind as we go forward.
    He asked me a bunch more questions about my dad. Like what he drove and the places he went. Business trips, vacations and stuff. Friends he had. I didn’t know anything. And I sure as heck had no clue what the chicken was or squiggle or the castle or birds or any of the other notes Castillo showed me. They weren’t the notations of a curious scientist. They were the scribblings of a total raving lunatic. They meant nothing to me. They had nothing to do with me.
    But that was just another lie. The total raving lunatic was MY father. Adoptive, fake, whatever. It didn’t matter. As far as the world was concerned, as far as Castillo was—as far as me, too, I guess—Dr. Jacobson WAS my father. And I couldn’t change that fact any more than I could change the DNA apparently coursing throughout my entire body.
    Castillo pulled over at a Dunkin’ Donuts, made me sit in the car while he made some phone calls. Guess he wanted to talk in private.
    He let me keep hold of his smartphone (he had, like, four of them!) to keep looking at my dad’s moronic notes. To maybe figure something out. But I couldn’t look at them anymore. They were just too crazy. So while Castillo talked a few feet away, I just kept scrolling back.
    Back, back.
    As fast as my thumb could go. He’d taken hundreds of images.Not only of the journal entries but also more stuff he’d found in my dad’s special room. Pictures of criminals. Pictures of boys. Charts. Records. That old map of London I’d seen. One of someplace called Whitechapel. Then another map, I think, of somewhere called Shardhara. Ringed with different-colored circles, and with numbers.
    Back. Back.
    I went too far.
    •  •  •
    The next images were pictures of the Massey Institute.
    Castillo’d been there all day before coming to find me, and he’d seen everything in person. I feel blessed that I only had to look at the pics.
    The first was a destroyed office I recognized immediately as my father’s. Everything smashed. Something on the table I couldn’t quite make out. Something wet and dark.
    Back. Back.
    The game room at Massey. Its Activity Center. I’d been in it a hundred times. It was a pretty cool room, actually. Something for the students there. Pool table and giant TV. A foosball table and a bunch of couches. Shelves filled with board games and graphic novels and books. We had a lot of our meetings there. Like, group talks and stuff.
    Except in these pictures the room was different.
    There