by Greta Boris
When the pot sputtered out its final drops, she stood, poured two cups, put them on a tray, added a container of half and half and a sugar bowl. Not very fancy, but her father had given all her mother's china to a thrift store. Besides, it wasn't a social visit.
"I have all the receipts." She could hear her father's indignant words from the hall. Receipts for what? Abby couldn't imagine what receipts had to do with the accident.
"I'd like to see them, if possible." Sylla's body language belied her pleasant tone of voice. She stood where she'd been when Abby left the room but had assumed the position of a soldier at ease—feet wide, hands clasped behind her back.
"Why on earth would you need them? Everybody knows I was the one who modified the exhibit."
Abby's hand shook as she set the tray on the coffee table upending the container of half and half. She righted it before any spilled.
"I'm simply surprised you paid for all the supplies. Wondering why you didn't request the Diocese or the foundation to contribute."
"I tithe to the church. I decided to take my tithe money for the year and apply it to a worthy project. Upkeep on a historic site, like the Mission, isn't cheap. I felt I was doing my part. I don't see what this has to do with anything."
Abby heard the defensiveness in her father's tone. If she could hear it, it screamed to a trained law enforcement officer. She tried to catch his eye, to warn him, but he avoided her gaze. How had the conversation taken this strange turn?
"Noble of you." Sylla's voice was deadpan. "Would you mind if I collect those receipts? Then I can let you get back to your movie."
"I have to find them, make copies for my tax records. And as you can see, I'm not exactly up to—"
"I could come back tomorrow." She paused, then added, "With a warrant."
"Your coffee," Abby broke in before her father could say anything else. She held out a mug to Sylla. She didn't take it, didn't even look at it. She'd locked eyes with Abby's father. Tension ran between them like taut rubber bands.
"I'll bring them down to the station this afternoon," Abby said.
Sylla didn't speak for several long moments, as if she was waiting for Abby's father to protest. He didn't, thank God. "Fine," she said, breaking the silence. "You'll come round by three."
It was more of a command than a request, but Abby said, "Three is fine." The investigator showed herself out. Abby lowered herself onto the couch before her legs gave way.
***
Her father's discomfort intensified after lunch. Abby helped him to bed, gave him a painkiller and wrested the whereabouts of the receipts from him before he nodded off.
She called Carlos several times, as she dug the receipts out of a file box in the closet and got ready to go. He didn't pick up. Equipment on job sites was so noisy he often couldn't hear his phone. She hated to leave her father home alone, but didn't see that she had a choice. This was an emergency.
She locked the door behind her just in time to see Mimi pull up their shared driveway. Should she ask Mimi to keep an eye on the house, check in on her father? Did they know each other well enough? She chewed on her lower lip and made a decision. Abby couldn't live here forever. She should forge a relationship with the neighbor for her dad's sake. She approached Mimi's car.
"Abby, hi," Mimi said, as she exited.
"I have a big favor to ask. I'm on my way out. I have to run some errands."
"Do you need me to check on your father while you're gone?"
Abby was relieved she didn't have to ask. "That would be great. He's asleep now, but if he wakes and I'm not there. . ."
Mimi raised the rear door of her vehicle and reached in to retrieve a shopping bag. "I'll put this stuff away, and pop over."
"I locked the front door, but there's a hide-a-key under the third brick on the right." Abby pointed to the brick-lined walkway.
"Perfect," Mimi said.
"I'll hurry."
"You don't need to. I'm in for the day."
Abby thanked her and left. She would hurry despite Mimi's reassurances. Mimi wasn't aware of the potential danger, and Abby couldn't tell her.
She made it to the office supply store in record time, copied the receipts and headed to the station. She left the envelope at the front desk with instructions to deliver it to Detective Sylla and ran out the door. She had no interest in seeing the woman.
Her phone jingled as she crossed the parking lot. It was Carlos. "What's up?"
"Sylla came by. I wanted to tell you about it. I'm just leaving the station now."
"Your dad is home alone?"
"Mimi is keeping an eye on him."
"What happened?" His voice was tense.
"Where are you?"
"The office. Why?"
"I'll come by now. I don't think I want to talk about this on the phone."
"But your dad—"
"I won't stay long." Eleven minutes later, Abby pulled up to Rojo Landscaping. It was in a long, narrow stretch of parking lot between an auto-mechanic's shop and a tire shop. She hadn't been there in months, but nothing had changed.
She opened the glass door and was met with a blast of cool air. A young girl sat at a desk only feet from the entrance. Her hair was an unnatural shade of black that made her caramel complexion pale in comparison. She looked at Abby through unfriendly, Kohl-lined eyes and popped her gum. "Can I help you?" Her voice was familiar. Her face was familiar too, but Abby couldn't place her.
"I'm here to see Carlos," Abby said.
"I'll see if he's available." She reached for the phone with a hand adorned with nails the most terrible color pink Abby had ever seen.
"It's okay, Gab." Carlos appeared in the doorway of his small office. "This is Abby."
The girl's hard expression transformed into a broad grin. "Your girlfriend?"
"Yeah." An uncomfortable expression crossed his face.
"Wow. So good to meet you." The girl stood and pumped Abby's hand. "Tia Connie is always talking about you. How pretty you are. How smart you are. How Carlos should—
"This is Gab," Carlos interrupted her. "My cousin."
Abby smiled. Cousin. That explained it. She had the Rojo look under all that makeup. Her jaw was almost as square and stubborn as Carlos's, and her eyes were every bit as wide and beautiful. She must have seen Gab at a family function. When the entire Rojo clan gathered, Abby generally hid in the kitchen with Connie. The crowd was daunting.
"Come on back." Carlos extended an arm toward the room behind him. Gab looked disappointed. He shut the door, took his phone from his pocket and typed something into it. A second later, country music blared from a speaker on a bookshelf. "She's got big ears." He nodded his head in Gab's direction.
Abby moved close to him and spoke sotto voce. "That detective came to the house today. She said she wanted to ask Dad about the day of the accident. I left them alone together, just long enough to make a pot of coffee. When I came back she was grilling him about the Swallows Nest exhibit at the Mission."
Carlos's head jerked back. "What did she want to know?"
"She wanted to see all the receipts from the supplies it took to build it. She seemed to think it was strange he paid for the whole thing, didn't ask the Diocese or the foundation to chip in."
"Do you think she saw the anchorhold? Looked inside?"
"I don't know. But even if she did, why would she care?"
"She might think it has something to do with the girl they found."
"What, like the men were seen from the anchorhold, not from the street? How would she get that idea?"
"I don't know, but it makes me nervous."
A muscle in Carlos's cheek contracted. He was as worried about her father as she was. His protectiveness was endearing when it was directed at someone else. Abby wanted to stroke his face, to calm him, but she didn't.
"We have to get the rest of your stuff out of there," he said.
"That's what I was thinking. If the police found the toilet and the mattress,
they'll know someone was living there."
"I'd guess it was a homeless person if I was that detective. But homeless or not, he or she might have been there the night the girl showed up. I'd want to find the person. Talk to them."
Abby hugged herself and groaned.
He put a hand on her arm. "I can't go tonight. There's a family thing at my aunt's house. I have to take my mother. But I'll go tomorrow night."
"I'll go with you."
"No. You stay with your dad."
"But, I don't want you—"
"I can handle it."
Abby's eyes shifted away from his. She hated this. She had no idea when she moved into the cell at the Mission it would end up putting everyone she cared about at risk. She'd had good intentions, but what was that expression? Something about the road to hell.
Carlos put a hand on hers and took a pen from her hand. She hadn't realized she'd taken it from his desk, been flicking it up and down. "I was going to go back and grout in the loose stones anyway. Might as well clean out your stuff while I'm there." He held her hand a moment longer than necessary.
"Okay. But I don't like it," she said.
He looked into her eyes. "I know." There was nothing romantic about his words, but an ember of hope flickered to life inside her. He hadn't mentioned marriage since their argument. She didn't know whether to be upset or relieved about that. But she did know she missed what they'd had. Maybe they could go back to the way things were. She’d been comfortable then, before he’d pressed her to make decisions.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
TUESDAY, MARCH 20, 5:15 PM
The Wife
I'D WORN A rut in the living room carpet waiting for my husband to get home from work. He'd cut me off on the phone earlier. He'd said he had to go. Seb was on another line. I thought he'd call me as soon as they hung up, but he hadn't.
The front door opened at exactly 5:15. His step was heavy. I didn't go to him, the way I usually did. He could come to me.
"What did he say?" I was afraid I already knew. My husband's face was somber.
"Can I have something to drink first?"
I stomped into the kitchen, threw a few ice cubes into a glass and filled it with iced tea. I knew he preferred his ice crushed, but I wanted the answer to my question. Cubed was quicker.
When I returned, I found him on the couch. He was a husk of the man he'd been a week ago. His usually well-groomed hair looked greasy and needed a cut. His shirt was wrinkled and had perspiration stains in the armpits. His hand shook as he took the iced tea glass.
"Well?" I tried to keep the impatience from my voice.
"Paul Travers is home from the hospital. It seems he wasn't injured as badly as Seb had hoped."
I inhaled sharply. "He did try to kill him then."
My husband nodded. "He saw our boy."
My son. Why him? If Paul Travers had to see anyone, why couldn't it have been my husband? "What are we going to do?" I heard the panic in my voice.
"Seb wants me to finish the job."
"What?" The question exploded from me.
"What's going on?" Our son stood in the doorway. My heart skipped a beat. I hadn't heard him come home. I had no idea how long he'd been standing there.
"Nothing." My husband and I said the word simultaneously.
He looked at each of us for a long moment, turned and disappeared down the hallway. I'm sure he knew it wasn't nothing. He was young, but he wasn't stupid.
My husband lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "He says he can't try again. He can't take a chance. There were witnesses. They saw his car. It's gone, sent to Mexico, but if something else goes wrong. . . The police may put two and two together."
"So he wants you to do it?"
His face transformed into a parody of the Tragedy Mask of Greek Theater. "How could I? How would I?"
My heart turned to cold stone. I felt no pity for him, only contempt. "Those are two completely different questions. One is a moral question. The other a practical one. Which do you want the answer to?"
He threw his hands up and let them drop into his lap. "I don't know."
"How could you? That one is easy. You're already a murderer."
"I'm not. I didn't. . . She was alive when I left her."
I waved a hand in the air, erasing his excuses. "And she might have been alive the next morning if you'd taken her to the hospital." His jaw tightened. "The point is, you've proved you're willing to do what you have to do to protect your reputation, your position in the community."
"I would have gone to jail."
"Maybe. Maybe not. But even if you did, it wouldn't have been a long sentence. You could have gone to the police with the whole story. Told them Seb Skandalis had tricked you into believing you were simply taking in a girl from a foreign country, offering her a job. You were told she was here legally. But you didn't."
He shrank deeper into the couch. "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do." He repeated the phrase like a mantra, which it certainly wasn't. He looked more and more miserable with every utterance.
"You did what you thought you had to do to protect yourself."
"I don't know what to do." His keening tone grated on me.
"I understand that." I tried to soothe him, but my words sounded harsh.
"I don't know what to do."
I was done with this. "Be a man. Do what you have to do to protect your family."
His head snapped as if I'd slapped him. He turned his tear-streaked face to me. "What is that? Tell me? I don't know anymore."
I sat next to him, took his hand, and softened my voice. "You're going to do exactly as I say."
CHAPTER TWENTY
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 21, 10:00 AM
BY TEN, THE sun had burned off the morning gloom. Abby lifted the paper from the edge of the driveway and breathed in damp earth, manure from the petting zoo on nearby Los Rios Street, and sage—the scents of her childhood. Her father was doing better today. He was up, dressed, in his chair, and calling for the paper. He wanted to peruse it with his coffee.
Abby told herself she would write today. But more and more, it seemed like she was working on a travel guide to a country she'd never visited. Avoiding this disconnect was the reason she'd entered the anchorhold. If she could spend some time at the Mission, maybe her enthusiasm would return. But how was she going to do that? She couldn't leave her father alone. The Mission, although only minutes from the house, might as well be in a foreign land.
"Here's your paper, Dad." She placed it on the end table next to his chair with his reading glasses.
He put a hand on hers and squeezed it. "Thanks, honey."
"Are you good?"
"I'm good. You go write."
Abby plastered a smile on her face, nodded and went to the kitchen. Her laptop was already on and opened on the table. She'd booted it up while she was fixing her father's breakfast so she'd have no excuses.
She sank into a chair, placed her hands on the keyboard like a pianist readying herself to begin a recital, and stared at the blank screen.
An anchoress, although solitary, did rely. . .
Abby paused for a moment, then deleted the words. She typed, The anchoress would have been lost without aid from— She hit the backspace key, stared at the screen for another long minute, then leaped from her chair.
It was hopeless. She didn't care who the anchoress relied on, and in fact was beginning to think those women would have been a lot better off if they'd handled their own affairs instead of burdening everyone else.
She strode through the house to check on her father, who was reading his paper placidly. He glanced up and sent her a questioning smile. "Just making sure you don't need anything," she said.
"No. I'm good. Don't bother with me. You have things to do."
"Right." Abby pivoted and returned to the kitchen. Her laptop grinned at her from the table like a mocking sprite. She breathed deeply and moved toward her chair. But before she sat, the doorbell ran
g. She almost ran to the front hall.
"Abby, someone's here," her father called.
She knew that. You could hear the bell from every room in the small house, but she answered with the words he expected to hear. "I've got it."
Tallulah stood on the stoop, a covered baking dish in her hands. Today she was wearing a kimono-inspired dress—a fitted red silk print with a Mandarin collar and a pair of black ballet slippers. Must be what all well-dressed people wore to deliver meals. "Is he up?" she said.
"Yes. He's doing great today. Come on in." She was so thankful for the interruption, she kissed Tallulah's cheek and gave her an extra hard squeeze.
"I've brought you my famous fava bean casserole." Tallulah thrust the dish at Abby.
"Yum. Dad will be so excited." Her father hated fava beans, but Tallulah had no idea. He always made a fuss over the dish, so she kept making it. And Abby kept throwing it out. "He's in the living room."
Abby walked past her laptop on the way to the refrigerator but didn't look at it. After putting the beans away, she hurried to the living room.
"Everyone wants to know when you're coming back to work," Tallulah said.
"I have a doctor's appointment next week. I'm hoping she'll spring me," her father said.
"I doubt it," Abby said. "You need to rest, get those ribs healed up."
He shook his head. "I'm doing better every day. I'll go crazy if I have to stay on house arrest much longer."
Tallulah settled on the couch and crossed one long, black-stockinged leg over another. "Why don't you go run errands or something, Abby? You've been trapped in this house as much as he has."
Freedom. It sounded wonderful. "Are you sure?"
"I wouldn't say so if I wasn't." She jogged her leg up and down. "I have the day off, and I don't have to be anywhere until four."
Abby had wanted to go to the Mission, had wanted to sit on the bench near the anchorhold in the sunshine. She was sure her muse would return if she could relive some of those days she spent in her cell, soak up the atmosphere. "If you're—"
Tallulah held up a hand to interrupt her. "How can I fill your daddy in on all the gossip from work while you're standing there? Go on. Get out of here."