His shoulders climbed a little higher as he stammered for a response. “I was in the neighborhood. I knocked but there wasn’t an answer.” He motioned behind him. “It’s not like you have a fence either.”
I became intensely aware of my bare arms and legs, left uncovered by my tank top and shorts. The need to shield them from sight was intense, but my pride was stronger. I didn’t want him to see me scramble.
“I’m a little busy.”
“I can see that. Don’t let me stop you. Keep going.”
I glanced his way for a split second and then went back to work. Jab, cross, jab, uppercut.
“If you put your hip behind that uppercut, you’ll feel a stronger connection,” Ryder said from where he leaned against my house.
His words broke my concentration, and it took a moment to rebuild my inner focus again. Jab, cross, jab, left hook, jab, right hook.
“You drop your shoulder on the right hook. Your opponent will see it coming.”
My fist connected with the bag again but at the wrong angle and the pain seared through my left arm. I took four steps back and yelped. Ryder was at my side in a second.
“Let me see it, you might have twisted it or torn something.”
I shoved him away from me, more for his safety than my own.
“It’s fine. The angle was wrong. I’ll be fine.”
His forehead creased, the space between his eyebrows wrinkled and tight in an all too familiar fashion. “I’m trying to help.”
“You’re distracting me. Besides, what does a pacifist like you know about kickboxing?” I let another sequence fly against the bag and it swung back in response.
Ryder’s hands slapped against the leather as he caught it and steadied it.
“Rich teenager, remember? Charles insisted that I take boxing lessons,” his voice dripped with his disdain, “so I could become a man.”
I backed off, but only slightly. Ryder’s father had been abusive. The boxing lessons hurt more emotionally than physically.
My focus turned back to the bag, on the punches and kicks, not on the cologne that confused me to the core. My brain couldn’t differentiate one male’s scent from another. Every time I moved closer to the bag, to Ryder, I smelled Dallas and my anxiety soared as if he was right there.
“Don’t drop your guard,” Ryder told me. “You’re losing your focus.”
I slammed my knee into the bag. It shook even with his strong grip securing it. I delivered a cross, then a jab. My fist rocked the bag as I pushed my weight behind an uppercut.
“Like that,” Ryder encouraged, “do it again.”
His voice pulled free the anger I’d felt when I had seen him with his girlfriend. My jealousy poured out of me as I released a hard kick into the upper half of the bag. Ryder stumbled back, shocked.
“You clipped me!”
I stumbled but caught my balance. An apology would have been appropriate, but I couldn’t voice it.
“It wasn’t intentional.”
His eyes were still wide as he held his ear. “Are you sure about that?”
“Maybe.” I pulled my gloves off and tossed them onto a bench nearby. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be out with the love of your life skipping through a meadow or buying Cartier jewelry?”
The chains on the bag jangled as his punch landed hard.
“Can’t I come see you? Can’t I worry about you? I thought we were friends.”
My wraps slipped off my knuckles. I winced at the sting but talked through the pain. “We are friends, but sometimes I think a little distance might be good for us.”
He delivered a quick jab and a cross and cocked his head to one side as if he was thinking about what I’d said. “I guess I disagree. I think we have some problems we need to work through.”
The last loop of my wrap slipped free of my right hand. Blood stained the white cotton. The sight of my blood dripping over my knuckles released a wave of nausea and fear. Before I lost it, I wiped the injury against my tank top and smeared the drops away.
“Look, I’m about to leave on a case. Maybe when I get back, we can figure our friendship out again, but right now I have to stay focused.”
By the time I looked back at him he was staring at his shoes. His clenched jaw stretched from side to side, something he did when there were words he wanted to say, but he didn’t want to admit them out loud.
“What?” I blurted out. “What are you mulling over?”
His head came up, but he refused to look at me, instead he stared over the meadow. “I don’t know how to talk to you anymore. Any time I open my mouth, I swear it’s a gamble. I never know what version of you I’m going to get.”
Emotion swelled in my throat. I pressed my palms over my face to hide it away. “You’re probably right,” I agreed, my voice echoing slightly in the cup of my hands. “I’m pretty messed up right now.”
“Your hands are bleeding.” Ryder reached out for me. Instinctively, I pulled away from his touch, but he persisted and gripped tighter. “You cracked your knuckle open. That might need stitches.”
I struggled until he let go. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” I wiped the drops of blood on my tank top. “What’s one more scar?”
Scar by scar, he took in the full canvas of Dallas’ work, some light, some dark, long and short. I swore he could even see the cuts that had healed and disappeared. I’d never felt so hideous or disfigured in my life.
“It’s not that bad,” he whispered as he tried to brush my arm.
I lurched back as if his touch might hurt me.
“I thought we’d given up lying to each other.”
Pain spread across his face, triggering an ache in my chest that burned like smoldering coal.
“You know we have a funny relationship, you and I. We had it right for a little bit, but it comes down to one pattern, you hurt me, I hurt you, and then we repeat it over and over again, like we’re stuck on some freak merry-go-round. No matter how hard either one of us tries, we can’t get off. I swear we’ll never escape this, Huckleberry.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Or maybe we need time.”
He started to nod, but it dissipated into a shake as he stepped off my porch and walked around the corner.
Four days. I had four days left, and then I could focus on something other than Ryder Billings.
♦ ♦ ♦
I showered and finished up my background check from the night before. Another new feature on PI Net, besides the chat and message boards, was the agent rating and reviews. As my client left another five-star rating for me, my hope increased. I was still good at my job and that was what mattered.
A message popped up on my phone from Sleuth28.
“Are you up?”
I wrote back, “Getting ready for bed after a quick dinner. You?”
Sleuth28 wrote, “Working some recon. What’s for dinner?”
I looked at my bowl of canned soup steaming on my nightstand. It was hardly something I wanted to admit to, but at least I was eating.
“Soup … from a can. Don’t judge me.”
“No judgment,” Sleuth28 wrote back quickly, “table for one means no one to help with the dishes. I think you’re smart.”
I had to admit that I enjoyed the anonymity the whole situation afforded me. It gave me a bravery I knew I normally wouldn’t have.
After only a moment to gather my courage I wrote, “Are you a table for one as well?”
I kicked myself as there was no response. I should have known better than to try to flirt. How did I know that Sleuth28 was even a guy? Finally, an answer popped up on the screen.
“For you, let’s say I am.” There was a pause as my heart pattered and my smile spread into a goofy grin. Then, the other PI wrote, “What’s the case you’re working on next week? Was it on PI Net?”
I considered my answer carefully. Details of the case were obviously privileged, but it wouldn’t hurt to give up a basic overview.
“Missin
g person. I’m working with a partner to find her. Could be dangerous.”
There was a pause. “Partner, male or female?”
I wrote back, “Male.”
The question was almost immediate, “Good looking?”
I giggled and wrote, “I suppose, but I’m very professional and he is bit of a dullard.”
“Not sure I like that anyway.”
I was almost positive Sleuth28 was a guy and more than flattered if he was.
“Have to work again,” Sleuth28 wrote, “sweet dreams.”
I tried to write back but my mystery PI was already gone. Still, it was enough happy drawn from a land of pretend to offset the bleak reality that had become my life. For once, it really was sweet dreams.
Chapter 7
I spent the next day pulling apart boxes and trying to pack everything I’d bought into one backpacking pack. It wasn’t long before I realized I didn’t know what I was doing. Certain items were too large to fit, I had way too many socks, and the pack still weighed almost as much as me. It was another testament of how out of my depth I was. Sure, I’d gone camping before, but this was a whole new ball game.
The rest of the day was spent at the sporting goods store picking their brains about what I should and shouldn’t have in my bag. I traded out the pup tent I’d bought for a lightweight backpacking tent. I swapped my foam sleeping mat for a self-inflating lightweight mat. My favorite change was returning the heavy lantern Owen had insisted on and replacing it with a set of collapsible solar lanterns. The employees that loaded me down with gear were only slightly concerned when they asked how long I’d be gone and I said, “Not sure, just trying to get lost.”
Apparently, it was an acceptable answer in their social circle.
As I returned home, I pulled my fully packed and completely adjusted to my body—courtesy of new friends at the sporting goods store—backpack out and tested it as I walked to get the mail. It was still heavy, no doubt about it, but it was manageable. Besides, I knew I could dump half the gear on Officer Meathead’s shoulders anyway. He probably doubted my feminine ability to carry anything heavier than my sleeping bag.
I shuffled through the envelopes on the way back, bill, advertisement, bill, bill, and then a small, square white envelope with blue flowers printed on the back, no name, only a return address. Brimming with curiosity, I jammed my finger under the seal and tore the envelope open with no regard for the stationary. The single sheet inside matched the envelope, white with small blue flowers rimming the top and bottom of the page. The handwriting was unfamiliar and yet familiar all at once. I paused and straightened the sheet as the breeze tried to pull it away from me.
“Lindy, I’m not sure how to write this. I’ve had a sheet of paper sitting on my desk for two weeks now with your name at the top. Your friend Kip insists that we’re sisters, and that you have another sister, Eleanor. You have to understand how crazy that sounds to me. I already have a sister. She’s younger than me. Honestly, I think this could be a mistake. In fact, that was what I’d planned on writing to you, but over the last week I’ve had some disturbing dreams. They feel like memories, and I can’t shake them. My parents died two years ago in a car crash, so I can’t ask them what happened. I always thought I was born from them naturally, but I had the adoption paperwork checked and your friend was right, I was adopted. There were pictures of my mother with a baby, but I guess they were of my younger sister. Right now, I don’t know what to think but you may have answers for me. I’m not ready to meet you but please write back and, if you can, send a picture of you and your younger sister.”
She signed it Jocelyn Miller and, as if by hesitation or a second thought, she added Jackie in parentheses. I reread the letter three more times while I stood in the center of my driveway, backpack still weighing me down.
She’s alive.
That was the only thought that broke through. She was alive. My sister was alive.
I dropped my pack right there on the driveway and barely touched the stairs as I ran inside the house. There was no need to hurry, the mail had obviously gone out, but I couldn’t help myself from scrambling about my house searching for the right pen and paper to respond.
Finally, I found a stationary set Aunt Stella had given me two years before so that I could keep up with correspondence, whatever that meant. A sweet little tea kettle had been drawn in the corner and, for one second, I debated whether Jackie would judge me on the watermark, but it didn’t matter. She was alive, and she wanted me to contact her.
It took a full minute to calm my nerves enough to even set pen to paper. It took three sheets of paper before my handwriting became legible again. Drawing a deep breath, I started the letter, but hesitated at her name.
Jackie or Jocelyn?
Not knowing how to proceed, I skipped it all.
“I received your letter today and I was thrilled that you decided to write me. I agree that we should be cautious about our situation. I’m sorry to hear about your parents.”
I wanted to write, “Don’t worry, your real parents are alive and well,” but left it alone instead.
“I’m a private investigator living in Ferndale, Washington. I’ll include pictures of myself and Eleanor as you requested. I’ll also tuck in one of our parents, in case you might want to see them too.”
I sat staring at the blank sheet of paper with its tiny tea kettle in the corner. After such a large amount of time had passed, what could I say? It wasn’t that there was a lack of words, but rather an entire lifetime to lay out for her. Where was I supposed to start?
My gaze came to rest on her letter again and the handwriting that felt familiar. I picked up my pen and began to write.
“Family is a funny thing, because if I’m right, then we haven’t seen each other for over two decades, and yet your handwriting is the spitting image of my Grandmother Johnson’s. I’ll include a copy of that as well.”
I stopped again and let my eyes trace the shape of my own messy handwriting that resembled my father’s.
My sister.
My older sister was alive.
I signed the letter much as she had, “Sincerely, Lindy.”
As I’d promised, I made a copy of the card my grandmother had sent me when I graduated high school. She was well into her nineties and quite delusional by then, but, even as her mind faded on its final stage, her handwriting was as beautiful as ever.
Along with the paper, I also tucked in two photocopied pictures of Elle and me, one as kids playing in the sandbox with Jackie I’d stolen years ago, and another from Eleanor’s high school graduation with our parents smiling at our sides. Before I could second guess myself, I stuffed everything in the envelope and sealed it shut. I copied down her address and affixed a stamp. I rattled the envelope between my thumb and forefinger as I walked it out to the mailbox. It’d leave in the morning, and I’d officially be talking with my sister for the first time since we were kids.
My heart was so light with absolute glee that it wasn’t until I saw the abandoned backpack in the driveway that I remembered the case I’d taken on.
Missing person.
Owen Cox.
Eden’s Haven.
Tasha Saunders.
It was unlikely that I’d be around for Jackie’s next letter. Once more, my personal life would have to shift to the back burner for the sake of someone else.
♦ ♦ ♦
The fact that I was ready to go almost two days early was evidence to me of how nervous I was and how ill-prepared I felt. I texted Cox to see if he was ready. All I got back was a non-committal, “I got this.”
Whatever that meant.
On my second to last evening in my place, I curled up in my bed with a book and attempted free time leisure. I’ve never been good at it and quickly found myself on PI Net looking for a job I could do in 24 hours or less. Since the latest update to the app, the borders around our region had been knocked down. Jobs showed up from all over the country. Cases were no lon
ger exclusively offered up auction style, but some were listed on a board at a set price. Law had been introduced into my Wild West. Sure it was good, and it was needed, but I missed the old days.
A message popped up on my screen from Sleuth28. “Working or browsing?”
I would’ve been lying if I’d said that some part of me hadn’t been looking on PI Net just to have a chance to interact with him.
“Browsing. I leave on my big trip in less than 48 hours.”
“Right, with the hunk.”
My toes curled and pinched the fabric of the comforter as I giggled at his joke.
“More like lunk,” I wrote back. “I had to take all of our gear back even though he’s the one who’s supposed to be experienced.”
The silence expanded with no replies. I worried that I’d scared him off with my whining. It wasn’t that I wanted a relationship or anything, but it was nice to talk to someone without them staring at my scars or wondering when I was going to go ballistic.
None of it mattered anyway. None of it was real.
“Are you working?” I wrote after a second.
“A little. Paperwork. No active cases. How’s your transition going?”
Transition. That was a nice way to say it.
“It’s rough.” Writing the truth surprised me.
“How so?” Sleuth28 asked.
The giddy feeling disappeared as I melted back into my own reality.
“Everyone wants me to be normal, including myself, and I don’t know how to be that way anymore.” I pressed send, but started writing again. “I had to get cleared by a shrink for this next case. Pretty sure I failed that. I punched my partner in the throat because he touched my back and my ex,” I couldn’t find the right words to describe Ryder, “something or other stopped by, and I have no idea what he’s getting at.”
Waiting for his reply felt as though it took forever. For a second, I even considered trying to read my book again.
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