“That happens.”
“Or what if . . .” I didn’t quite know how to tell him what I felt. “What if it wasn’t about Mrs. Harper? What if it was about me?”
“It was about you. It was your package.”
“But don’t you think it’s suspicious that someone talked his way into the house, asking about me, and then didn’t even leave the package?”
“When was this again?”
“Sunday afternoon. But with the murder in the alley and everything . . .” I let my words trail off.
“The victim was shot on Monday afternoon. It couldn’t be the killer. I don’t think the shooting and the package are related. Your landlady probably just misplaced it. Did you check the refrigerator? My grandmother used to find things in there all the time.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Mrs. Harper’s mind.” Though she was awfully vague about this visitor.
“Now, if the guy was poking around your place? That would give me pause.”
“He did.”
“He what?”
“I mean, someone did.” I told him about the handprint and the planter.
“And this happened when?”
“The planter happened on Monday. I noticed the handprint just this evening.”
He was silent for a moment. “I don’t like it. I don’t know if I can connect it with the shooting, but I really don’t like it. Could be the guy with the package took a look at the house from the outside. Tried to peer through your door into the apartment. Remind me where you live?”
I gave him the name of the area.
“Hmm. Million-dollar homes. It sounds like the guy was casing the house.”
That’s what it had seemed like to me too. That was the logical conclusion. “The planter was knocked over the evening of the shooting.”
“Still couldn’t have been the killer, could it?”
“Couldn’t it?”
“Happened before you got home, right?”
“Yes.”
“He would have to be a psychic to know, in advance, that you would see him in the alley. And how would he have known where you lived? The timing’s wrong.”
Of course it was. It made me feel stupid. My law professors would have been disappointed.
“You want me to send someone out?”
“What would they do?”
“Look for evidence. Footprints. Fingerprints. But you said nobody broke in, right? And your landlady invited the guy into her house.”
That was true.
“Might not have been the wisest move, but it’s not a crime. Has anything been tampered with?”
We’d probably destroyed any evidence tearing the house apart during our search for that package. “Nothing in my apartment.” Not that I’d noticed.
“Could you have made that handprint? At some point?”
“It wasn’t my hand. It’s too big.”
“Let me send someone over.”
If he did that, it would make me feel better, but what about Mrs. Harper? How would she feel about a police car pulling up to her house? Even if she didn’t happen to notice, the neighbors definitely would. They noticed everything. They’d even called the police on me when I first moved in, before she had a chance to tell them I was living there. If Mrs. Harper asked me about the police showing up, then I’d have to tell her about the shooting at work and— “You know what—it’s probably nothing. It’s fine.”
After I hung up with the detective, I called my dad. Mostly, I just wanted to hear someone else’s voice. And I wanted to keep memories of the alley at bay for just a few more minutes.
“Sweetie. Hi.”
“Hey, Dad. Just called to see how you were.”
“Well—” He broke off for a moment. Said something I couldn’t hear.
“What?”
“Sorry. I’ve been in and out these last few days. Kind of busy.”
“Is everything okay?”
“What?”
Had he said that to me or someone else? I couldn’t tell. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. Everything’s fine. Sorry. I’m fine. You okay?”
“I’m good.”
“Okay. Well. I’ve got to get going. Talk to you soon?”
“Wait! You didn’t send me anything recently, did you?”
“Like what?”
“Anything. In a package?”
“Not since Christmas, back before you moved.”
For the last few Christmases, he’d sent me a pound of special-roast coffee I really liked along with Sasquatch gifts. He got a kick out of them and always included a message about putting my lawyer skills to work on something truly important. But this year he’d given me a basket filled with self-care items: lotions, a foot scrub, massage oils, and a scented candle. All of which I had yet to use.
We talked for a while longer and then I hung up.
How long had it been since I’d been home? Too long. It had been the summer before last, for a quick three-day visit. But right then, I wanted, more than anything, to tell him what had been happening. To hear him tell me it would all work out, that it would be alright. But to do that? I would have to tell him everything I’d been trying so hard to hide.
* * *
I tried to push away all the questions that swirled through my thoughts, tried to ignore the creepy feeling that someone was watching me, and concentrate instead on my studies. In spite of the fact that I was studying on my bed, I was doing a good job of it until my phone rang.
“This is Theresa Ripley. Brian’s mother? I wanted to talk to you about your session today.”
I nudged my study guide away and drew a blank index card from my stack so I could take notes if I needed to. “I’m happy to go over with you where he is on—”
“Did you tell him that college is his choice?”
Wasn’t it? “We talked about finding schools he’s interested in.”
“Well, now he wants to go to art school! I didn’t raise my son and drag him through high school just to have him go to art school!”
“The reason we were talking is because he’s been really stressed and—”
“I know he’s stressed! If he would just work a little bit harder, then maybe—”
“—I asked him to look at his college list a little differently.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying my son’s not smart?”
Danger! Whatever I said next needed to be worded very carefully. “I think your son is very smart. I just don’t think this test—”
“You think he should be taking the ACT instead? Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have signed him up for the SAT.”
“I mean that he’s not likely to earn a score, from either test, that will get him into Dartmouth. Or Notre Dame.”
“Then you need to give him more practice questions. You need to teach him more test-taking strategies. Or maybe I should reschedule the test. Do you think if he had another couple months he’d do better?”
“I think he’s set to do as well as he can. I just need you to understand that the test isn’t an accurate reflection of his intelligence. It’s highlighting his weaknesses, not his strengths. And wouldn’t you rather he be the top student at a nonelite school than a poor student at an elite one?”
“If he ever found out you were saying things like this to me, he would be so embarrassed!”
I’d heard way more embarrassing things about her. And her son was the one who had told them to me. “If we could just stop and stand back a minute and see what all of this pressure and stress is doing to students like him, then—”
“We’re not paying you for perspective! If the test wasn’t two weeks away, we’d drop you and go to someone else. But it is. And he likes you. Just, please. Stop meddling.”
I didn’t want to meddle. I really didn’t. But I’d made so many wrong choices that I didn’t want any of my students to have to repeat them. If I hadn’t blithely decided to go to an Ivy, then I wouldn’t have just blindly followed everyo
ne else along the presumed path to success; I wouldn’t have applied directly to a master’s program.
If I hadn’t applied, then I wouldn’t have accepted the offer to the most prestigious one in the most expensive city in the nation. And then I wouldn’t have had to take out so many loans to afford the tuition.
I wouldn’t have had to cobble together part-time jobs, wouldn’t have had to go to school half-time. I wouldn’t have maxed out a credit card paying for things like food and rent and books. I might not have met my all-time favorite professor, but then again, I wouldn’t have followed her advice to apply to a top-ten law school.
If I hadn’t been accepted to that law program, hadn’t gone to every single corporate mixer I could, hoping to make the connections most of the students already seemed to have, then I wouldn’t have met my ex. If I hadn’t met him, then I wouldn’t be carrying so many scars, both physical and emotional, out of that relationship. I wouldn’t have to work my coaching job. I might have been able to afford a bar exam test prep program for myself. Most of all, I wouldn’t have had to work at the coffee shop.
And if I hadn’t been working at the coffee shop, then I wouldn’t have walked into a murder. The situation I found myself in was directly attributable to a series of bad choices. It was, quite literally, all my fault. And the more I tried to recover from all of those choices, the more I realized I was trapped.
Chapter 13
Later, as I was studying, Mrs. Harper needed one of the knobs on a kitchen cabinet tightened. I darted up through the dark, one more time, to help her. Sprinted back down.
My dad phoned.
“Dad? Has something happened?”
“What? Oh! No. Nothing like that. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just that I forgot to tell you something earlier: one of your old classmates called.”
An old classmate? “Which one?”
“Give me a second.” In the background, there was a shuffling of papers. After a few moments he came back on. “I thought I had it, I thought he said, but I can’t find it. Everything’s a mess around here.”
It was a he? “Did he say from which school?”
“I don’t think so.”
I told myself it was probably just someone from an alumni association looking for donations. “What did he want?”
“Your address.”
“You didn’t give it to him, did you?”
“Of course I did.”
“Dad!”
“He seemed like a nice young man. You’re a nice young woman. Just wanted to catch up. That’s what he said.”
“When was it that he called?”
“Yesterday.”
“When? Was it in the afternoon?”
“Around lunchtime. I’d just eaten a sandwich.”
It would have been around three o’clock in Virginia. I thanked him for letting me know and then hung up.
The problem was, I didn’t know any nice young men. My ex didn’t even fit into that category. And that made two nice young men who had asked about me in the past few days. I didn’t like it. But once again, it was hard to see how it might be connected to the murder. Even if it had been the killer looking for me, trying to find my address, how would he have known my name? Or who my father was? And how would he have found his phone number?
It had to be an alumni association using an old number for me, didn’t it? It was just a coincidence. It had to be. But I seemed to be turning into a coincidence magnet. It made me uneasy.
I turned back to my books and tried to study.
I was supposed to be treating the bar exam like a full-time job. Of a salaried employee. Most experts said I should be studying eight to ten hours a day, six days a week, for at least two and a half months prior to the exam.
I’d been studying, little by little, for the past year, although that had been in conjunction with my last year of law school and both of my jobs. But there was no point in mourning the time I’d lost to circumstance. The best remedy was to be efficient with the time I had.
So I tried to be.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about Joe. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him sprawled in the alley.
And I had so many questions. Who had Joe been? Why was he killed? Who was the shooter? And what about that mobile order he’d placed from the grave? It was just so odd.
And creepy.
How could a dead man order himself a coffee?
It felt like one of the logic puzzles on the LSAT, the test for entrance to law school.
Joe goes to a coffee shop every day and orders the same drink around 1:30. One day, Joe dies. The next day, he orders the same drink. Which one of the following must be true?
Joe didn’t die.
Joe’s ghost ordered the drink.
Joe is a time traveler.
I called Detective Baroni again. This time it rolled to voicemail.
“This is Whitney Garrison. From the Blue Dog? I’m sorry to keep calling, but I just remembered something strange that happened at work today. I’d like to talk to you about it.” I might have told him on voicemail about Joe’s order, but I couldn’t even explain it to myself.
I didn’t go to bed so much as I just finally gave up studying. I’d spent the night taking notes on the Uniform Commercial Code, but in the background, every brain cell felt as if it was still churning over the shooting, trying to tie together a string of odd happenings that refused to be connected. If I could just arrange my questions in a logical order, then they should lead to answers, but I couldn’t see logic in any of it.
Bed provided no rest.
Every time the air conditioner clicked on, I jumped. Every time I rolled over to try to go back to sleep, I thought about Joe and his death. And that strange mobile order. It had to have been some sort of glitch, didn’t it?
* * *
The next morning at work, I decided to do some investigating.
Customers’ data was absolutely private. I could get in trouble—I could get fired—for accessing Joe’s account. But I wanted to understand what had happened.
After we’d cleared the first rush of customers, I went into the back room and scrolled through the mobile orders from Monday. Saw that Joe’s had been placed at 1:20. Precisely. I scrolled back to the day before.
1:20.
And the day before that.
1:20.
It seemed odd that each of Joe’s orders had been placed at exactly 1:20. Our mobile-order system didn’t have an automatic capability. You could reorder a previous order, but you couldn’t schedule an automatic order and you couldn’t schedule one in advance. You had to place it, each time, yourself.
1:20. Exactly.
That really bothered me. I didn’t know if I could place an order so consistently if I tried.
I took a look around. Peeked out the window on the back-room door and into the hallway. Glanced through the swinging door into the work area. Everyone else seemed otherwise occupied, so I dug deeper, accessing his profile.
There was an address on his account. The database required one. And there was a telephone number, obviously. Mobile ordering didn’t work without a mobile phone. I sent a glance back toward the door again to make sure no one was coming in, and then I took a picture of the screen with my phone before I went back on the floor.
We got busy again midmorning. Nearly a dozen people came in at the same time. Ty pulled shots just as quickly as he could, but the orders still backed up.
One of the customers took advantage of the wait to strike up a conversation. He seemed a bit older than I was. He had blond hair and was wearing a suit and tie.
“So, I’m new in town. Just moved here.”
“It’s a great place to live. Lots to do.”
“I heard there’s some sort of games place around here? Bowling, karaoke? An arcade?”
“Punch Bowl. It’s at the mall in Ballston.” It was Corrine’s favorite place to hang out. Ty had mentioned going there too.
“Have you
ever been?”
I shook my head. Leaned away from the counter to see how Ty was progressing on the drinks.
“Want to go?”
I straightened. “I’m sorry?”
“Want to go with me? To Punch Bowl?”
“No.” I used to give an explanation when I turned men down, but it was usually a wasted effort. They’d take it as a maybe instead of an outright rejection. I’d decided short and honest was better. It didn’t leave room for ambiguity.
He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a business card. Handed it to me. “It sounds like a lot of fun. Give me a call if you change your mind.”
I smiled at him and then turned my attention to the next customer. Later, when they had all been served, I threw his card away.
When I went on my break, I brought up the picture I’d taken of Joe’s account information and searched for the address.
347 Oakleaf Court in Fairfax.
But Google Maps couldn’t find it.
It gave me Oak Leaf Drive in Mt. Vernon instead.
I left off the street name and put in just the number and the zip code.
It returned several choices: an auto mechanic at 347 Second Avenue in Fairfax, and a beauty salon at 12589 Broad Street, #347.
Sometimes I used fake addresses for online accounts. So I understood why Joe might have used one too. There was one possibility left to try. I brought up the picture I’d taken of his account, wrote his phone number on the back of one of my manager’s business cards, and dialed it just to see what would happen. Maybe his voicemail message would provide some information.
But it never picked up.
As far as I knew, the police hadn’t found Joe’s phone, so I hadn’t expected anyone to answer. But I hung up more puzzled than before.
Most people had some sort of voicemail greeting even if they rarely used voicemail anymore.
Something thudded against the swinging door.
I jumped. Moved so the desk was between me and the door.
It swung open and Ty came in, carrying a container of used coffee grounds.
As my heart caught in my chest, I slid the phone into my pocket and pretended to search for something on the storage shelves.
When Ty left, I brought up the picture of Joe’s account information. In spite of the fact that Joe used the account every day, he’d never activated the most popular feature. In order to get a free drink on your birthday, you had to enter your birth month.
Everywhere to Hide Page 8