Because I Can

by Lisa Renee Jones

  The post touches me, it connects with me and speaks to me, on so many levels. We are all human. We are all insecure and lonely at times. She’s just described every reason I want to adopt a cat. And she just gave me my only clue to find her. I quickly google the animal rescue and key the number into my cellphone. After two rings a machine picks up, but the website says they’re open. To my surprise, they’re located right up the road. I’m already on my feet, headed upstairs to change clothes. It can’t hurt to just go to the shelter to see if Allison is there or if they know how to reach her. I do have a necklace to return to her. And I’m not against giving the kitties for adoption a little look-see. I can’t get one for me just yet, but my mother has actually been talking about one for a while now.

  Either way, nothing can go wrong.

  It’s just a trip to an animal shelter.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  After changing into jeans and a cozy teal-colored sweater, paired with cowboy boots, I bundle up, pack up my briefcase in case I need it, and head to the shelter. Since it’s close, the chilly day makes for a brisk walk, but fortunately not a brutal walk. Soon I discover that the shelter is next to a coffee shop I enjoy, and apparently, I’ve walked by the shelter and thought it was a pet store many times in the past. Nestled in between rows of offices, stores, and restaurants, it’s painted adorably with brightly colored animals playing on the pop of green grass. I open the door and enter a small lobby. A blonde woman I place in her late thirties, maybe forty at most, pops to her feet to greet me. “Hi, I’m Jessie. Can I help you?”

  Jessie is wearing a T-shirt with a Great Dane on the front that reads, “Want to play?” The shirt tells me all I need to know about her. She’s good people. “Hi Jessie,” I say, and despite how silly it sounds I add, “I’m Allie. I’m looking for Allison.”

  “Aren’t we all,” she murmurs almost to herself before she says, “And how cute. Allie, looking for Allison. She’s not in. Can I help you?”

  “Actually,” I say, awkward about the lie I’m about to tell, but somehow it comes right out anyway. “I’m her sister from Texas. She’s not returning my calls. I’m worried, which is why I hopped on a flight to get here.” I hug myself. “She’s really alone here.”

  “Oh my,” she says. “I—well—I didn’t know she has a sister, and what kind of drugs were your parents on to name you Allie and her Allison?” She snorts but my really bad lie—I’m a horrible liar—doesn’t punch back at me and neither does Jessie. Instead, she moves on, her tone turning serious. “I’ve been worried as well. She’s not returning my calls either.”

  “Did she stop showing up to volunteer? She loves this place. That makes no sense.”

  “She told me she had a big work project going on and had to take a break, but it’s been about a month. I expected her to be back and we’re friends. We talk a lot. Have you been by her house? I almost went by myself.”

  There is a twist in my belly with the implications of what she’s revealed. Bottom line, this is not good. “She’s not living in the house I knew of anymore,” I say. “Someone else is there now. Maybe I have the wrong address?”

  “Let’s look,” she says, motioning for me to follow her. “Come to my office.”

  I follow her to a doorway just off the lobby where a beat-up wooden desk sits against the wall. She motions to the chair next to the desk and we both sit down. By the time my butt is in the chair, she’s keying on an ancient beast of a computer. “Alright,” she murmurs. “Let me see. I have an address right here.” She reads it out to me, and my heart sinks.

  “That’s the old address,” I say, my brows furrowing. “What is going on?” I give her a pleading stare. “Could this be about that man she was seeing?”

  “I think they broke up.”

  “So is it some sort of stalker and she’s running from him?”

  “I don’t know. She was a little weird the few weeks before her leave, distracted even. One day she came in with puffy eyes. She said it was allergies but I thought it was more like the aftermath of a good cry.”

  “Do you know his name? She told me she worked with him, but I swear I can’t remember his name.”

  “She called him, ‘The King of the World,’ never a name. She seemed really in love. I envied her, but then something changed. She stopped talking about him.”

  “I think she broke up with ‘The King of the World.’ There was a new man.”

  “Not that I ever heard about,” she says. “The office she used when she was here is down the hall. Last door on the left. You can look around and see if you find anything.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’ll go by her workplace Monday, but I’m going to go nuts this weekend. Anything I can do to find her is appreciated.”

  “Will you call me after you see her on Monday? Honestly, I should have tried her office. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

  “I’ll call you or stop by. It’s right up the road.”

  She squeezes my arm. “Thank you, Allie.” She stands. “I’ll show you to her office.”

  I follow her down a hallway and she motions me into a small, private office. I glance at Jessie. “She must be a pretty big part of the shelter to have her own office.”

  “She has brought in more money than anyone who has ever set foot in this place. She hit up the celebrities at Hawk Legal.”

  I decide I’d like Allison if I met her. Anyone who loves animals the way she does has to be good people.

  “I’ll leave you to look around. I have to go back to the kennel and check on the animals. If I don’t see you before I leave, is there a number I can call you at?”

  “Oh yes,” I say quickly. “It’s a New York number. I just moved up there. Now I’m kind of wishing I’d moved here,” I add, which isn’t a lie, not one little bit. I read off my number to her. She punches in the digits. “You should move here. You and Allison should be together. Life can be fleeting. Family should be close.” She doesn’t wait for a reply. She disappears out of the office.

  Life can be fleeting.

  She might as well have punched me in the gut.

  Life is fleeting, for some more than others.

  My mother won’t be around long enough, no matter how long she’s here, and just the idea of losing her shreds me. But at least I know that, for now, she’s safe and well. I don’t know that to be true or false when it comes to Allison.

  The mystery around her only seems to expand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I sit down at the desk and pull open a drawer. There’s a pen box sitting in the center and I pick it up, flipping open the lid. Inside I find a Tiffany pen, distinctive by the blue color, and worth a few hundred bucks. The older classics are worth thousands, which I know from research I did for Riptide. This one is a thick, masculine pen, which is curious. It seems like an odd thing to leave at the shelter but maybe it’s not hers, but a customer’s. I don’t know. There are a lot of odd things about everything surrounding Allison. I close the lid and seal the pen inside the box, before setting it back inside the drawer. There’s a business card next to it and I pick it up, hope stirring as I realize it belongs to a local real estate agent. Maybe, just maybe, Allison left and did so with free will and purpose. Of course, the agent could be someone who adopted, but I choose to hang onto that newly discovered hope. I grab my phone and stick the contact in my address book. There’s actually a handwritten number on the back of the card and I input that contact as well, labeling it as “Allison’s mystery number.” Once I’m done there isn’t much more here to see, but I am determined to look harder. I open every drawer, dig around, and do so to no avail. Aside from an expensive pen and a business card that may or may not mean anything, I’ve got nothing.

  Discouraged, I stand up and exit the office. As she’d indicated as likely, Jessie still isn’t back upfront. Eager to stay connected with her, I step to the front desk and grab a piece of paper and a pen quickly jotting a thank you note with my number included one more time, just
for good measure. I’m just finishing up when the bells on the door chime. A moment later, I hear, “Allison.”

  The deep male voice is not familiar, but I react instinctively, turning and replying with, “Yes?”

  I find a tall, good-looking, dark-haired man, in a custom blue suit and an equally expensive trench coat, standing just inside the doorway.

  “You’re not Allison.”

  Unease slides through me and not just because I’m forced to lie again. There is something about this man that sets me on edge. “I’m her sister,” I say. “And you are?”

  His lips press together, his eyes sharp. “She doesn’t have a sister.”

  Every nerve I own is officially standing on end. This is the man who sent Allison the necklace. I know it with every fiber of my being. “Apparently she does,” I say, “and she just didn’t tell you. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Where’s Allison?” he repeats.

  “She’s not here,” I reply.

  “That’s not an answer,” he snaps back.

  “That’s all the answer I’ll give a man who won’t even tell me his name.”

  He studies me for several heavy beats, and then turns and exits the shelter.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The man has only been gone mere moments when Jessie reappears in the lobby. “Oh good, I caught you. I forgot to give you my cell number.”

  I blink and shake myself, not sure what just happened. The man just left. It was abrupt and I’m very confused right now. Jessie offers me a card. “This is me. I hope we hear from her soon, honey. I’m worried.”

  “Me, too,” I say. “Has she ever had a man stop by here to see her?”

  “Not that I know of, but she’s a beautiful girl. She certainly got hit on all the time. Why? Are you worried about a stalker kind of thing? I swear now I’m thinking the same thing.”

  “No. No, it’s not that,” I say, though maybe it should be, I think, “Not really. I mean, this good-looking man in an expensive suit, dripping arrogance and money, just came in looking for her.”

  “My God, why can’t a good-looking man dripping arrogance and money come in here and ask for me?”

  I should introduce her to Tyler, I think, but instead, I say, “It was weird. He refused to give me his name. If he comes back, get his name, will you? And his contact information.”

  “Of course,” she says. “I’m dying to know who he is myself. Maybe he thought you’d know him by name and not in a good way?”

  That is a curious thought. Maybe he did.

  The door chimes and I’m hopeful the man has returned. Instead, I turn around to find a woman and a little boy standing there. A weird mix of disappointment and relief stabs at me. Almost as if my gut is telling me this man is not a man I want to see again. I glance at Jessie. “I’ll call you Monday,” I say, waving at her and heading toward the door.

  I step outside and a drizzle of light rain is falling, and while the chill in the air is real, it has nothing to do with the tingling sensation on my neck. As if I’m being watched. I scan the area, left, right, across the street, but no one stands out. Maybe I’m paranoid, but I don’t like how this feels. I quickly cut left and head down the street, when the rain is officially rain, not a drizzle. One of my favorite coffee shops is a few doors down, and I hurry in through the heavy wooden door, warmth, and coziness, enveloping me. Just being inside the familiar place has me breathing out in relief. I think I’ll stay a bit. Maybe I’ll have Dash meet me here and walk home with him. Then again, he’s a celebrity, and his face is not in any shape to be photographed.

  Hurrying to the counter, I order a coffee, before reaching for my wallet. And reach again. My search becomes far more frantic, and the realization hits me. I have my driver’s license and one credit card because that’s what fits in my smaller purse, which I favor when walking about, or most certainly, for the club. I left my wallet on the nightstand. And of course, this little coffee shop does not take the card I have with me.

  My cheeks heat and I quickly apologize to the clerk who thankfully is not familiar enough to know me, before backing away from the counter. I have to retrieve my wallet. That’s necessary, and sooner than later. After a moment of consideration, I grab my phone and call an Uber. The car is only five minutes away, but I wait inside until it arrives. The rain is now falling hard and fast, and I run to the car. Once I’m inside I begin a text to Dash: I’m going to my place—I stop myself with the realization that my place is now his place. I delete the message. Telling Dash I’m going to Tyler’s house while he’s having words with Tyler is not a good idea. But I’m also not all that kosher with being at that house alone after last night’s break-in.

  I lean forward to talk to the Uber driver. “Can I pay you to wait for me at the house and take me someplace after? I just need to grab my wallet at the first stop. I left it there.”

  The woman is mid-fifties, red-headed and friendly as can be. “Of course, honey. You just tell me what to do.”

  She chats with me for the short drive, telling me about her daughter, who like the entire city, aspires to be a country singer. When we arrive at the house, I hurry to the front door, key in the security code, and enter the house. A chill runs down my spine and while part of that is the fact that the heat is turned low, last night’s break-in is clearly weighing on my mind. Eager to just get in and out of here, I hurry through the house, scanning for trouble that surely is not here, before I enter the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed that is still unmade from the time I was here, I realize that I really should have cleaned up a bit before I left. Or I need to clean up. Last night, wasn’t exactly the time for such things.

  For now, I have a driver waiting on me, and surely Dash will be home soon. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull out the drawer. My wallet isn’t there. I know I left it here, but the back of the drawer is quite low, and it might have fallen behind it. I pull it out and a leather book falls out. Of course, my wallet does not. Where the heck is my wallet?

  I grab the notebook and set it on the bed, returning the drawer to its rightful place and then search all around the bed for my wallet. It’s not here.

  My cellphone rings and I sit back down on the mattress and glance at the caller ID to find Dash’s number. I quickly answer. “Hey. Everything okay?”

  “It is what it is,” he says, dryly. “I’m headed home. You want coffee?”

  “Actually, I’m not there. I’m at Tyler’s house.”

  There’s a beat of silence. “What the hell is going on, Allie?”

  “Oh God, it’s not what you think, Dash. I went out for a bit and went into a coffee shop and realized I left my wallet here. I just wanted to get it and be out of here. I have an Uber waiting on me. I wasn’t taking any chances of being here alone. And I didn’t want to bother you when you were with Tyler. I’m leaving now—”

  “Just wait there. I’m coming to get you.”

  He hangs up. A sure sign he is not happy. Damn it, I shouldn’t have come. I pull up the Uber app, text the driver an update, and tip her generously. I set my phone down and my hand lands on the notebook. Frowning, I pick it up and open it. The first page reads:

  Nashville.

  This is for my mother who believed that the best way to know ourselves is with words, our own words.

  I suck in a breath, recognizing the handwriting I’ve seen through my work. This is Allison’s journal, and these are her words.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I’m holding Allison’s journal. And while I respect anyone’s and everyone’s right to privacy, it feels like more of her words could answer so many questions, maybe they even tell me that she is safe. Justifying my temptation to read onward, I flip the page to find a mere one paragraph of writing that starts with: My first day in Nashville.

  Why am I here, in a city, I’ve never known before now?

  Well, for starters, Nashville is far from Houston, where I’m from.

  My God, I think. If this really is
Allison’s journal, I’m shocked that I got the whole Texas thing right with Jessie. There is so much about me and her that coincides in an almost freakish way, and I can’t help it, I begin to read again.

  Because I needed to get away, her words read. I needed a new start. I needed away from everything that once was and no longer is. As for the city, my first impression is that the food is amazing. The energy of the city is amazing. Country music is everywhere. I need a pair of boots. I need a hat. I need a place to live. The Airbnb I’m staying in is small and simple, and no place I can call home. It’s a good neighborhood though. I might try to stay around here.

  My brow furrows with her reference to an Airbnb. Is this Allison’s journal? Am I wrong about the familiar writing? I glance at the cover and the pages, and it looks fairly new. And certainly, Airbnbs haven’t been around for long either, so this writing can’t be overly dated. It must be hers, but then again, I don’t know how long she was even in this house. Maybe there was another tenant before her. Maybe more than one.

  My gaze returns to the text and I continue reading:

  That’s all. I have nothing else to say. I think I’m bad at this. Writing down my thoughts feels strange and unnatural, but somehow, it’s as if I’m writing to my mother. I like that feeling. I miss her. I miss you, Mom. Nothing has been the same since you left.

  My heart squeezes with the pain and loneliness radiating off the page. Allison, or whoever wrote this, loved and lost their mother. I can’t lose my mom, I can barely even think about it. I can’t think about it. I flip the page and read:

  Him.

  Tall and good-looking, he personifies my definition of the perfect man, all masculinity, confidence, and power, in one hot package. The moment I saw him, my heart beat faster. We were in the elevator of all places, just me and him. We faced each other, stared at each other, and never said a word. Who does that, right? Just stand there and stare at each other? There was a pulse between us though, this tick of sexual tension as if we could come together and start ravishing each other with kisses any moment. And then the doors opened and a crush of people entered the car. I couldn’t see him anymore and when everyone cleared out another stop later, he was gone. That might seem like the end of the story, but it’s not. I saw him again. But that’s a story for another day.