Lost in the Light

by Mary Castillo

  Lost in the Light

  mary castillo

  Reina Books™

  eBook Original

  Dedication

  For every reader who reached out via email, Twitter and Facebook. You'll never know how your messages of encouragement shone the light when it seemed there was no hope of finishing another story.

  For Aunt Irma, your spirit carries on through Grammy Cena.

  This book is my gift to you.

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Lost in the Light. Copyright 2012 by Mary Castillo. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Reina Books, 1048 Irvine Ave, PMB477, Newport Beach, CA 92660.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords. com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Published October 1, 2012

  Cover photos: iStockPhoto.com

  Cover design: Mary Castillo, Reina Books

  Chapter One

  No one visits the dead in the rain. Parking would be easy to find at La Vista Memorial Park.

  Dori turned up the steep hill and the wipers scraped against the windshield. Shafts of pearlescent light punched through the clouds. Grammy Cena was right. They just might get a break from the rain.

  "Now don't get out until I come around with the umbrella," Dori said while Grammy checked her lipstick in the visor mirror.

  "Who are you to tell me what to do?"

  "It's still drizzling outside."

  "So? I ain't no wicked witch. I ain't gonna melt."

  Pulling into a parking spot, Dori repressed a sigh so not to start an argument. As she pushed open the door and twisted around to step out, white hot pain exploded at her left side. While Grammy primped and fussed in the mirror, Dori held her breath. She slowly stood up. By the time she reached Grammy’s side of the car, sweat rolled down her back.

  Shielding them from the light mist with the umbrella, Dori offered Grammy her arm.

  "Wait, this is your bad side," Grammy said.

  "It’s okay."

  "Give me your other arm."

  "Just take my arm."

  "I will when you turn your ass around."

  This time Dori didn’t hold back an exasperated sigh. She switched the umbrella to her left hand and did what she was told.

  Grammy took her arm and eased out of the car. "You okay with this?"

  "Yeah. I owe Grampy a thank you."

  Dori steered Grammy over the uneven pavement towards the mausoleum. Her eyes squinted against the sun reflecting off the puddles. Cars whooshed up and down the 805 freeway and the scent of the eucalyptus trees sharpened the cold wind. La Vista Memorial Park stood at the top of a hill. On clear days, far beyond Sweetwater Road and the wetlands, she could’ve seen a ribbon of ocean.

  "Don't let the flowers get wet," Grammy said, leaning on Dori as they took the steps down.

  "I won't."

  "Hold the umbrella straight. I got my hair done."

  Dori cracked a grin, welcoming Grammy’s bossiness as a distraction from her stiff side. "Sorry."

  She glanced at Grammy's freshly colored and coiffed up-do. Rhinestone earrings glittered at her ears, ropes of pearls hung over her reinforced bosom and her mango-colored pant suit could've beaconed ships safely into harbor. Grammy had gone all out for her weekly visit with Grampy.

  The clouds swallowed up the sun again by the time they arrived at Grampy's crypt. Stopping in front of him, Grammy let out a long sigh. Her hand reached out, shivering in the cold. She hesitated just before she caressed his name, Joaquin Gregorio Orihuela, 1929-1985.

  "After visiting you on a day like this, you better be waiting for me when I die, mi amor," Grammy said.

  Dori put her hand next to Grammy’s, her fingers bumping over the letters of his name. "Hi Grampy," she said. "Thanks for watching my back."

  She’d had more years without her grampy than with him. But right now, when she was supposed to be a strong, capable woman, all Dori wanted was to press her cheek against his chest and hear him tell her everything would be okay. Dori’s throat tightened and she pulled her hand away, stuffing it in her pocket.

  Grammy shifted her weight off Dori’s arm, taking away her warmth. "Mija, get some water for the flowers. I want some alone time with your Grampy."

  "You want the umbrella?"

  "I don't need it."

  Dori checked the sky for rain before she left them together. She carried the metal vase to the sink located right outside the cemetery's office. Miniature American flags flapped against the white marble.

  Ever since Dori had been put on leave pending an investigation, this was her fourth time out of Grammy's house. She'd met with her therapist twice, taken Grammy to the grocery store and now they were here. She felt rickety on her own two feet but tonight she was determined to sleep in her own house and get on with her life. She tried not to think about what she'd do when Grammy would be laid to rest beside Grampy. The vase clanged against the sink and her bones nearly jumped through her skin.

  Time lurked just around the corner and then Dori would really have no one and her dependency scared her. Mom was caught up in her new boyfriend. Sela was now living in New York but kept in touch through phone calls and texts. Their brother, Robbie, sent two emails and flowers but he wasn’t interested in rejoining the family after his disastrous wedding. Dad was somewhere in Mexico with his new wife who, according to Aunt Delia, was five years younger than Dori but looked twice as old.

  Grammy and her sergeant were the ones who had been sitting by her hospital bed when Dori emerged from the drugs and trauma of having been shot. After her supervisor left, Grammy had held her as Dori cried after telling her about the woman she’d shot and killed in front of her two kids.

  Something caught in her throat and Dori choked. She braced her hands on the edge of the cold sink, trying to catch her breath. She'd been doing this a lot lately. She held on to the sink as if it would keep her from exploding into a million, irreplaceable pieces.

  She stared down at her boots and wondered how she, Dori Orihuela could’ve ended up a mess like this. The department might clear her of any legal wrongdoing in taking the life of Kaylee Matthews, but she wasn't so sure about God. Dori tried to remind herself that she didn't believe in God anymore, but that didn’t make her feel any better.

  Her hands eased their grip on the sink and Dori breathed in slow and deep. She focused on rinsing the vase and then refilling it with clean water. She walked back to Grammy and Grampy and the sun returned, spotlighting the old section of the cemetery. Massive granite gravestones rose crookedly out of the grass. The Victorian wrought iron fences that sequestered the city’s founding fathers were crumbling with rust.

  "There you are," Grammy said. "Grampy and I were getting worried."

  Dori stretched her lips into a grin and unclenched her fist. It was a front but she hated the worry in Grammy's eyes. "I had to give it an extra rinse," she said, sliding the vase into the holder.

  "It's crooked," Grammy said. "The flowers will fall out."

  D
ori made an adjustment.

  "It's still crooked."

  Dori nudged it just so.

  "Psh! Let me do it."

  Grammy shouldered her aside and jimmied the vase. "I was telling him about that house you just bought," she said. "He thinks you should stay with me for another week."

  "I'll be fine."

  "It's too drafty."

  "I've got all those blankets you gave me."

  "But it don't got no heat. That little thing you bought might burn the place down."

  "If that happens, I'll move back in with you."

  Grammy turned to Grampy. "Will you talk some sense into this child?"

  "Fixing it up will be good for me," Dori said even though she wondered if closing escrow on a 120 year-old eight-bedroom mansion had come at the worst possible time in her life.

  Her throat closed up as she stared at Grampy’s name. This is why I need you again, she thought as if she could will him back to life and help straighten her out.

  "You see what I gotta deal with?" Grammy said to Grampy, holding out her hand towards Dori. "You were the only one she ever listened to."

  Dori opened her mouth to argue that the last time she’d listened to Grammy, she’d tussled with a guy in the kitchen at the Hotel Del. But Grampy probably knew all that and she could see him shake his head and tell her in his deep whispery voice, "You know your Grammy."

  His name plate blurred. Dori made a choking sound and clamped her hand over her mouth.

  "There, there, mija," Grammy said, sliding her arm around Dori's waist. "See you gotta let it out. Stop holding it in."

  They stood there quietly as the wind shoved against their backs. Grammy's tender encouragements only worsened the pain. Dori clenched her jaw tight, forcing the sobs back to that dark place where they'd come from.

  "I'm ready to go," Dori said, pulling away to stand on her own.

  Grammy sighed. She kissed her fingertips and then pressed them to his name plate. "See you soon, amor." She then closed her eyes and bowed her head.

  "Bye Grampy. I still keep my back to the wall like you told me to."

  They got to the car when Grammy asked, "You'll call me when you get home."

  "Yes."

  "Keep your cell with you at all times."

  "Okay."

  "I don't like you being there all alone. One of your cousins should stay with you."

  When Dori didn’t say anything, Grammy added, "You said it's a big house."

  "Not that big."

  "Will you just cry or beat someone up or drink? You gotta stop bottling it in or it's gonna eat you alive."

  Dori held the door open. "I don't need to advertise my suffering. It's time for me to move on and that's what I'm doing."

  When she was firmly ensconced on the passenger seat, Grammy muttered, "Then at least get laid, mija."

  After making sure Grammy was safely in her house, Dori checked the time and figured her prescription was ready. Her palms began sweating as she turned into the shopping mall off Sweetwater Road, remembering the Old West theme it sported back when she rocked leg warmers and three-inch high bangs. She bought her Go-Go’s albums at the old record store and her Grammy’s romance novels from the Book Nook.

  As she walked through the automatic doors of CVS, Dori replayed the conversation she'd had with her therapist the other day. The Lexapro didn't mean she was defective. It was a tool to help her get her footing. Dori hadn't filled the prescription until today and she wouldn’t change her mind or chicken out this time. If she wanted her job back then this was part of the process. It didn't matter that-

  "Well lookey whoo just walked in! Dora Orihuela!"

  Dori stopped so suddenly she nearly fell forward. Cleve, her mother’s boyfriend smiled and waved from the other side of the pharmacy counter. She very nearly ran for it, but then she’d just visited Grampy, and he wouldn’t like her turning tail.

  She sucked in some air and rolled her shoulders back. "Hey Cleve. How’s it going?"

  "Not bad. They cut my hours so it’s a little tight. What can I do you for?"

  She’d been trained to shoot to kill. She’d wrestled drunks in the gutter and had been called names that would shrivel a lesser man’s balls, but Dori couldn’t summon up one teensy lie to get herself out of this situation.

  "I’m here to pick up a prescription," she managed.

  "Here lemme look you up," he said. She watched him flip through the plastic bags hanging along the back wall.

  "Or-hee-well-ah," he said, mangling her last name on the ticket. "I just called you Dora didn't I? Sorry 'bout that." He tore open the bag to scan the paperwork and then paused to wink at her. "My mind ain't what it used to be. A few more years and you'll know what I-"

  When Cleve read the prescription, his grin flattened. Dori felt the ping in her gut. He looked her in the eye, all humor gone. "It’s not my place, but is everything all right?"

  He knew she'd been shot. He'd brought her hysterical mother to the hospital. How the hell could everything be all right? Dori slapped her credit card on the counter. "How much do I owe?"

  "Oh, right I-" The bottle fell out of the bag and rolled off the counter. Cleve dived down to get it.

  "You need help, Cleve?" one of the pharmacists asked.

  Dori wanted to pull her head into her coat and never come out again as the older blonde snapping gum walked over. Her badge said Berta.

  "No thanks, I got it," Cleve said, slipping it back into the bag. It took him four agonizing tries before the scanner read the bar code.

  It was bad enough that her therapist had put her on anti-depressants. But within the hour, he’d tell her mother who then would call up her aunts and then they’d tell all of her cousins. They’d crow that Miss High and Mighty couldn’t handle her problems.

  Not that Dori planned to take the pills. They were like insurance in case yoga, exercise and the guided meditation she downloaded onto her phone didn't work. Still, she should’ve done what she used to do in high school when she'd fill her birth control pills at the pharmacy on Coronado Island where none of her family or their friends would find out. But she’d forgotten Cleve worked here. She needed to think more clearly from here on out.

  He mumbled the total and then asked if Dori had a CVS card. Dori slid it across the counter that suddenly turned blurry.

  "Here you go," he said. The bag appeared in her line of sight. Her hand shot out for the grab but he kept his hold on it.

  "Wait, I have to ask you to hang on for a consultation," he said. "This is a, a you know – one of those things and-"

  Shame or no shame, Dori leveled that cold Orihuela stare that everyone said she’d inherited from Grampy. "I’m fine."

  He flinched but held her gaze. "I can’t let you go without a consultation first."

  She could make a scene and then he’d really think she needed drugs. She pulled her hand away and stuffed it in her pocket. "Okay. Fine. Thanks."

  He nodded as if he appreciated what she was going through. She didn’t want his damn pity. She just wanted her bag so she could get the hell out of there.

  "If you need anything, you know you can-"

  "Sure thanks." Dori moved out of the way for the next person in line behind her.

  As Dori slowed to a stop at East 24th Street, she tried to shake off the guilt that she’d blown Cleve off. At the hospital, when he'd walked her crying mother out into the hallway, she had heard him asking her mom to calm down, to be strong for her daughter. Then again, like Grampy used to say, sometimes you had to front so no one would mess with you. Maybe, just maybe, Cleve would keep the prescription to himself.

  From her experience, Dori doubted it. She knew she couldn't trust anyone, not even herself.

  With the rain pattering on the roof of her car, she pulled up the semi-circular drive of the house the county of San Diego declared was legally and financially hers. Her Rav-4 looked ridiculous in front of the three-story, 19th century mansion that stood tall and proud even though
one earthquake could send it into a smoking ruin.

  The police tape Dori had draped across the sagging front porch fluttered in the wind. But she would fix it. Together, piece by piece, both she and the house would be put to rights. Staring at it through her fogged up window, she remembered that sense it was hers when she first eyes on it when she was nine years old and her dad drove her and brother and sister by the house.

  The memory was so clear that for a moment she was in the backseat of her dad's Scout, staring up at the house wondering who lived there and what went on through the murky, mysterious windows. There were three other 19th Century mansions in this neighborhood that had been beautifully restored. But this one was special. She'd came back to it through the years, even when she visited from Denver. Now it was hers.

  Sighing, Dori reached across the seat for her CVS bag. Goosebumps sprang up her arms. She tensed; the back of her neck tingling with the awareness that she was being watched. Locked inside her car, she scanned the back seat and the yard.

  No one lurked behind the dead boxwoods. The grass had dried up, and not even one weed sprung up out of the dry earth. The plastic bag crinkled as she closed her fist around it. The house wasn't in the best of neighborhoods but she refused to think about Grammy's worrying.

  The weeks she'd first lived in the house, before the shooting, Dori never felt weird or scared. But it was good to be aware, she told herself as she pushed the door open and paused, sniffing chimney smoke from the neighbor’s house. It was quiet up here, the traffic on Sweetwater a soft hush that rode on the winds sweeping clouds across the sky. She shut the door and the alarm beeped. The bay windows in the front parlor reflected Dori as she walked up to the house.

  Idly wondering what to pick from the meals Grammy had prepared for her, Dori plugged her key into the lock. Her heart gave a painful jolt when she looked up into the face of a man. He stared at her from the other side of the wavy glass window of the Dutch door.