“I promise. I’ll keep it risk free.”
“Fine, I’ll send it to you before I leave. Just … be careful.”
“You, too,” she said. “Out on the waves, I mean. You’re out of practice.”
Bodhi laughed again, for the first time sounding like his old self. “Bye.”
They hung up, and Devon let out a long breath. What just happened? Being nice and casual had clearly backfired. I think I just got friend-zoned.
THE TOWN CAR IDLING in the parking lot surely belonged to Cleo. The trunk was already popped open, so Devon tossed her duffel bag in and hopped into the backseat. She nearly screamed when someone who wasn’t Cleo greeted her instead.
“Oz.” Fresh Blood extended a hand with his perfect smile. “Devon, right?”
“Uh … yeah,” she said, regaining her composure. “And you’re Oz? Welcome to Keaton. Must be weird starting this time of year.” She sounded like a jackass. She reached for the door handle. “Sorry, but I think I got into the wrong—”
“I’m waiting for Cleo, too, Devon,” he interrupted gently. “No worries.”
“Oh. Right.” Cleo had conveniently left out that part of this equation. Devon wanted to throttle her. “Your parents named you Oz? As in, the wizard of? It’s not short for something, like Osgood?”
He tapped against the window and smiled. “Just Oz, as in follow the yellow brick road. They’re suckers for musicals. Don’t ask.” With that, he unzipped his jacket and maneuvered around in his seat to get his arms free. The gesture felt weirdly intimate, even though Devon couldn’t place why. She was being the rude freak, not him. “I don’t know where Cleo is,” he added, “but I’m getting the impression time is a little flexible in her world.”
“That impression is right on.” Devon attempted to smile. “So you two are …” She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to fill in the rest.
“We are raising our eyebrows together, yes,” he said. “You guessed it.”
He smiled back, and two deep dimples appeared. They made Devon cringe a little. But she fought her suspicions. She was just projecting her own bad experience with dimples onto Oz. Talk about textbook …
The door opened. “Oh good!” Cleo cried. “I’m glad you two are finally meeting properly.” Behind them, the driver slammed the trunk shut. Devon bounced in her seat from the impact. “Lemme squeeze in the middle seat there.”
Oz got out of the car while Cleo dove in next to Devon. “This is going to be such a fun weekend. Two of my favorite people.” Cleo nudged Oz. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder. They already looked so comfortable, a matched set.
When the hell had this even started? But Devon knew that was jealousy talking, too. She’d been in self-imposed exile for the past couple of weeks. And she longed to be that much at ease with someone. She and Bodhi had never gotten into a comfortable phase, and maybe they never would. But Devon envied Cleo’s ability to absorb someone into her life so instantly. Still, as Oz smiled and wrapped his fingers around Cleo’s shoulder, Devon also wondered if Cleo’s ease was a liability. Just who the hell was this Oz person, anyway?
“I didn’t know I was third-wheeling your drive,” Devon said, fake smile intact.
Cleo sniffed. “Please, there’s no third wheel this weekend. We need to catch up, and we need to have some fun. Our agenda couldn’t be easier.” She kicked off her boots and tucked her feet, dressed in thick socks, under her. “So where are we with everything?”
Devon glanced at Oz, who was watching her intently.
“He’s up to speed. Don’t worry about him,” Cleo said casually.
Devon’s thoughts darkened. She squirmed in the plush cushions as the car pulled out of Keaton. If Cleo trusted him, she’d trust him for now, too. Besides, she no longer had a choice. “Nothing from Maya still since the funeral. But Bodhi and Raven haven’t heard anything from the Dovers, either, so maybe that’s a good thing.”
“Probably not. They’re just working up to the next phase.” Cleo squeezed Oz’s knee through his jeans, her fingers lingering on his thigh. “Oz, baby, wanna tell Devon what we have planned this weekend?”
Oz smiled at Cleo. Those ridiculously cute dimples made another appearance. “Well, tonight we will be staying at the lovely chez Lambert while Monsieur and Madame Lambert are conveniently out of town.”
Cleo giggled and blushed.
Oh, man, Devon groaned inwardly, they’re going to be one of those couples.
“And then,” he continued, “on Saturday afternoon, Cleo and I and you, Devon Mackintosh, will meet for lunch at the Huntington House where, I have it on good authority, C.C. Tran is also scheduled to make an appearance.”
Cleo elbowed Devon. “Where we will observe, spy, sneak, and/or bribe our way into seeing what that bitch is really up to. What do you think, Dev? You in?”
Devon tried to match their enthusiasm. “That’s kind of amazing. But who’s your authority on C.C.?”
Oz’s dimples remained in place. “My sister is the hostess at Huntington House. She’s not supposed to talk about the members or anything, but we were talking, and this little tidbit rose to the surface.”
“A spy with insider information? You know I can’t turn that down,” Devon muttered, careful to appear grateful. Of course any leads on what C.C. was up to were welcome, but again she had the nagging thought that this was almost too perfect.
Had Cleo ever found out which school Oz transferred in from? If he had come from the city like Cleo had guessed? What were the odds he knew the Hutchins family or the Dover family? He seemed to know Grant. Being new friends was one thing, but if those two had history, Devon could only imagine what morsels of gossip Grant had passed on to Oz about Devon. The possibilities made Devon cringe.
Best just to let Cleo and Oz snuggle during the drive. Devon preferred to look out the window at the green hillsides and distant ocean, anyway. Seeing C.C. would be one thing, but from now on when Cleo wasn’t looking, Devon would keep an eye on Oz as well.
CHAPTER 11
Devon jerked awake to a bony elbow in her ribs. Night had fallen, and Cleo’s town car pulled up in front of her stately Nob Hill Victorian. They’d arrived. How long had Devon been asleep? It didn’t matter; she wanted out. She figured it was better to give Cleo and Oz the night to themselves before lunch tomorrow.
While Oz was helping their driver with the bags, Devon shook off her sleepiness. She grabbed Cleo’s arm before she could slide out. “Hey, you think your driver would take me to Berkeley? I might as well try to see my mom tonight.”
“Of course. But, that’s not because of us, is it? You’d have your own room here. We don’t have to be so obvious all the time …” Cleo looked out the back window at Oz, her eyelashes at half-mast.
Devon appreciated Cleo’s effort, but reasoning with Cleo would be futile at this point. “It’s fine. I kind of want to sleep in my own house tonight, anyways. And we’ll meet up for the super secret mission lunch tomorrow. Cool?”
Cleo winked at Devon. “Okay. But you’re missing out on all the fun over here.”
Thank God, Devon answered silently.
AS THE CAR DROVE over the Bay Bridge, Devon closed her eyes and imagined curling up on her mom’s couch. Add a thick blanket, whatever movie she could find on cable, and pizza from Cheeseboard, and she’d be a hundred percent content. She texted her mom that she’d be there soon—and could her mom pick up whatever pizza Cheeseboard was serving today? There wasn’t an immediate answer. But that was no surprise; her mom was still at work, and besides, she wasn’t expecting Devon until tomorrow.
When they finally arrived at the house, Devon stood on her front steps for an extra minute. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but she felt oddly joyless. It had been almost a month since she’d actually been home, yet somehow it felt like she hadn’t been here in over a year. During winter break, she had still been in a daze about Hutch, and then came New Year’s Eve. The stone steps to the green front door, the milk
y glass on either side of the door, the tiled roof … all of it felt darker, more opaque, heavier.
But she was projecting again.
Devon found the spare key in the fake rock behind the Japanese maple tree. She let herself inside and paused at the front door. When she was a kid, and her mom worked late, she was remarkably fine being alone in the house. Boogeymen, shadows, strange creaks in the night never fazed her. Silence was the problem, she decided.
She let the key clink down on the kitchen table and immediately turned on CNN and turned up the volume. Then she went through the house, flipping on lights. An old pair of sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt were wedged into the back shelf of her closet, which Devon deemed the perfect attire for her night. By the time she had taken a hot shower and finished changing clothes, Devon felt less alone—right at the moment she heard her mom’s car pulling into the driveway. The door slammed.
“Hello?” Mom called in a high-pitched voice. “Dev? I got our pizza. Welcome home.”
Devon heard keys hitting the kitchen table, a pizza box thumping down, and the clatter of plates on the counter. Unable to suppress a grin, she ran. Her mother swept her into a hug and buried her nose in her hair with a muffled “I missed you.”
“Me, too. It’s been a month,” Devon said, pulling away. Her mom pushed her hair back from her face. Devon couldn’t help but notice that her eyes were pink from exhaustion; the lines in her face seemed a little deeper. Then again, being a nurse wasn’t exactly a relaxed, feel-good job.
“How’s the cheek?” Mom asked. “It looks like it healed nicely. No scars.” She waved at the table. “Sit down. I’m going to pass out if I don’t eat something. Okay?” She squeezed Devon’s shoulders.
“Okay, but Mom—”
“I know,” her mother interrupted softly, slumping into the chair. “You want to talk this out. I do, too.”
Good. As they tore off pieces of the pizza and cracked open cold Diet Cokes, Devon started in, going from how she was still feeling weird about the New Year’s Eve party and the dimpled waiter, to the feeling that Dr. Hsu was pushing the Vericyl prescription on her, to her own back-and-forth about whether or not her paranoia was founded. And then there was the question of the scholarship …
Her mom pushed her plate away. She leaned across the wobbly kitchen table and put a hand over Devon’s. “I’m happy to talk to this Dr. Hsu if you would like,” she murmured. “I don’t know how I feel about her prescribing medications for you after only a few sessions, but if you’re feeling a little off from your usual self, maybe it’s something we should be considering.”
Devon hesitated. “I know. I was thinking the same. But on the other hand, I’m not being paranoid; I’m being smart. This is so annoying. I feel like if I was a guy, I’d be taken more seriously, like all of you see me as some little girl being overly dramatic.” She quickly realized that she was, in fact, being overly dramatic. She took a deep breath. “I just want some answers, that’s all.”
Staring into her eyes, her mom squeezed Devon’s hands. “Well, I do care. Let’s get you some answers. No more taking the law into your own hands, like you did with Eric Hutchins, okay? You’re very smart and very capable, but you’re not a superhero. Everything doesn’t have to be your responsibility.” She closed the distance between them and kissed Devon on the forehead, then stood. “Now help me clear the plates. You look like you’re ready for some serious couch time.”
DEVON FELL ASLEEP ON the couch somewhere into their third episode of Grey’s Anatomy. She woke up a few hours later and dragged herself upstairs to her room, the old purple blanket wrapped around her shoulders. For the first time since she’d arrived, she felt at home and at peace.
At the end of the second-floor hallway, Devon saw that her mom’s bedroom door was closed, but the light was on inside. Her mom must have gone to sleep while reading with the light on again. But as she approached, she heard her mother whispering on the phone. Who could she be talking with in the middle of the night? Devon leaned closer and listened to her mother’s voice, quiet and urgent.
“That’s what I told her!” her mom hissed.
Devon put her ear to the door. The wooden floorboards in the hallway let out a muffled creak.
Her mom’s voice stopped suddenly.
Devon paused, holding her breath. After a long wait and silence, her mom’s bedroom light clicked off.
Screw it. Devon couldn’t just stand here all night, thinking paranoid thoughts. Her mom was probably on the phone with one of her patients. Devon tiptoed to her bedroom but made a point to sleep with the door open.
“DEV, I’VE GOT TO get moving. Do you need a ride anywhere?”
Her mom seemed distracted. They’d sipped their coffee in silence until now, and then her mom started making her to-do lists for the upcoming week. Devon figured she might as well pack up to meet Cleo back in the city.
“Yeah. To the BART. Thanks.”
She left her mom to clean the kitchen and bolted upstairs. Her mom’s bedroom door was closed. This might be Devon’s only shot. She quickly opened her mom’s door, praying that the hinges wouldn’t betray her. But there was no clue, just the bed, neatly made, a stack of folded clothes on top of the white dresser, and a short stack of books next to the bed. Her mom’s phone wasn’t in here, and the trash can was empty.
“Gotta run, Dev!” Mom called.
Devon was careful to answer from the hallway. “One sec!”
She grabbed her overstuffed backpack and paused, taking one more glance at her mom’s room before she closed the door. The top book on the stack on her bedside table stood out—only because it wasn’t brand new. It was a worn paperback, the pages now a faded green. It reminded Devon of the paperback racks at the Berkeley library, books that had been read and handled by countless students over decades of use.
Love Story by Erich Segal. The jacket featured a cheesy, dated-looking picture of two actors embracing. They looked familiar, but Devon couldn’t quite place them. They were probably old and wrinkled now. The binding was creased, the cover bent open. Devon could just make out something scrawled inside. She lifted the cover with a finger. On the first page was a penciled phone number, faded and slightly smudged. A 415 area code. Local.
Without thinking, Devon yanked out her phone and took a quick photo. Could that belong to the person her mom was talking to last night? She’d have to try it later. And no, she was not being paranoid. She was being practical. Her mother lived alone. A caring daughter had every right to snoop.
CHAPTER 12
Huntington House felt like stepping into a time capsule. Devon had heard rumors, of course, about the swanky club built at the height of Prohibition. Black-and-white photos lined the hallways: white men with cigars, black waiters, women with cigarette holders and oversized furs draped loosely over their shoulders. There was so much political incorrectness in each photo Devon was amazed that the San Francisco cultural elite didn’t protest. Then again, the current elite had probably sprung from this historic group. Grandpa might have been a racist, but he was still Grandpa …
Oz’s sister, Zara, stood behind a wide hostess podium at the restaurant entrance. She was impossible to miss; she was the female version of Oz—stocky and blonde, complete with dimples. He and Cleo were running late, of course.
Not wanting to make small talk, Devon fled to the restroom.
Flowery sofas, dimmed sconces, perfumed lotions and soaps next to the row of sinks … if only she’d had a grandpa who’d been rich.
A petite Asian woman sat on a small vanity stool in front of the mirror, smoothing down her short bob. A familiar woman. Devon froze for an instant. Before the woman could glimpse Devon in the mirror, she ducked into a nearby stall. With the door closed, she might go undetected, but Devon held her breath anyways.
The woman’s cell phone rang. She answered in a crisp, professional voice. “This is Jocelyn.”
Devon knew that name, and she knew that voice. Dr. Jocelyn Hsu. She
was here. At Huntington House. But why? Did she come from old San Francisco money? Did she marry a wealthy doctor or decide to join this boys’ club on her own? Devon was pretty sure she hadn’t seen a wedding ring on Dr. Hsu’s hand. Plus, a student therapist didn’t seem like the usual clientele for Huntington House. Devon couldn’t help but smile to herself, even as her mind reeled. Seeing a Keaton faculty member out in the real world was a rarity—and a delicious one.
“Just coming out,” Dr. Hsu continued. “See you in a sec.”
The bathroom door closed with soft swish of air. Devon waited ten more seconds, then slipped out of her stall and followed.
Behind the podium, Devon could see Zara smiling and chattering to Dr. Hsu, clearly in hostess mode. Dr. Hsu wasn’t alone now. She was with C.C. Tran.
Devon watched from inside the lobby as Zara grabbed two menus from a shelf in the podium and turned toward the dining room. C.C. Tran, in another matching outfit of skirt, blazer, and heels, was here for lunch, just as Cleo had promised she would be. Except that Cleo failed to mention that C.C.’s lunch date was Dr. Hsu.
Zara led them to a table near the window with a view of the Financial District down the hill. She pulled out a chair. Devon had to leap out of C.C.’s line of sight to avoid being spotted. Her heart thumped. She turned toward the heavy oak doors and heard a shout of familiar laughter.
Cleo burst in with Oz right behind her. Both were dressed appropriately for lunch at a stodgy club—at least more appropriately than she was—but too bad.
Devon grabbed Cleo’s arm. “Stop. You can’t go in. We have to leave.”
She caught the door before it closed fully and tugged at Cleo and Oz before they could argue. On the front steps, with the sun shining and a brisk San Francisco breeze, she took a moment to breathe. Once she felt like her feet were back on the ground in reality again, she turned to meet their baffled stares.
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