Surrendered

by Jennifer Sienes

  He steps back like I hit him, his eyes all wide and disbelieving. “I won’t leave you here alone.”

  “Suit yourself.” Dismissing him, I turn back to my task with a sigh. I’m as safe here as I am at home. Although, if he hadn’t suggested it, I might consider going home. I have only two paragraphs of a twelve-hundred-word paper finished, and it’s due tomorrow. I can almost see Dad standing in the corner, waggling a reproachful finger at me, but I dismiss him, too.

  Thirty minutes later, I pass Dad’s office, where Jake’s looking over what appears to be a supply order. “Heading out. You’re off babysitting duty.” Not waiting for a response, I step out into the alley. The late-night chill skitters up my arms as I reach into my purse for my car keys. Aside from one very dim overhead light, the alley’s bathed in shadows and reeks of some unpleasant odor I don’t want to identify. Is there someone lurking behind the dumpster? Before I can talk myself into a scare, the door to Bella Cucina opens, and Jake stands in the doorway—an unwanted sentinel.

  Well, maybe not so unwanted.

  Five miles and fifteen minutes later, I pull the car into the narrow garage and shut off the engine. Climbing out of the car is like swimming through sludge. My bed and an incomplete assignment play tug-of-war in my brain. Sleep or work? Backpack and purse slung over one shoulder, I feel my way through the family room and into the laundry room in the dark. Light shines from under Katie’s bedroom door.

  Crossing to it, I tap lightly with my knuckles. “Hey, Kitkat. You still up?”

  A muffled reply and the door swings open. “Where’ve you been?” Katie, dressed in a skimpy tank top and boxers, rubs her eyes. Leaving the door open, she stumbles back to bed. Seems she was sleeping after all.

  “Closing up the restaurant.” I drop my things outside the door, step inside, and almost trip on a pile of clothes. The closet is so crammed the door is wedged open. The dresser, built into the space beneath the stairs, oozes more clothing. “Wow. Love what you’ve done with the place.”

  “Been too busy with finals to decorate.”

  “Decorating’s not what’s needed here, kiddo. You might want to start with a blow torch.”

  Sitting up, she pushes the hair from her eyes. “I thought you weren’t going to be working at Bella’s anymore. What with school and all.”

  Crossing my arms, I lean against the doorjamb. “I can do both. For now.”

  “Yeah?” She gives me a cocky grin. “You keeping up with your homework?”

  Work before sleep. Definitely. “I’m going up now to finish a paper. Three more days of school, huh?”

  “Two. We have Friday off.”

  I nod and turn to leave.

  “Hey, Tess?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What’s with the kid’s lunchbox? I saw it in the kitchen last night, but it was gone this morning. Is it Max’s?”

  My face heats. What’s that all about? Jake’s working an angle, and I respond like a school girl with a crush. “It’s just Jake trying to be cute.”

  “He doesn’t have to try very hard.” She flops back onto the bed, pulling the covers up. “G’night, Tess.”

  “’Night.” Closing the door behind me, I pick up my purse and backpack and tiptoe up the stairs. The light above the stove is on, bathing the kitchen in soothing tones. I unzip the backpack, feel inside for the lunchbox, and remove it.

  Every morning I’ve had class, it’s waiting for me by the coffee maker, filled with the requisite PB&J, a piece of fruit, something to drink—a half pint of milk or a juice box—and a scrawled note. Nothing fancy.

  Simple. Innocent. Endearing.

  So why does it feel like a threat?

  * * *

  Jake

  Walking the perimeter of the house with only a full moon to guide me, I check the locks to be sure everything’s secure. The lights have been off for some time—thought Tess would never go to bed—and all’s clear. I turn the backdoor handle, half expecting it to be unlocked, but it’s not. Good to know Katie’s listening at least. Retrieving the key from my pocket, I finger it and the key hole until a connection is made.

  I toe my shoes off, step inside, and listen. Except for the hum of the refrigerator upstairs, the house is deathly quiet—as it should be at three a.m. Easing the door closed, I take my time climbing the stairs. One squeak and Katie will hear. Not that I can’t explain myself, but at what cost?

  Moonlight through the kitchen windows makes it easy. I cross the kitchen and close the heavy, swinging door separating it from the dining room—and Tess’s bedroom. I don’t need to turn on the lights to see the yellow lunch box waiting for me by the sink. Right where I expect it.

  Time to get to work.

  Chapter 13

  Tess

  It came to me while dropping Katie off on her last day of school. I’m the only one she has to protect her now. Why that heavy weight of responsibility didn’t occur to me until now, I don’t know. Maybe I’ve been so busy fighting with Jake that I lost sight of the big picture. Or bigger picture. Katie is the only family I have left. And I’m all she has. There’s a distant cousin who lives back east and an uncle I’ve never met, but for all intents and purposes, we’re it.

  There’s an uneasiness that presses its way into my consciousness as I slow the car to double-check the Sacramento address. Dad would say it’s the Holy Spirit—divine guidance—curtailing my choice. There was a time I would have agreed. But I don’t have the luxury of waiting around to see if Jake has some ulterior motive in mind.

  It’s all the incentive I needed to contact an investigative firm. Money well spent for some peace of mind. Although Placerville isn’t considered a small town, it’s too small for me to comfortably walk into a private investigator’s office without feeling exposed. It only takes one person who recognizes me for the gossip mill to get back to Jake.

  I park the car on a side street, under a tree with a longer history than this city and shut off the engine. Despite running the air conditioner, my t-shirt’s stuck to my back and a bead of sweat trickles down one temple. Gotta love Sacramento in the summer. I collect my purse from the passenger seat, drop my keys inside, and climb out of the car.

  A group of teens—two boys and two girls—head my way, jostling each other as they compete for space on the narrow, root-cracked sidewalk. Their voices clamor to be heard, the dialect as foreign as Arabic and inflected with expletives in place of punctuation marks. Do I dare leave my car here unattended? Don’t be so judgmental, Tess. I double-check to be sure it’s locked and take my chances.

  Jerald & Brothers Investigators is tucked between a coffee house and stationary store—or the door is—on a traffic-busy downtown street. When I step inside, I’m met by a narrow flight of steep, oak stairs leading to a second level. And as I start to climb, memories of an old detective movie come to mind. Humphrey Bogart and a frosted-glass entrance, attended to by a girl Friday. Very vogue. But reality hits about the time my foot lands on the top tread. Cheap cubicles and metal furniture and poof, visions of frosted glass and scarred wood are gone.

  Girl Friday, manning the reception desk, is sixty if she’s a day. “Can I help you?” Her husky voice and parchment-paper skin point to a heavy smoker.

  “I’m Tess O’Shay. I have an appointment.”

  A couple clicks on her computer—not nearly as romantic as Grandma’s Remington—and she nods. “Last cubicle on your right.”

  I walk down the carpeted, cubicle-framed hallway until I reach the end. Sam Spade has the same comb-over and paunch as my accountant. And his name is Richard Stewart.

  “You must be Tess.” He hops up and sticks out his hand. “I’m Rich. There was a time I’d have capitalized on the nickname for Richard, but given today’s slang…” He drops my hand and sweeps his toward the industrial-gray chair facing his desk.

  I’ve clearly walked into an alternate universe. “Excuse me?”

  With a quick grin, he waits until I’ve taken my seat—a questionable mo
ve—before resuming his. “You know. Private detective? Private Dick? And Dick is short for…”

  Ah, I get it. “Richard. Clever.” Out of the gazillion investigators in Sacramento, I had to choose this one. It’s what I get for expecting Sam.

  “So, tell me, Ms. O’Shay, what can I do for you? You mentioned a background check.” He plucks up a pen and produces a yellow legal pad from a desk drawer.

  “Yes. My father died recently—”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you. Anyway, he put a virtual stranger in control of the estate. We don’t know anything about him.”

  “We?”

  “Uh, yes. My younger sister and me. He’s running our business—”

  “Which is?” He doesn’t look up, but jots notes on the pad.

  “A restaurant in Placerville. Bella Cucina.”

  “Italian?”

  “Yes.”

  His head snaps up. “I love Italian.”

  My lips twitch in response. “Well, who doesn’t? Anyway, unless he’s after my father’s estate, his presence makes no sense to me.”

  “And you want to know what his game is.”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “A background check won’t necessarily give us that information, but it’s a start. His name?”

  “Jake Holland.”

  “Two l’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Social?”

  “Social what?”

  He looks at me, eyebrows raised. “I need his social security number.” He doesn’t tack on a duh, but his tone implies it.

  “I don’t have that. Can’t you just run the name?”

  Laying the pen aside, he leans back in his chair, hands folded over his paunch. “Do you have any idea how many Jake Hollands there might be in this country—if that’s even his real name?”

  “I’m sure if it wasn’t his real name, that would have been revealed in his last background check.”

  Eyebrows furrowed, he leans forward. “Last background check? You mean you’ve done this already?”

  “Not me, my father. Except without Jake’s permission, I don’t have access to it.”

  Lips pursed, he looks at me with a thoughtful expression. Assessing my sanity, maybe? “So, let me get this straight. Your father already ran a check on this man, Jake”—he looks down at his notes—“Holland. And Jake is aware of it.”

  “Yes.”

  “A virtual stranger, you said.”

  “In the sense that we don’t know anything about him.”

  “How long have you personally known Mr. Holland.”

  “About a year.”

  His eyebrows shoot up again. “That’s hardly a stranger.”

  “I already told you, we know nothing about him.”

  “Maybe you don’t, but it sounds like your father did.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Did you and your father have an adversarial relationship?”

  “Not at all.” What’s this joker getting at?

  “Look, Ms. O’ Shay.” He folds his elbows over the legal pad. “The fact is, without a social security number, I can’t run a background check. But even if you could provide it, I’d give this some serious thought. It’s obvious your father trusted this man enough to give him some authority over his estate. Now, if you have reason to doubt your father…”

  Five minutes later, I’m back at my car, no closer to finding the truth. What Rich Stewart said makes sense—if I trusted Dad. It’s not that I don’t trust Dad, but anyone can be fooled into believing a false truth.

  Dad certainly wouldn’t be the first person to fall into that trap.

  * * *

  Jake

  I smack the thick accordion file that sits in the middle of Sean’s—my—desk. Placed there two days ago, it’s been mocking me ever since. Evidence categorized by date, backed up with a running profit and loss sheet. Marty came through. Surprised the heck out of me. Now what? Tess won’t listen to me. I bet she’s had every peanut butter sandwich I’ve made for her tested for arsenic.

  As if conjured by my thoughts, Tess pokes her head through the doorway. The smile on her face doesn’t bode well. “What’re you doing?” Says the spider to the fly.

  Why do I feel like my hand’s in the cookie jar? Or more accurately, the till? “Wasn’t expecting you today.”

  “You have a minute?”

  Tapping the file with a knuckle, I nod. “Sure. Something I need to talk to you about anyway.” Not going to get any easier.

  “Oh?” She steps into the office and leans against the doorjamb. “You first.”

  “No, no. You go ahead. Want to sit?” I retrieve a chair from the corner.

  “Thanks.” She sits on the edge and clasps her hands between her knees. Eyes down, she clears her throat. “We’ve kind of had this talk before, but I’m hoping you’ve had a change of heart. I mean…” She flicks her hair back and shrugs. “It’s been a couple months now. You can understand how it is for Katie and me, not really knowing anything about you. And of course, my dad, well, he was kind of a soft touch. So, you can see why I’d be concerned. And I am adhering to the ludicrous stipulation in his will, so that should count for something, shouldn’t it?” She looks at me.

  What’s she rambling about? “Sure.” Whatever.

  “I could just have another one run, you know. But you agreeing, well, it just simplifies things all around, don’t you think?”

  One of us is suffering from traumatic brain injury. “You’re going to have to be a little clearer.”

  “I…” Lines appear between her brows, then smooth. Eyes wide, she laughs. Houston, we have a connection. “Yeah, I guess that made about as much sense as Latin, huh?”

  Now what’s she up to? Manipulating with charm? That’s a first.

  Jaw flexing, she pins me with an unwavering glare. That’s more like the Tess I know and dread. “Look, Jake. I know you want to keep your privacy, and I get it. Really, I do.” Her eyes widen, hand to her chest. “But enough is enough. Katie and I need some kind of assurance.”

  “Get to the point.”

  Irritation flickers across her face. “I’d like to see the background check my dad ran on you.”

  Ah. “So that’s what this is all about.”

  “If you have nothing to hide, then there’s absolutely—”

  “You’re starting to sound like a broken record.” I push out of my chair and stand over her. “What if I do have something to hide?”

  Her mouth opens and shuts, but nothing comes out.

  “Does that seem so implausible?”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she mutters.

  “What if I assure you my past is no threat to you?”

  “Like you’d tell me if it is.”

  There’s no winning with her. “You have something you’re hiding. Does it pose a threat to me?”

  She scowls. “Of course not.”

  “I believe you. All I ask is that you believe me.”

  She groans. “Look at it from my perspective, Jake. You have nothing to lose here, but Katie and me? We could lose everything.”

  “I’m not the one out to cheat you.” I plop back in the chair and place my hands on either side of the file.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “There’s evidence in here. Proof of what I tried to tell you before.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Maris has been—”

  “Not that again.” Shaking her head, she jumps up and leans into the desk. “My dad trusted Maris—”

  “He trusted me, too.” That shut her up. I stand so we’re eye to eye. “Why is it you question that trust, but won’t even consider the possibility that Maris—”

  “For all I know, you cooked up that so-called evidence.”

  We’re both towering over the desk. Faces close. Too close. I can count the freckles across her nose. See the gold flecks in her green eyes. I straighten and flick a hand
toward the accordion file. “I gave everything to an accountant. He put it together.”

  “Our C.P.A? Brent Jackson?”

  That would have been helpful information. “No. Someone else.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Who?”

  “Marty.”

  “Marty?” She looks confused. “Martin Styles?”

  “Marty Cantrell.”

  “I don’t know any…wait. You don’t mean that friend of yours.” Suspicion in every word. But who can blame her? I have a hard time buying it myself.

  “Turns out he’s an accountant.”

  She snorts. “Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

  I bow. “I’m here to serve, Your Highness.”

  “Oh please. You can’t actually expect me to trust that flakey friend of yours over Maris.”

  “Flakey? Is that your expert opinion?”

  “Close enough.”

  “You can judge someone’s character from their appearance? Wish I had that gift.”

  Her eyes drop, but not before I catch a flicker of something. Pain? Anger? She turns toward the door.

  “You want me to send this over to Brent Jackson? Have him take a look?”

  “You do whatever you need to.” She walks out without looking back.

  There’s no pleasing her.

  Chapter 14

  Jake

  Empty mug in hand, I enter the house by way of the back door. Unlocked. Again. Hid a key under a rock weeks ago, but only needed it twice. The girls are just asking for it. All’s quiet, as it should be at the break of dawn. Coffee’s calling. I toe off my shoes and, avoiding the squeaks, make my way up the stairs.

  Coffee maker’s full. Fresh brewed, as expected. Ever since the third time I snuck in to make Tess’s lunch. Deep down, I think she likes me. Either that, or she’s setting me up for a big fall. I fill my mug, add some milk, and get to work filling up the goofy lunch box. It was supposed to be a joke. Guess the joke’s on me. Curious George grows on you.