Rocky Road & Revenge

by Erin Huss

  He smiled. "Not how it works."

  Lilly honked the horn. "Mom! You almost done?"

  I held up one finger to signal I'd be right there.

  "I'll let you go." Chase's expression softened, and he gently touched my cheek with his fingertips. "I'll be in contact. And please—trust that we'll take care of it. I don't want anything happening to you."

  "I'll be good." I crossed my heart. "I'm guessing I still won't be seeing you for a while?"

  He nodded. "We'll celebrate your birthday when this is over. I promise."

  "That's fine," I said, relieved I wouldn't have to explain why I couldn't hang out with him tonight anyway.

  He gave me a quick kiss and went to help Amy into the car.

  I hollered after him, "If you change your mind and feel the need to put me up at a hotel, I hear the Four Seasons is nice."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  See also: Crisis Coordinator

  Lilly and I were back home before six. I was exhausted. Lilly was not. She was doing an interpretive dance routine.

  First a donut.

  Then a Slurpee.

  She might never sleep again.

  I plopped my bag down on the kitchen counter with a sigh and checked my phone. Tom hadn't called me back. I was in no mood to go out tonight. Not with Tom. Not with anyone. All I wanted was ice cream, a shower, and sleep.

  Tom would understand once he heard about my day. I called his cell again. He didn't answer again, and his voicemail box was full. It wasn't like him not to check his messages.

  I sent him a text: delivered but not read.

  Facebook message: no reply.

  Twitter: nada.

  Snapchat: nothing.

  Complete radio silence.

  Crap. There was a serial killer on the loose. This was no time to go off the grid. Not that I necessarily thought Tom was a target. Since he wasn't an actor on the show. He didn't even watch Ghost Confidential. He called it cheesy. But still! I grabbed a pint of rocky road from the freezer and stuck it to my face to relieve the pressure mounting behind my eyeballs.

  "Can I have some?" Lilly hopped on one foot.

  "I think you've hit your sugar quota for the day."

  "What's quota mean?"

  "It means you've reached your limit."

  "What does limit mean?"

  "How about dinner?"

  "Vâng." She tossed her empty Slurpee into the trash can, skipped to the living room, and spun in circles.

  Definitely hit her sugar quota.

  I opened the fridge and grabbed the fixings for a quesadilla, my go-to dinner when I'm either low on food or energy. Tonight was both. I checked the time. It was already 6:45 PM.

  Tom was late. It wasn't like him to be late. And if he were, he'd let me know. Unless he got my message and I was off the hook? But I had asked him to call me. And it was unlike Tom not to at least text back that he had received the message.

  That gnawing feeling returned to my stomach.

  "Hey, Lilly?" I called from the kitchen. "Can you tell me what Daddy had planned for my birthday?" I grabbed a grater from the cabinet and shredded the cheese over the tortilla.

  Lilly was still spinning. "He said I'm not allowed to tell you."

  I sprinkled the cheese with salt, folded the tortilla in half, and placed it in the microwave. "I know, sweetie, and you're such a good promise-keeper." I set the timer for thirty seconds and pressed start. "But this one time I think it would be OK if you gave me a hint."

  Lilly stopped spinning and used the chair to steady her world. "Daddy said I was going to spend the night with Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen and he had an evil sparkle present for you and lots of people to play with."

  Um…what?

  The sparkle sounded intriguing. Evil? Not so much. And it was rather presumptuous for him to make sleepover arrangements.

  Again, my source was three years old.

  But still. She was basically a genius.

  "Help!" Lilly whined. "My stomach hurts 'cause I drank all the oil." She was on her back with her tongue out.

  Oh geez.

  "Are you pretending to be Aunt Amy?"

  "Yes." She smiled. "But me am so super starving."

  I had to laugh. She was never hungry. She was only ever starving. Then she'd take one bite and be "so super full."

  I grabbed the quesadilla from the microwave, stepped over her, and set the plate on the table. "Your dinner is served, mademoiselle."

  She looked up at me from the floor. "Daddy will feed me when me so super starving."

  "It's I, and that doesn't surprise me." I tickled her stomach. She curled into a ball and giggled. "You want me to feed you like a baby, huh?" She giggled harder. "Huh?"

  "Yes!" she yelled between breaths. "Feed me!"

  My phone buzzed from the counter. I leapt over Lilly to answer. Blocked Call was printed across the top of the screen. "Hello?"

  "Are you drowning in debt?" a cheerful woman asked. "Speedy Advances is your answer…"

  Click.

  "Was that the emergency line?" Lilly asked, still on the ground.

  "No, it wasn't." I checked the time: 7:00 PM. "Go eat, please."

  I called Tom's cell. It went straight to a full voicemail box again.

  OK, so the worst-case scenario portion of my brain said: Something wasn't right.

  The logical portion of my brain said: Something most definitely wasn't right.

  The two rarely agreed.

  I rubbed my neck…hold on. Emergency line! Tom's firm had a 24/7 emergency line.

  Was it reserved for clients?

  Yep.

  Was I a client?

  Nope.

  But Tom was not answering his phone or texts, and it was now past seven. That classified as an emergency in my book.

  I googled Thomas Dryer Los Angeles attorney emergency line and was directed to his bio on the firm's website.

  Thomas J. Dryer, Attorney at Law, is an experienced, dedicated…yadda-yadda-yadda…scroll…scroll…scroll… After he graduated from North Tahoe high school, he attended UCLA for both his undergrad and law school…yadda-yadda-yadda. Skim…skim…skim. You can reach Tom for after-hour emergencies at 888-JKL-LAWS.

  Bingo.

  I drummed my fingers on the counter while the phone rang in my ear.

  "JKL law offices. How can I help you?"

  It was Margie, one of the partner's wives. She was married to the K. JKL was a small law firm based out of a closet-sized office in Downtown. JKL focused their efforts on low-income clientele, pro bono cases, and protecting the innocent. Aka: they were lucky to pay the electric bill. I'd met Margie at Lilly's second birthday party. She'd bought her a toy megaphone.

  Margie was not invited to Lilly's third birthday party.

  "Margie, it's Cambria Clyne. Sorry to call on the emergency line, but have you heard from Tom?" I yanked the lid off the ice cream and shoved a spoon in. "He's not answering his phone, and I'm worried."

  "Let me ask Louie. I know he went to Tom's closing arguments today in Lancaster. Hold on."

  Lancaster is on the outer edge of Los Angeles County. It could take anywhere from one to three hours to get there, depending on traffic.

  Margie returned. "Cambria, Louie told me they finished in court around two and as far as he knew, Tom left right after him. They haven't talked since."

  "He left around two?" I choked on my ice cream. "Are you sure?"

  "According to Louie, Tom rushed out of there because it's your birthday today and he had a big surprise planned. Is everything OK?"

  Is everything OK?

  No!

  Tom left five hours ago! I didn't care how bad traffic was—it wasn't five hours' worth, and even if it was, that left plenty of time to call and say he was running late.

  I hung up with Margie.

  Actually, I hung up on Margie. Tom was in trouble. There was no time for pleasantries. I had hospitals to call, traffic reports to comb through, and ulcers to form.

&n
bsp; I rushed to my desk and turned on the computer. My hand bumped into Mom, and she crashed into the telephone, causing a small scratch along the bottom of the urn. I put her back and pulled up the LA County Traffic Alert website. Over 200 traffic collisions had been reported within the last five hours. I swear the requirements for obtaining a license within the Los Angeles County borders were at least two of the following:

  One: text only when driving.

  Two: become an inconsiderate prick.

  Three: never use a turn signal.

  Four: drive a BMW.

  Eight of the accidents had happened between Los Angeles and Lancaster. Two reported a serious injury. Now it was time to call hospitals.

  I started with the one closest to the first reported accident. When the operator answered, I explained who I was and why I was calling. Then I explained a second time because I was hard to understand when I was panicking.

  "Ma'am," the operator said. "I'm sorry, but it's against hospital policy to give out patient information over the phone."

  "So you're saying Thomas Dryer is a patient?"

  "I didn't say that. What I said is, we're not allowed to give out any information over the phone."

  "Fine!" I hit the End button on my cell really hard. It looked like I was going to Lancaster. "Lilly, honey." I attempted to keep my voice steady. "I have to take you back to Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen's house. You can finish your dinner there." I dumped her quesadilla into a Ziploc and returned the ice cream to the freezer.

  Lilly melted into the chair. "But we just got home."

  "I know, and you've been such a good champ, but this is important."

  "I don't want to. I want to stay here!" She kicked the chair.

  This was no time to argue with a three-year-old. I tossed a protesting Lilly onto my hip, grabbed my keys, swung the door open, and…

  "Noooo!"

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  See also: Just a girl standing in front of a man asking him not to screw her over

  Tom stood there with his hair pointed heavenward, and his stress creviced deep between his brows. I slapped him across the face.

  "Ouch!" He rubbed his cheek. "What'd you do that for?"

  "I…I don't know…" I'd never slapped anyone before. But seeing Tom alive made me…angry. Angry at him for having put me through the torture of thinking he'd been hurt.

  "I'm sorry." I touched the hand imprint on his cheek. "My nerves are all over the place. I thought you were killed or hurt…" My voice cracked.

  "Shhhhh, it's OK. Come here." Tom wrapped his arms around us. Lilly was still on my hip, holding her bagged quesadilla, not impressed. I closed my eyes and soaked in Tom's warmth and relished in his touch and familiar scent—except—yuck. He smelled like day-old coffee.

  "Didn't you get my email?" he asked.

  "Email?" I looked at him. "What year is this? 1999? Why would you send an email instead of calling me?"

  "Because someone stole my phone." Based on his expression, this was covered in the email. "I didn't remember your number off the top of my head. I sent the email to your gmail account."

  Oh. I rarely checked my personal account. It had been overtaken by ads and messages of unclaimed lottery winnings.

  "Daddy, where's your shoe?" Lilly giggled and pointed down to Tom's foot.

  "It's out here drying because I stepped in a pile of dog poop on the lawn."

  Lilly scrunched her nose. "Ew."

  "Dog poop. On the lawn? In this courtyard?" I put Lilly down, went to the window above the couch, and pushed a blind slat out of the way. "Where was it?"

  "Is it important?" Tom came inside and shut the door behind him.

  "Yes. No cats or dogs allowed, and I have my inspection tomorrow." I pulled the blinds back further. A tiny light flickered. I cupped my hands against the window and squinted. It was Daniella from Apartment 13. She was on all fours, with her phone light on, crawling around on the grass.

  Two thoughts.

  The first: I didn't care to explore further.

  The second: Daniella had snuck in a dog, it pooped on the lawn, and she was looking for it.

  Either way: crap.

  "Stay here. I have to go take care of this." I started for the door.

  Tom grabbed my hand. "There's no time. We have to hurry."

  Right. Going out. Obviously Tom didn't get my message. I wasn't in the mood to go anywhere but my bedroom—to sleep. And I was about to tell him just that, but he had gone through a great deal of trouble to get here. And a night out could take my mind off the serial killer attempting to frame Amy. And I was curious as to where we were going. And I did flat-iron Einstein.

  "Fine," I said with a relenting sigh. "I'll talk to Daniella tomorrow."

  "Good. I'll take Lilly to the Nguyens', and you can get ready. But be quick."

  Get ready?

  I was ready.

  I'd been ready!

  I checked my reflection in the window—Einstein was still in place. My makeup was smudged under the eyes, but not bad. I had the purple shirt and dark jeans on. I looked pretty darn good.

  Perhaps jeans weren't the right attire?

  I should probably check my email.

  Cam,

  Bad news. My briefcase was stolen at the courthouse, and I'm at the police station right now filing a report. Traffic is terrible, and I won't be there until closer to 7. We'll need to leave right away. I have a big birthday surprise for you. Dress is semiformal. See you soon.

  Happy Birthday!

  XOXO Tom

  Sent at 5:06 PM.

  XOXO?

  Tom had never XO'd me before. Last year, he sent me a text saying we need to talk, with a heart emoji and a wink. I thought he was going to talk about us. I thought he'd tell me that he'd loved me all along, that I made him want to be a better man, that it'd always been me, that I had bewitched his body and soul, that I had him at "hello."

  I might also watch too many romance movies.

  At the very least, I thought he'd say he liked me.

  I'd thought wrong.

  It turned out all he wanted to talk about was the weather.

  Me (batting my baby blues): I got your text. What did you want to talk about?

  Tom: It's been cold.

  Me: Well, yeah, it is November.

  Tom: We should get Lilly a nice jacket.

  Me: That's probably a good idea.

  The man was a pansy when it came to commitment. There was no use reading too much into the XO. At least the email explained why he smelled like a police station.

  I changed into a black shift dress and black suede lace-up sandals with two-inch heels. Yes, I looked ready for a funeral. Only because it was the exact outfit I wore to my Grandma Ruthie's funeral—when I was pregnant.

  Note to self: stop wearing maternity clothes.

  I threw a gold necklace on, removed the smudges from under my eyes, and I was good to go wherever it was we were going.

  Tom was waiting for me in the living room, carving grooves into the carpet while he studied his watch.

  "I'm ready." I held my arms out to the side and did a little spin. "Is this formal enough?"

  Tom glanced up. "You look…nice."

  "Don't sound so surprised."

  "I'm not…it's just…you look gorgeous, Cam."

  I felt myself blush. "Thanks."

  "OK. We've got to hurry." He turned me around and put a blindfold over my eyes. "Can you see?"

  I imagined him waving his hand in front of my face. "No, I can't." This was all rather exhilarating. I'd never been blindfolded before. Tom grabbed my hand and led me outside. "Wait. I have to set the alarm for my apartment."

  "Is the office alarm set?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "We'll lock the door. It will be fine for a few hours."

  I heard the jiggle of my keys and the click of the deadbolt. We stopped so Tom could put his shoe on. Then he led me through the courtyard. My legs felt like Jell-O from the juxtaposition of shocks
. I went from thinking Tom had been seriously injured, or even dead, to him dragging me around blindfolded for a birthday surprise.

  I felt wisps of wind on my face and heard the parking lot gate open and close, footsteps, whisperings, the click of the locks on Tom's old green 4Runner.

  "We're taking your car?" I asked.

  "Yes. Let me help you in." He held me by the elbow and eased me in. I rammed my head into the roof. My knee into the door, and whacked my funny bone on the dash.

  "Couldn't you have put the blindfold on me after I got in the car?"

  Tom paused. "Probably. I had a whole thing planned, and now I'm improvising."

  I blindly buckled my seat belt, and Tom pulled it tight. "You're going to like this, Cam." He brushed my cheek with his fingertips before he slammed the door shut.

  Goose bumps erupted down my arms, and excitement fizzed in my stomach. No one had ever put together such a grand gesture for me.

  The driver's side door opened. The engine revved, and we were moving. I pictured Tom's hands, white-knuckled at ten and two on the steering wheel. I could picture the inside of the car. The breath mints in the cup holder, along with the loose change, ChapStick, and a jail visitor sticker. The tan upholstery would be free from trash, dashboard clean, with a box of Clorox wipes tucked under my seat. Lilly's booster in the back with a bottle of water in the cup holder. A mesh bag of toys hung around the back of Tom's headrest.

  We took a hard right, and I held on to the grab handle. Based on the sound and speed of the car, I presumed we were on the freeway.

  I readjusted in my seat, resolute to enjoy the spoils. So what if my eyeballs were digging into my brain and the seat belt was digging into my shoulder? Grandma Ruthie used to say, "Enjoy the ride, no matter how bumpy it is."

  "I'm sorry about your phone and briefcase," I said once we were on the way.

  "Me too." Tom paused.

  I heard the blink-bloop of the blinker, and we veered to the left.

  "Do you have any idea who could have taken it or when?" I asked.

  Tom pumped the breaks. My head fell forward. He slammed on the gas. My head fell back. "I have no idea who took it," he said. "I left my briefcase on the bench while I consulted with a client. Luckily, my keys and wallet were in my pocket. But without my phone, I'm screwed. The only password I could remember off the top of my head was my email."