by Ellen Butler
He replaced the phone and opened the back door of the car next to us. A short Latina wearing a royal blue, single-shoulder cocktail dress and black stiletto sandals climbed out. “You left your phone at home, right?” he asked her.
She nodded and opened her tiny clutch for him to check.
“Remember what I told you?”
She nodded again.
“Someone will bring you home after it’s over,” he assured her.
“Thanks, Trev. You don’t know how much this means to me.” She threw herself into his chest.
Trevor barely registered the hug. Peeling her off, he opened the back door and the girl—for that’s what she was, behind the caked foundation, red lips, and heavily mascaraed eyes, she couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen—clambered inside. Jillian and I shared a shocked look, which I masked immediately when Trevor’s face returned to my window with his phone in hand. “You ready for the address?”
“That’s the . . . package?” I quirked my head.
“It is today. Is there a problem?”
“Nope. No problem,” Jillian chirped. “Where are we headed?”
Trevor reeled off a street address and my sister typed it into the car’s GPS on the dash. I rolled up the glass as Jillian backed out of the parking space and, following the GPS lady’s directions, turned right onto Route 7.
We rode without speaking; the GPS voice was the only sound that broke the silence. I pulled down my visor and flicked open the mirror to observe our passenger. She stared out the window, watching the scenery of cars and buildings. Her profile held an excited half-smile, and her shoulders were tight with expectancy. The dress hugged her rather well-endowed teenage bosom, and her black hair hung straight over her bare shoulder. A small, inch-long white scar at her neck marred the toasted-almond skin tone.
Jin texted me. Any problems?
I considered this for a moment before responding. I don’t think so. It’s not what we were expecting. Don’t stop following.
Affirmative.
After ten minutes and half a dozen sidelong looks from my sister, I couldn’t stand it anymore. “That’s a pretty dress,” I said.
She must have been in deeper contemplation than I thought, for she physically startled at my voice. Her eyes widened.
“I said, that’s a pretty dress you’re wearing.”
“Th—” She cleared her throat. “Thanks. Trevor got it for me.”
“That was awfully kind of him.”
“I know, isn’t he the sweetest?” She preened.
“The very sweetest,” I replied with my own saccharine tones. She returned her gaze to the window, but I wasn’t satisfied at all. “How did you meet Trevor?” I probed.
She stared at the back of my head, hesitant to answer, so I swung around in my seat and sent her a friendly smile. “Did you meet at school?”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to talk. Isn’t it one of the rules? No names, no talking,” she replied sotto voce.
Jillian hit a pothole and we all bounced in our seats. We were thrown to the right, then left, as she swerved to miss a second pothole and over-corrected before getting the car under control. Luckily, there were no vehicles next to us in the neighboring lane.
I delivered her a withering glare.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
Replacing my friendly smile, I returned my attention to the girl. “Oh, don’t mind Trevor’s silly rules. It’s just us girls. We won’t tell if you don’t.”
“Well, I guess. . . .” She chewed her bottom lip.
“I’m Karina, and this is Jillian.”
“Araceli, but everyone calls me Ara.”
“Ara, you were saying about Trevor,” Jillian prompted, keeping her eyes glued to the darkening road ahead as the day waned and the final rays of sunlight disappeared behind the buildings.
“We met at the mall. I was working at the Gap when he came in and asked me to help him pick out a shirt.” She giggled.
“What’s funny about that?” I asked.
“Well, I’m not . . . wasn’t an associate, just a stock girl. I was folding some sweaters. He was so cute with that floppy hair, and kind of shy.”
Shy was not the word that came to mind when I thought of Trevor. Barring his hesitancy putting the girl in our car, he’d been pretty forward in sticking his head in my window.
“You said you worked at the Gap,” Jillian said. “You don’t anymore?”
“No. My mom got real sick this winter, and I had to miss a few shifts to take care of her. They fired me. Can you believe it?” she said in an outraged tone.
“No. That’s terrible,” I agreed.
“Yeah. We needed that money—it’s just her and me, you know.”
I didn’t, but nodded sympathetically. “And Trevor . . .”
“Trevor and I had kept in touch after our meeting at the Gap. I’d texted him about my mom being sick. She missed work, and when she don’t work, she don’t get paid. Just like me. You know.”
More nodding.
“Anyway, we started getting together . . . after school and stuff.” She dipped her head.
“Trevor is your . . . boyfriend?” I asked.
“Sure.” Her head came up and she wore the infatuated grin of a teenager in the throes of her first love. “He said he knew someone in the modeling business. I’d told him it was my dream to work in fashion.”
“You want to be a model?” I tried my best to keep the skepticism out of my voice. She had the prettiness of youth on her side, but her teeth were crooked, she couldn’t have been more than five foot three inches, and her plump cheeks were not those of the waifs strutting the New York catwalks.
“I know, I’m not tall. But Trevor says the Spanish magazines go for a different kind of look. It’s true, I read People en Español and the girls in there are curvy. Latin men like ladies with some meat on their bones, Trevor says. That’s why he bought this dress, it hugs my curves.” Trevor was right about that. The poor girl looked as though she’d been sewn into it. “He said they’d probably start me with catalog work.”
“And you’re meeting these people . . . tonight?”
“Yeah, there’s this swanky party tonight. Trevor got me an invite and a meeting with his connection.”
I knew absolutely nothing about Latin magazine and catalog modeling, but I had my doubts. I sincerely hoped Trevor hadn’t gotten this poor girl’s hopes up. “Why isn’t Trevor taking you to the party?”
“He had to work. But he gave me this ‘letter of introduction,’ he calls it.” She pulled an envelope out of her clutch and waved it at me.
“Are you interested in other areas of fashion?” Jillian asked.
“Oh, yes. I’m in the fashion career track at my high school. I have an A in the design class. My teacher says I’ve got a real knack for it.” Her eyes lit up as she spoke. “If I don’t get a job with Trevor’s friend, I’m going to try for Project Runway.”
“That would certainly be exciting.” Jillian slowed behind a line of traffic snaking its way through a four-way stop. “I love Project Runway. Did you see last season’s finale?”
The two chatted about the show, debating the best and worst winners and the idiosyncrasies of each judge. During their conversation, I texted Jin.
Everything still fine. We are headed to the following address. See what you can find out. I forwarded him our destination.
As always, Jin was a man of few words. Roger that.
“The first season was still the best. Back when it was new and unpredictable,” Jillian stated.
“I’ve never seen the first season. It was on after my bedtime,” Ara replied faintly.
I frowned. “How old are you, Ara?”
There was a slight hesitation before she replied, “Eighteen.”
I’d turned forward while texting Jin and regretted not seeing her face as she answered.
“So you’re a senior?” Jillian asked, watching Ara in the rearview mirror.
/> I glanced back to see her response.
“Uh, yeah.” Ara pulled at her skirt, then shifted to stare out the window.
“What high school?” my sister asked.
“What?” Ara’s attention turned back to us.
“What high school are you graduating from?” I repeated.
“Oh, Woodsman,” she mumbled.
“How does your mom feel about you attending this party?” Jillian asked.
“Oh, she doesn’t know. I’m planning to surprise her with the good news. But . . . uh, you know . . . if I don’t get the gig, I don’t want to get her hopes up or anything.”
I cleared my throat. “Where did you tell your mom you were going?”
“I didn’t tell her anything,” she said flippantly. “She works nights for a commercial cleaning company. I’ll be home long before she knows I’m gone.”
A thoughtless teenage plan that did nothing to set mine or, I’m sure, my sister’s mind at ease. “Does that mean no one knows where you are?”
“Trevor does, of course. He told me to call when I get home.”
“Don’t you think you should tell your mom?” Jillian spoke gently.
“I’m a legal adult. I can do what I want,” Ara replied in a sulky tone, crossing her arms. A mutinous pout altered her features. “I think Trevor was right, we shouldn’t talk anymore.”
Jillian and I shared a look, but her response effectively shut down conversation.
In a few more minutes we arrived at our destination—or the line of traffic leading to our destination, I should say. The cars crawled along the tree-lined, two-lane road. Red taillights lit up ahead of us, illuminating a six-foot wrought iron fence running along the roadside. The SUV ahead of us sped off down the street as the limousine ahead of him turned right through the open gate. GPS lady told us we’d arrived at our destination. Gravel crunched beneath our tires as we turned to roll through the six-foot iron gates.
A bald African-American man wearing a dark suit that stretched over his bulging muscles halted our progress, while a skinny Hispanic man in a white suit checked our license plate, marked something on his clipboard, and waved us forward to his location. I noticed a tattoo on his hand but couldn’t discern its shape. Jillian rolled down her window as we approached.
White suit man leaned down to speak to her. “Do you have your letter of introduction?”
Ara passed the envelope to Jillian, and Jillian passed it out the window. The tattoo was a snake’s head, from what I could tell, and the rest of the snake wound around his wrist and probably up his arm. We waited while the man in the white suit opened the letter.
He marked his clipboard again and returned the envelope to Jillian. “Give it to the major domo up at the house.” Then he reached into the inside pocket of his suit, revealing a flash of black steel from a holstered gun. He removed a sealed blue envelope and passed it to Jillian. “This is for you. After you drop her off, proceed to exit out the west gate.” He pointed to his left.
“Do we need to do anything else? Pick her up?” My sister blindly passed the blue envelope to me.
“No. Her return is taken care of. Proceed out the west gate when you’re done.” His words were delivered in the clipped manner I’d come to associate with my Silverthorne friends, and I noticed he spoke without accent.
“What’s a major domo?” Ara whispered.
“Kind of like a butler, or head of the household. I’m sure we’ll recognize him. He’ll probably be carrying a clipboard and maybe a walkie talkie. Don’t worry,” I responded.
We continued our creeping pace up a driveway at least four football fields long. Oak trees with white fairy lights lined the gravel path. A few minutes later the trees parted, revealing a white manor house on par with the likes of Tara. At any moment, I expected to see Scarlett O’Hara tripping down the steps in a massive hoop skirt.
Men in suits and women in cocktail dresses exited their vehicles and meandered up an expansive set of marble steps onto the large verandah. The mansion was lit up like Christmas, every window illuminated, and more fairy lights wound around the huge Corinthian columns. Enormous flower arrangements lined the stairs and dotted the terrace. The double front doors were opened wide, revealing a curving staircase and hanging chandelier. Guests paused to pass their invitations to a dark-haired man at the top of the steps, wearing a tuxedo and carrying a clipboard.
I thought I heard Ara mumble, “Wow.”
“That’s your major domo. See at the doorway.” I looked back at the starry-eyed teen.
Her stubborn bravado gone, she gulped and nodded.
“Are you going to be alright, Ara?” I wasn’t thrilled to be leaving this young girl at this fancy party. Both Trevor and the front-gate guy had indicated that Ara had a ride home, but it didn’t make me feel any better about leaving her. She seemed so young and inexperienced. “Here,” I said, and dug into my purse, “this my card. Call me if—if you decide you want to leave early.”
She took my card. “I don’t have a phone. Trevor said they weren’t allowed,” she replied in a plaintive tone.
A woman on the steps hugged the gentleman she was with and snapped a selfie, giving lie to Trevor’s assertions.
“Someone will have a phone you can borrow,” I assured her.
The limousine in front of us came to a standstill. A uniformed valet opened the back door and half a dozen young girls in short skirts and stilettos piled out. They were closer to Ara’s age than any of the other women I’d seen, and it made me feel nominally better.
Then it was our turn.
The valet opened Ara’s door. “Parking or dropping off?”
“Dropping off,” I replied.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” Ara excitedly hopped out. She gave us a cheery wave and bee-bopped up the front steps. Her enthusiasm stood out against the languor of the gray-haired man she bypassed on her way to the front doors, letter in hand.
The valet shut the door and waved us forward; Jillian followed the crowd heading out the west gate.
I looked down and realized I still held the blue envelope. “What’s in the envelope?”
“I don’t know. Sadira told me not to open it and leave it in the glovebox.”
“It doesn’t feel like diamonds.” I flipped it over. “It looks like a greeting card.”
“Can we open it?”
“It’s sealed shut.”
“Put it in the glovebox.”
I did as I was told. A few vehicles ahead of us pulled off to a parking lot alongside the estate. The rest of us returned to our unhurried pace as we drove down a different winding gravel pathway, following signs that pointed to the West Gate.
“That girl’s not eighteen,” my sister said into the quiet. I didn’t reply, and she continued, “Woodsman High graduated last Friday.”
I phoned Jin.
He picked up on the second ring. “Any problems?”
“We are heading out the west gate of this plantation. Where are you?”
“Waiting at the west gate.”
“Who are you calling?” my sister asked.
I ignored her. “Did you find out anything about the house?”
“A couple of things. When you get to the gate, turn left. There’s a convenience store about three miles down the road. Pull in. We’ll talk there.” He hung up.
“Who is that?” Jillian repeated.
“Our back up.” I pointed. “Turn left onto the road.”
“Back up? What do you mean our back up?”
“You thought this had something to do with the diamonds. I made sure we had someone watching our back in case you were right and it went sideways.”
My sister digested the information. “Well . . . I guess it had nothing to do with the diamonds.”
“It seems so, but I want to know more about that house party. Pull into that convenience store up ahead.”
Jillian turned into the brightly lit parking lot of a building that held the shape
of a national convenience chain but had obviously changed hands; a big sign labeled it as High 7. Jin’s black sedan pulled in next to me. He turned his face toward us, and I heard Jillian suck in a startled breath. I knew, from experience, the long scar that ran from Jin’s brow to jaw could be jarring the first time.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.” I exited Sadira’s car and climbed into Jin’s. It smelled of French fries, and a large fast-food soda rested in the cupholder. “What have you got?”
“It’s nice to see you too.”
“Oh, sorry. I wasn’t aware we were observing the social niceties now,” I replied with sarcasm. My interactions with most of the Silverthorne guys tended to be straightforward. Not much chit-chat.
He grinned at me. “You do it with Joshua.”
“Josh looks upon me as an exasperating but loveable little sister.”
“So?”
“So? So, I’m not even sure you like me.”
“Of course, I like you.” He said it so drily, I thought he might be pulling my leg. “Don’t you remember? I told you, ‘You’re all right, Cardinal.’”
“Ah, and that’s your stamp of approval? Thanks for enlightening me. I’ll be sure to start all future conversations with such social niceties as, ‘How are you doing, Jin? The sciatica still acting up?’” He guffawed, and I grinned back at him. “Is money changing hands back at the office?”
“No, the boys no longer take bets on if you’ll make me laugh. They bow to your exceptional smart-ass-style sense of humor. Now their bets focus on which one of them can make me laugh. You want in?”
I crunched my face in contemplation. “That’s a hard one because I don’t know all the players. Is anyone a frontrunner?”
“That would be telling.” He tapped his ear, where an invisible communication device must have rested.
It also let me know that our conversation was being heard by a random Silverthorne guy back at the control room. “Very well.” I looked past his shoulder to find my sister leaning across the console, squinting at the two of us, as if trying to read our lips. Her inquiring actions returned me to the matter at hand. “Back to business. What have you got?”