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She reached their building, walking into the lobby as the elevator opened. A man stepped out of it wearing a black baseball cap and spotted her, holding the door.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling politely.
He nodded. “Don’t mention it.”
She stepped into the elevator and pushed the number 6 button, humming to herself as the elevator dinged with each floor. She strolled down the hallway to the apartment, finding the door wide open with Dia in the living room. She held a small brown box up, shaking it zealously before holding it to her ear. Her hair was a soaked mess of colored streaks sculpted on top of her head, chemical fumes from hair dye potent in the air.
Haven shut the door behind her and dropped her canvas beside the door. “What in the world are you doing?”
Dia swung around, startled, and smiled sheepishly for having been caught. “Just trying to figure out what’s inside.”
“Why don’t you just open it?”
“Because it’s not mine,” Dia said, holding it out. “It’s yours.”
Haven gaped at the box. “Where did it come from?”
“A guy just dropped it off a second ago.”
She blinked a few times. “The mailman?” Who would send her a package? Dominic? Tess? Maybe Celia?
“Actually, I think he was a police officer.”
Haven stared at her as those words sunk in. “Did he tell you he was?”
“No, he didn’t say much, just asked if you lived here and left the box. I should’ve asked him, but I didn’t think about it. He would’ve had to tell me, you know. They can’t lie when you ask them.” Dia thrust the box forward. “I need to go wash my hair. I’ll be right back.”
Haven looked over the cardboard box, seeing no labels, nothing but a piece of packaging tape securing it closed. She cut the tape with a knife and opened the flaps, her brow furrowing.
Inside was a large clear plastic bag labeled EVIDENCE, holding a normal-looking notebook. Haven picked it up, along with a piece of paper addressed to her from the Department of Justice office in Chicago.
Miss Antonelli,
We send our sincerest regrets for the inadvertent seizure of your journal. It was done in error and has been returned to you in the same condition as when it was confiscated. Again, please accept our apologies. We appreciate your understanding.
Special Agent Donald Cerone
U.S. DOJ
She blinked in shock and tore the notebook from the bag. She couldn’t breathe as she scanned the pages of jumbled writing, her deepest, darkest secrets on display in front of her eyes. They had seen them. They had read them. They knew where she had come from. They knew what she was.
“What is it?” Dia asked, returning from her room within a matter of minutes. She rubbed her wet hair with a white towel, streaks of color now staining it.
“It’s, uh . . . a notebook,” Haven replied. “They took it when Dr. DeMarco was arrested.”
“Ah, damn. I thought it was something cool.” Dia pouted for a second before perking back up. “So, are we going out tonight?”
“I’d rather not,” Haven said, still staring at the notebook. “It’s been a long day. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow I’m going to go to Durante for spring break, remember? You can come along if you want. We could hang out down at Aurora Lake.”
The thought of going back to Durante made her head pound even harder. She wasn’t ready to see that place again. “Maybe next time.”
“Rain check, then,” Dia said. “After I get back, we’re going to celebrate.”
* * *
A strong breeze blew through the abandoned ranch house in Blackburn from an open window on the first floor. Desert sand swirled along the wooden walkways like mini cyclones, sullying Corrado’s dress shoes. His nose tickled as he breathed in the soiled air, the scent of festering mildew mingling with the dust. It blanketed everything visible like a dull, gray shield, tarnishing colors and hiding the otherwise obvious flaws in the house—the old bloodstain on the floor in the foyer, the gashes in the wood from where someone had once been chained to the banister like a dog.
