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“Thanks,” I said.
I headed into the bathroom and stood at the sink, counting to thirty, waiting for Cory to get settled with whatever task he’d left for himself. Then I slipped out and over to the mailboxes, searching the names until I found the one I was looking for. Craig Michaelson, Math Chair. I pushed the envelope toward the back of the box and counted the hours until Monday when he’d open it.
The president of the school board and the LA Times might not get the ones I’d dropped in the mail yesterday until Tuesday or Wednesday. But by my estimate, no later than Friday, Cory’s entire life would explode.
***
On Sunday, I fabricated several errands I needed to run—a fictional meeting with some classmates about a project, followed by lunch.“You’re right,” I told Cory. “I have to stop living in fear. Go back to work. Go back to class. Not let a guy like Nate scare me.” While he’d showered, I’d packed my bag and put it in the trunk of my car, alongside the locked box full of cash.
I had a plan for Nate too. Once the story broke, I’d make a phone call to whichever reporter had the privilege of writing about Cory. A tip about Nate, directing attention onto him as well. Maybe even an anonymous call to the police. It wouldn’t matter that none of it was true.
As Cory watched a basketball game, I walked through the house one final time, checking to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. In the kitchen, I returned his spare car key to the drawer before wandering into the office, where I’d made sure to leave papers scattered across my desk—half-finished projects, notes from class that I no longer needed. I wanted to be out of California before Cory realized I was gone.
Back in the living room, I grabbed my coat, keys, and purse. “I’ll be going,” I said.
“Bring home some pizza for dinner, will you?” he said.
I smiled as I opened the door, perhaps my first genuine one in weeks. There wasn’t enough money in the account to cover a napkin, let alone a pizza. “Home by seven,” I said.
***
My plan was to get on the freeway and drive. In nine hours, I’d be in Las Vegas, and from there, I could go anywhere. But instead, I found myself again on Canyon Drive, parked outside my old house, Ron Ashton’s Porsche 911 in the driveway.
It was midmorning, and there were several people out walking dogs or going for a run. In my newer Honda, I didn’t stick out the way I had in the minivan. People glanced at me and then away again, a nice-looking young woman in a new-enough car. But I pulled my cell phone up to my ear anyway, pretending to be on a call as I stared at the house one last time. The blinds were open, revealing a shadow passing through the living room and out of sight. I wondered what Ron would do if I were to knock on the door. The last time he saw me, I was a gangly teenager, glasses where there were now contacts, mousy brown hair where there were now blond highlights.
Just then, Ron emerged from the house, hopping into his car and backing out of the driveway. I turned my face away, still pretending to be on the phone, hatred bubbling up inside of me. All these years, he’d been living in my house while I’d been sleeping in a car. While my mother lay dead in the ground.
I waited until he was gone and then shoved my car door open, making my way toward the tall hedge that bordered the southern edge of the property.
I glanced over my shoulder once, just to make sure no one was watching from the street before disappearing alongside the house. A tall iron gate separated the front yard from the back, and through it I could see Nana’s rose garden, just beginning to bloom. I tried to open the gate, hoping I could take just five minutes to say goodbye to a place I’d loved.
But it was locked. I rattled it a few times, reaching over it to see if I could find a latch, but all I could feel was a padlock.
As I emerged back onto the sidewalk, I nearly collided with a woman in a track suit. She glanced between me and the side yard, as if trying to figure out where I’d come from.
“Did you lose a dog?” I asked, my tone urgent. “Small, black, with a white patch on his chest?”
“No,” she said, her suspicion melting away.
“I almost hit him with my car. I pulled over and tried to catch him, but he ran into those bushes and now I don’t know where he went.” I gave her a worried look. “I hope he’s okay.” Then I checked my watch. “I’ve got to run, but maybe keep an eye out for him? See if he returns?”
“Sure,” the woman said.
I felt her watching me as I made my way back to my car, grateful for Cory’s generous clothing allowance—7 For All Mankind jeans, Franco Sarto boots, and a Rag & Bone sweater. I fit into this neighborhood better than I ever had before.
I gave the house one last look, knowing it was unlikely I’d ever return. But instead of feeling sad, I felt a lightness bloom inside of me. Life was long, and a lot of things could happen. Circumstances might bring me home again, back into Ron’s circle. And if they did, Cory had taught me how to be ready for him.
Los Angeles
Present Day
