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“Fine,” Ravinia said, eyeing her bleak surroundings, the stained blue carpet, faded bedspread that didn’t quite match the curtains, the TV that was about the same age as the one at the lodge. “I’m fine.” She unzipped her backpack with her free hand, finding her underwear.
“So, have you made any progress?”
“I made it to Santa Monica,” she said, struggling into her clothes. “I haven’t found Elizabeth yet, but I’ve got some ideas.”
“Ideas? Nothing concrete?”
“Not yet. But I haven’t been here long.” When her aunt didn’t respond, Ravinia asked, “Has anything changed? Have you heard from Silas or—”
“No. Not really.”
“What’s that mean?” Silas was her brother, the good one, the one she considered her friend, one of the few people in the world she trusted. Juggling the phone, she pulled on a pair of jeans.
“We haven’t been bothered. No one’s come here,” her aunt assured her. “But that doesn’t mean we’re safe, nor you, nor Elizabeth.” She sighed loudly. “I’m afraid it could be just the calm before the storm.”
Ravinia’s insides clenched. “But you’re still sure Elizabeth’s a target?”
A pause. “Yes,” Aunt Catherine whispered softly, her worry audible. “I just want to make sure she’s safe.”
“I’m working on it. Really. I don’t want anything bad to happen to her or anyone else,” Ravinia said, feeling her aunt’s urgency as if it were directly transmitted to her.
“Me neither. Please. Stay safe.”
Ravinia’s throat clogged at her aunt’s concern. She felt tears touch the back of her eyelids but pushed them back as she found a nearly clean long-sleeved T-shirt. “I’ve got this number now, so I can call you or Ophelia back.”
“Yes. Good. Phone when you find Elizabeth. Or if you just learn something.”
“I will.”
“And make it soon.” Aunt Catherine added, “Please,” as if hearing how demanding she sounded. “Be careful, Ravinia.”
“Will do,” Ravinia answered, hanging up and praying Rex was going to get on the job ASAP. She wiggled into her T-shirt, then walked to the window and peered through a slit in the curtains. Dusk had given way to night, but the darkness was kept at bay by the street lamps and security lights that cast bluish shadows over the parking lot in front of the units. In a weird way, this night-turned-day seemed more dangerous to Ravinia than the complete darkness that surrounded Siren Song at night. There, she heard the dull roar of the ocean in the distance, the rush of wind through the fir boughs, the pelting of rain in the crushing darkness, but there was a safety in the Stygian depths of the Pacific rain forest.
In the city, not so.
She felt an unlikely shiver run through her and for a second, she longed for the safety of her home, the tall walls surrounding Siren Song, the quiet hoots of the owls, the soft purr of bats’ wings, the familiar security of her family, her aunt and sisters surrounding her.
Steadfastly, she tamped those emotions deep into the back of her consciousness. No room for maudlin nostalgia or second-guessing. She had a job to do, a mission she embraced.
She let the curtains fall into place, wishing to high heaven tomorrow wasn’t Sunday because she wanted, no, she needed Rex Kingston on the job.
Sitting on the edge of her daughter’s bed, Elizabeth closed the book she’d been reading. Chloe was already out cold and snoring softly. Her daughter ran at full speed and slept so hard a cannon could practically shoot off next to her and she would sleep through it. “Good night,” Elizabeth whispered, kissing Chloe’s crown and drawing the cover over her shoulders. “Love you.”
Flipping off the light, then softly closing the door behind her, Elizabeth turned toward her own bedroom, then detoured to the third bedroom, which had been turned into Court’s den. A modern desk with a glass surface resting on curved metal legs sat in the center of the room. Upon the desk, next to the files she’d brought from the office, was her laptop. She ran a finger over its cover before glancing to the row of industrial black file cabinets that rested beside the window and against the wall. Court had kept the cabinets locked, but in the past few days she’d found the key and opened all of them one by one, searching quickly through the documents and finding nothing sensitive inside, at least as far as she could see.
She’d found piles of paid bills and various and sundry desk items—a stapler, a box of pens, paperclips, scissors, and such in the desk. One drawer was filled with stacks of unused printer paper, which fed the printer that sat atop a credenza across the room. The credenza wasn’t much more than two smaller file cabinets stuck together with a painted black metal top, but she remembered Court insisted on purchasing it despite its cost—a small fortune—and now the damned piece of office furniture had outlived him.
Something inside her broke and for a second, a few tears burned in her eyes, though she knew they were more for her small family, her dream of what it should be and not really for the man. The three of them, Court, Chloe, and her, had been a family once, if only briefly, though in truth, he’d never been much a part of it. Clearing her
throat, she brushed aside the single tear that had tracked down her cheek and concentrated at the task at hand.
A number of unpaid bills had come in over the last week and she’d tucked them aside as she hadn’t felt like tackling them. She sat down at the desk, slit open the envelopes, and laid the bills on the desk beside the work files, then switched on her computer. Court’s laptop had been with him the day he’d died, and though she’d asked for it, the police hadn’t given it to her yet. They clearly believed there was foul play involved in the accident, though nobody, including Detective Thronson, would come out completely and say so.
Elizabeth paused, her hand poised over the keys as she thought about the police. It was bothersome and aggravating and she couldn’t help but feel a low-grade fear whenever she thought about Detective Thronson’s call. A woman who looks like you was at Tres Brisas and in some kind of race or game on the freeway with Court and Whitney Bellhard.
Elizabeth adjusted the desk chair, thinking about that. Was there a possibility that the accident had been more about Whitney than Court? Whitney’s husband Peter had admitted to following them to Rosarito Beach, but no one was saying anything about that. Maybe he was more upset about their relationship than Elizabeth had been. In life, Whitney had been pushy and tough. She’d rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. If foul play had been involved, if a crime had been committed, could Whitney have been the target, and the horrible deaths of Court and Whitney the result of that?
Elizabeth sat back in her chair. Court had been at the wheel, yes, but if someone had been chasing them down, forcing an accident . . .
