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Like you do? As if all those men you used to pick up were mix-and-match soulmates?
Sara frowned at the thought, accurate and cutting as it was. She’d told herself time and again that she wasn’t that girl anymore. And yet she knew damn well that if Luke showed up tonight, all bets were off.
Still, she wasn’t going to bank on it. She knew too damn much about loss and disappointment to truly be optimistic about an unknown future.
“Earth to Sara…”
Sara shook herself free of her thoughts. “Sorry. Smoochies, yes. But then he said he had someplace to be, so…” She trailed off with a shrug.
“He wasn’t lying,” Petra said firmly. “He’d be an idiot to just blow you off. And the guy’s clearly hot for you, so that means he’s not an idiot.”
“And that’s why you’re my best friend,” Sara said, meaning it.
“Back at you.” She cocked her head toward the table filled with attorneys. “We’ve still got nachos and whiskey. Come on back and enjoy being the toast of the town.”
“I think I’m going to say goodnight,” Sara said.
“Seriously? It’s not even ten. There’s still plenty of celebrating to do.”
“I’m wiped. I’ve barely slept since we picked the jury. I’ve been running on adrenaline, and I can feel the crash coming.”
Petra frowned, but she didn’t argue. How could she? The words were technically true, even if the bigger truth was that she hoped Luke would come by her place later.
“Alright. Fine. But at least tell me he has your number.”
Sara just smiled, then headed to the table to grab her jacket and say a general goodbye to the others. By the time she pushed through the doors, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and she didn’t bother with her umbrella as she walked the short distance to the Plaza Towers.
Thirty-four stories tall with balconies in every unit, it had been the fifth floor rooftop bar and pool that had drawn her to the condominium. She’d seen a photograph on a flyer and had called a real estate agent that day.
That had been three years ago during a month when she’d been feeling decidedly unsettled. Every day seemed foggy, and she struggled with the sense that she’d forgotten something but had no idea what it was. The moment she’d seen the flyer, though, the feeling ebbed. For years she’d been thinking about moving out of the family home she rented from her mom. Now the universe was telling her to do it.
Real estate lust, Petra had called it, but Sara didn’t agree. It wasn’t the craving for the condo so much as the desire to leave the Silver Lake house. There were too many memories there. Too many ghosts. And far too often, late at night, she had the feeling that inside that home, a part of her was missing.
Her father, of course. What else could it be? Maybe he was still looking out for her, telling her it was time to move on.
So she had. She’d settled on a spacious studio, then made a huge down payment using the money from the trust that had been established twenty years ago with the life insurance proceeds after her father’s murder.
A shudder passed through her as she opened the door and saw the pink teddy bear on her unmade bed. Her eighth birthday had been a nightmare, and her mother had never understood why Sara had kept the bear that her father had been bringing home to her when he’d been killed, his throat ripped out as if his attacker were a monster from some shitty B-movie.
Deborah Constantine had advised her daughter to throw out the bear. The bear was a reminder of a bad day. Ergo, the bear should go. But to Sara, the bear was a good memory, despite the bad day. A sign that her dad had loved her. That he’d gone out of his way to search out such a silly, goofy present, knowing that his daughter would love cuddling on the couch with it when she watched cartoons.
No, her mom hadn’t understood why Sara had kept the bear. Or any of her father’s books and journals, for that matter. Then again, Deborah had never understood much about Sara. Mostly because she’d never tried.
“I got Stemmons, Daddy,” she whispered. “Someday, I’m going to get your killer, too.”
It was still early, but Sara was bone-tired, the tension of the day finally catching up with her. Still, she took the time to put the rose into a bud vase, which she then placed on her desk that sat perpendicular to the wall of bookcases. She gave the rose a place of honor, right next to the photograph of her at seven standing next to her father. He had his hand on her shoulder, his other arm hanging free despite the fact that he was standing right next to Sara’s mother. She tried to remember if she’d ever seen them touching. She didn’t think so.
Frowning, she grabbed her phone, then opened her text messages. She scrolled down to find the last text with her mom—almost five months ago—then tapped.Can you talk?
She hesitated, then slowly backspaced her way out of the message. After all, they really had nothing to talk about.
With a sigh, she leaned against the desk as she wrapped the ribbon around her finger while she took in the overstuffed shelves. Hundreds of books, many of them fiction or legal studies. But most had been her father’s. Mythological tales about supernatural creatures. Supposed eyewitness accounts of vampires and other ghoulies that he’d found in various antiquarian bookstores. Notes from the lectures he gave as a professor of folklore at UCLA. And, of course, his journals.
As a child, she’d never known where he kept them, but she’d found them as a teen when her mother agreed to let Sara have her father’s old study as her own. Sara had found a hidden cubbyhole behind one of the bookshelves, and it had been filled with a treasure trove of journals.
The notes were cryptic, and clearly related to his folklore research. Notes and scribbles about various creatures, including hints of a war brewing between vampires, werewolves, and demons. Her father used to tell her stories about the creatures’ bubbling discontent, about how one day they would break free from the shadows. Not in a scary horror movie way, but to take their place in the world. The thought was both exciting and terrifying to young Sara, but he would brush off her eager questions, telling Sara he was working on a novel, and that she could read it when it was finished and she was older.
Now, Sara assumed the journals were his working notes. Scribbles of plot and character notes that popped into his head. The kind of thing that made sense to the writer, yet meant very little to anyone else. Certainly Sara couldn’t interpret any of it.Tiber and D, for example. Was he referring to the river Tiber? And what aboutDragos—Italy?Wasn’t the Tiber River in Italy?
