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I wish I knew.
“Whatever they are, they definitely don’t involve nightclubs or cocktail waitressing,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Speaking of which, what’s going on with Zodiac?”
“Last I heard, Eddie’s manager is still running it.” Selina shrugs. “The police are watching the building, but Eddie isn’t stupid enough to go back there. Chances are he’s in the Cayman Islands or something by now.”
A shadow crosses her face. I squeeze her arm and get to my feet.
“Are you doing anything this afternoon?” I ask.
“Nothing’s on my calendar.”
“Since it’s such a nice day, maybe we could head over to Golden Gate Park. We could get sandwiches, have a picnic lunch, visit the museums.”
She smiles. “I would love that.”
We spend the rest of the day together, then eat cheap takeout pizza and watch a movie back at the apartment. Despite my bitter despair about Dane, I find myself breathing easier. Underneath the jagged feeling, I even have a sense of hope.
It’s the same feeling I’ve had intermittently throughout my life—at ages six, seven, ten, thirteen—when my mother and I had a place to live and she was holding down a job. It’s the feeling that whispers,“Everything will be all right.”
Of course, it didn’t always turn out all right, as we were often evicted and ended up in a shelter, but even that didn’t stop the hope from taking root and, sometimes, starting to grow.
Now, as it always has, my hope centers on my mother, but this time, it’s stronger, deeper, and more intense. I know in my heart that the seed will not only grow, but blossom and flourish into something real.
For both of us.
* * *
The next morning, I borrow my mother’s car and drive to Oakland. Dane’s cell is disconnected, and my messages bounce back from his email address.
Last night, I even went as far as to contact Benny—who got his bond money back with interest from an unknown source—but he claimed to have no idea where Dane was. Thankfully, he gave me Dane’s address, as I’m not sure I could have navigated back to his house without it.
I cross the Bay Bridge and make my way to the Oakland neighborhood. Three cars are parked in front of Dane’s house—two in the driveway and one at the curb—and lights shine through the windows.
Confused, I park and get out, my heart thumping hard as I ring the doorbell. A skinny guy dressed in sweatpants pulls it open, a coffee mug in one hand.
“I’m sorry for bothering you,” I say. “My name is Hannah Clark. I’m looking for Dane Armstrong.”
“Hannah Clark?” He frowns in puzzlement. “The owner?”
I shake my head. “No. Dane Armstrong owns this house.”
“Never heard of him.” The man shrugs. “But we’re writing the rent checks to a Hannah Clark. Is that you?”
A sick feeling churns in my stomach. “You’re renting this house?”
“Yeah. Year-long lease.” He scratches his head. “The rental agent said to write the monthly checks to you. We gave him the first one. You didn’t get it?”
“N-no. I’m sorry, there’s been some confusion. Do you have the name of the rental agent?”
He scribbles a name and phone number on a piece of paper. When I return to my car, I pull the man’s name up on my cell.
“James Gunderson,” he replies.
I introduce myself. “I’m at Dane Armstrong’s house. The man renting the place said he was told to write the monthly rent checks to me.”
“Yes, Miss Clark. I apologize for not contacting you sooner, but Mr. Armstrong was very clear about the details. In fact, I have the first month’s rent and deposit check for you. I need an address where I can send it, and then we can set up direct deposit for the remaining payments.”
“I don’t understand. Why did Dane rent his house out? Where is he?”
