AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Oh no, I’ve just about got this thing back together,” the man says. “Your hot water should be good to go by tonight. Just give this plumbing adhesive about four hours to dry before you put the heat to it.”
I look over at Raven. “The water is fixed?” I ask.
She nods, glancing away. “Yeah. Ray said the room needs to be vacated by tomorrow morning so we can honor the reservations.” She shrugs. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a friend over at the Ambassador, I can call to see if they have an opening. They’re further from the beach, so they don’t get as much traffic as we do.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. I’ll figure something out.” I sigh and slump down onto the edge of the bed, watching the worker until he finishes up and grabs his tools.
“Enjoy that hot water,” he says with a smile as he and Raven walk out, and I struggle to smile back.
“Yep,” I agree. “Super happy about that.” I close the door behind him and fall back onto the bed.
I’m about to break into Mia’s apartment.
I’m going on a date with my sister’s ex.
I’m ending it with Zaden.
And I’m being evicted.
Regardless of how this night ends, I’m leaving here tomorrow.
Alone.
Chapter 19
Ivy
An old Ford pickup pulls up to the front of OceanView Apartments, rusty bolts rattling with the rumble of the truck. After a moment, the gate slides open so it can pass through. I follow, strolling in nonchalantly like I live here.
My gaze follows the long line of tall, pastel-colored buildings connected by a maze of sidewalks and parking lots, searching for the building letters. Music plays from one of the lower balconies, where a man smokes a cigarette surrounded by a mess of children’s toys. Beside him, a small dog barks from the next balcony, head stretched through the railing bars as far as it can go, watching me walk by.
I find the G building and climb the stairs to the second floor, passing a series of identical doors until I reach 204. A philodendron sits on a plant stand by the entrance, and above it is a small dry wipe board mounted to the wall. Scrolled in blue ink across the middle are the words:Pizza tonight? My treat.
The handwriting has an artistic, calligraphic flare, with elaborate loops in the letters. It’s Paige’s handwriting. I’d recognize it anywhere. This is the place.
I knock on the door and listen, unsure if anyone else lives inside. When there’s only silence, I glance up and down the hallway to ensure no one is coming, and pull several items out of my pocket collected from the motel. I straighten a paper clip and break a ball-point pen into pieces. With a motion more natural to me than I’d care to admit, I pick the lock and walk inside.
I step lightly and carefully shut the door behind me. I check the living room and the kitchen, peering slowly around each doorway before moving on. Once I’ve checked the whole house, I relax a little and investigate.
The apartment is well decorated in a boho design, with lots of neutral colors and natural light. It’s clean and quite beautiful. This has to be Mia. Paige was never this clean. Or this monochromatic.
Starting in the living room, I search. I want notes, paper, receipts, personal effects, maybe a calendar. Something that may tell me what Paige was up to. But I find nothing.
I wander through the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets, careful not to leave anything out of place. How do they not have a grocery list? Do they even own a pen? Room two, strike two.
The bathroom is the first door down the hallway, and I walk inside, rifling through the mirrored medicine cabinet and scanning the surfaces for anything Paige may have left behind. On the ledge in the shower, I spy her shampoo and conditioner. I wonder if Mia is using it now or just hasn’t thrown it away. Ipick up the shampoo and pop the lid, breathing deep. Hints of Jasmine and Lavender fill the room, and tears burn in my eyes. Memories flood through me, bathrooms we shared in different homes. Grocery shopping. Anytime I grabbed her and hugged her close, her head tucked beneath my chin. I press the lid closed and place it back where it was, waiting for her to return.
Further down the hall, based on the decor choices, the next room must be Mia’s. Clean, organized. The woman is meticulous. I check the drawers, the closet, and nightstands. I sift through a pile of mail on the dresser, but don’t find anything relevant. If this girl has skeletons in her closet, they pay rent from their day job, far away from here.
Paige’s room is the last door on the left. The familiarity of her things should feel like a warm hug right about now, but instead, it just twists the knife buried deep inside the throbbing pain in my chest. She has surfing posters on the walls, a Kaos surfboard leaning up against the wall in the corner. There’s clothes on the floor around the hamper, and none inside it. I smile. This is the Paige I know. She has a corkboard on the wall above her desk, and I scan over the things she has pinned. Ticket stubs from Jupiter Crash concerts. Photos of the beach. Photos with people I recognize from the Sandbar.
An empty cardboard box sits in the center of her bed, and I wonder if it was Mia, considering when she should pack up Paige’s things. I pull open drawers, searching for her secrets. The dresser is full of clothes. Nice, lacy, silky clothes. On the dresser is a rack of necklaces, and I run my fingers across them. Jeweled pendants, shiny bracelets. Some of this stuff looks real. I stride over to the closet and pull open the doors, eyes narrowed in confusion. The closet is packed with dresses. Short, saucy,barely-there club dresses. Fun skirts, tiny tops, strappy high-heeled shoes, knee-high boots, and an entire shelf of designer purses. It’s like a stripper starter kit. More than that. Much like myself, Paige came to Pelican Beach with a backpack to her name. Now she has a whole room of expensive clothes.
This has to be from the money she made at the Aurora. Paige was too smart not to know what she was selling at the nightclub, and the extravagant wardrobe tells me one thing: she was okay with it. She bought in, eyes open. And the Paige I knew only a few months ago, valedictorian of her school, full scholarship to an esteemed design school in California, was dealing drugs on the beach in Florida so she could buy shoes. And dresses. And handbags.
I dig through the closet, beneath piles of shoeboxes and bags of clothes with the tags still on. I curse, flip the light back off, and step back into the bedroom. It’s so hard to find something when I don’t know what I’m looking for. I just know there has to be something, somewhere here. Something that can explain why this girl I’ve known my whole life, who I basically raised, has been accused of murder, and was keeping secrets from me.
We had hiding places in the foster homes. In the group homes. Places to stick money, valuables, and the sparse few things we still had from our past. Where would Paige’s hide spot be here?
