Spies and Prejudice (7 page)

Shauna smiles and finally takes her hand away. I have to force myself not to wipe my arm.

“You really like her?” I ask when we’re back in the car.

Dad looks at me with a mix of disappointment and pleading. “Give her a chance, okay?”

I nod, but I’m already sure that Shauna Waterson and I are not going to be headed to the mall anytime soon.

D
ad is already gone when I wake up on Friday. The door to his room is open just wide enough for a Saint Bernard to wander in and out, which is actually pretty wide.

I hear Lulu’s soft snores coming from inside. I slip through the opening. Lulu is stretched out on the bed, her head buried under a pile of pillows. She doesn’t even open an eye as I walk to the closet.

It’s been years since I’ve been in here. My stomach clenches when I see Mom’s side of the closet filled with men’s clothing, golf magazines, and Dad’s extensive sneaker collection. The neat row of dresses and business suits that went untouched for so long is gone. When did Dad get rid of her things? There’s no sign of her now, not even an empty space where her things had been.

My heart skips a beat. Shouldn’t there be an empty space? Something that shows she was really here? That she’s missed? It seems wrong somehow. Like she’s been erased.

I keep thinking about what Drew said at lunch yesterday. Could there have been a note? She would have wanted to say good-bye,
wouldn’t she? I shake my head hard, as if I can clear it of the dark thoughts that have already started to take root and spread.

I won’t find anything here.

I don’t stop to think before I drive the short distance to the ministorage unit. Dad uses it to store old work documents and all the junk that we should’ve thrown away long ago, but can’t bear to part with.

Our unit is full of cardboard boxes, stacked with barely enough space to walk between. It looks exactly like it always does, with rows and rows of closed-case files and the occasional box of my school projects or judo trophies. I know just where to look. The boxes from Mom’s old office are in the back right corner. They’re sealed with duct tape and a thick layer of dust.

I take the top box and set it on the floor, staring. I don’t know how long I stand there. My left foot falls asleep, forcing me forward with sharp jabs of pins and needles. I pull a box cutter out of my messenger bag and set the blade along the crease in the center of the tape. I just need to know there’s nothing here and then I can stop looking.

I push the blade along the silver seal of the box. Is this what Pandora felt like? She couldn’t know she would set a plague loose on the world, but perhaps she knew that there would be no going back.

Once the tape is cut, it takes a few minutes more before I open the flaps. Some old framed photos of my parents are on top of a soccer trophy, a paperweight in the shape of a soccer ball, and some fancy pens. I breathe a little easier, even with the dust that’s stirred into the air. Mom tried to get me to play soccer once when I was five or six, but I hated it, and she let me drop it after the first game. She didn’t even blink when I asked her to sign me up for judo a week later.

The second box is full of empty patient folders from her private practice, the actual notes having been shredded or passed on to new therapists shortly after her death. The rows of empty folders seem pointless, and I wonder what made my father think they might be important.

The third and final box is full of actual work papers. I dig through a pile of research notes for an article she was writing on the psychology of addiction and a few drafts of the article itself. There’s nothing to find here. I already know it in my gut, but my dad has trained me better than to abandon an investigation until every last page has been turned.

Is that what this is? An investigation?

I have a new understanding of the women who hire my dad, women whose relationships are already so damaged that they’re willing to pay money for the proof of it. I won’t believe that she left me until I see something concrete, but I can’t trust her either. Will I be surprised when I’m finally confronted with the truth? The ones who cling to false hope always are.

I want to have faith in her. I’ve tried. But the police declared her death a suicide for a reason. It’s not like I can just ignore it.

Once, when I was ten, I asked my dad about it. I made a batch of brownies from a box and sat him down in the living room with a glass of milk. As he bit into a brownie, I just came out and asked him to confirm what Kennedy Patton had told me the year before.

“Do you think she really killed herself?”

I watched as Dad tried to swallow the brownie and took a large chug of milk like it was stuck in his throat. When he finally looked
at me, his eyes were filled with tears. “Of course not. Who told you that?”

I shrugged. It didn’t matter who. Kennedy was a bully, and I could write off ninety-nine percent of what came out of her mouth. Not this. It spoke directly to the black hole in my chest where my heart used to be. It gave a name to the fear that started with the sympathetic faces at the funeral and grew in the year my father became a ghost who hid behind a bedroom door. What if it was my fault? What if I did something to make her leave?

Dad wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt and folded his hands in his lap. He didn’t look at me when he spoke. “Your mom would never leave us.”

I wanted to believe him. More than anything.

When he finally looked up from his lap, his cheeks were wet. “She loved you. Don’t ever doubt it.”

He meant to make me feel better, but it’s impossible to see your father cry and not be terrified. Worse, the idea that she could love me and still leave was somehow scarier than the idea that she didn’t love me enough to begin with.

The one person with all the answers is dead. The rest of us are expected to believe whatever we need to believe to go on. But what if we can’t? What then? I operate on proof, not faith.

I’m nearly done going through the third box. I’ve already missed my first-hour history class, and if I don’t hurry, I’ll miss art too.

The letterhead near the bottom of the pile stands out from the black-and-white pages. I recognize the box lettering before I even read the words:
Moss Enterprises
.

I pull the letter out and scan it quickly. A job offer.

My mom was working for Mr. Moss? Mom was asked to take part in a psychological study involving a new energy drink called Juiced. Two months before she died.

The paper shakes in my hand.

It’s nothing. I knew she was working for some soda magnate when she died. So it was Mr. Moss. And it would explain why Mr. Moss has a document with Mom’s letterhead. Not an affair. Something to do with work. It makes perfect sense. So this whole thing with Moss is about some job my mom did eight years ago? Is that all?

I sigh and lean back against a row of boxes, closing my eyes. What did I really expect to find? A suicide note? A document detailing a brake failure or other proof it was an accident? I flip through the last stack of papers, now more certain than ever that the key to my mother’s death died with her.

I stop when I get to a yellowed piece of paper with plain Courier font. There’s no letterhead announcing its origin. Not even a signature at the bottom.

Just three short sentences that leap off the page and into my throat, choking me.

B
y the time I get to school, fourth hour is over and lunch has already started. I have two pings from Mary Chris and twelve from Jason. I send them a quick note that I’m working on a case and make my way to the little study room in the library.

Drew is already there. He flashes me a friendly smile. “Second date?”

I don’t answer. I’m way past small talk. “Did you mean what you said yesterday?”

Drew watches me warily. “About running away from high school?”

“About helping me. To find out what happened to my mom?” I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, but I’m pretty sure that I don’t want to face this alone.

“Absolutely. Are you okay?”

I nod, but I cross my arms around my stomach to quell the vicious butterflies that are trying to beat their way out from the inside.

Drew stands and walks to me, sliding his arm around my shoulders like we’ve been friends forever. “You want to get lunch somewhere else?”

I nod again, not bothering to remove his hand or push him away.

As we step out of the library together, more than a few people stare. It’s easy to ignore them until I see Tanner. He stands at an open locker, but his head is turned at a ninety-degree angle as he watches me with those ice-blue eyes. I see the moment he notices Drew, his eyes narrowing to slits.

I want to march over to him and ask what his problem is. We are nothing to each other, just two people forced to endure each other’s company while my best friend crushes on his brother. I stare back, and as our eyes meet, it’s like I can feel the daggers poking at my chest, threatening to cut me open.

Drew’s arm tightens around my shoulder. I look away from Tanner, letting Drew carry me along to the parking lot. We are safely inside Drew’s red hatchback before I can breathe.

“Where are we going?”

“You know the Sand ’N’ Sea?” It’s one of only three restaurants within a mile of school. “I’m told it’s the best chicken salad in Valle Vista.”

Likely the only chicken salad in Valle Vista. It’s not like we have an abundance of restaurants beyond the typical fast-food chains.

We drive even though the restaurant is just a few blocks away. Despite its name, the Sand ’N’ Sea is nowhere near the beach. The only ocean ambience here is a small flock of seagulls hopping from table to floor in search of scraps.

“So, is this our second date?” Drew asks as we settle into one of the wrought iron tables with our chicken salads.

“It’s not a date.”

“Let’s see, I asked you to go somewhere to eat. You came. We’re sitting here together. I’d say that’s a date.”

“It’s not.”

Drew leans across the table. “Second lunch then?”

I smile. “Second lunch.”

“Done. So are you going to tell me what happened, or am I going to have to drag it out of you?”

I’m not sure I’m ready to tell anyone about the note, let alone a guy I just met a few days ago, but if I’m really going to do this, it might help to at least have someone to talk to. Someone who doesn’t judge me.

I show him the letter. “This was in my mother’s things.”

He scans it. “Whoa.”

“Do you think it means anything?”

“Do you?”

“I don’t know. It sounds like someone wanted her dead.”

Drew looks worried. “Sounds dangerous.”

Okay, it’s too much to ask someone I barely know. I shouldn’t involve him. “It’s not what you signed up for when you offered to help.” It’s one thing to help me find out if my mother committed suicide or not. A possible murder is something else altogether. “I’ll understand if you say no.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about. Are you sure you want to look into this?”

“I’ve never been more sure. What if someone killed my mother?” I stare at my untouched salad. “Is it weird that part of me wants it to be true?”

“I don’t think so. It’s natural to want someone to blame for her death.”

“That’s it exactly.” I hate the part of me that blames her for leaving. The part that blames me. I need someone to hate. Someone to punish.

“Where do we start?”

He’s really going to do this? Now that he says it so easily, I hesitate. “You don’t have to do this. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not. If it were my mom, I’d want to know.” Drew watches me. “I get it. You need to do this on your own. And I’m just some guy you met in the library. It’s okay. I’ll back off. But if you need a sounding board, or whatever, you know where to find me.”

Hearing my concern out loud makes it sound silly and immature. He is just some guy I met, but I’ve already told him more about my mother than I’ve told anyone, even Mary Chris. I take a breath. “We need to know what she was doing before she died. I saw a letter asking her to work on a project for Moss Enterprises. I’m sure it’s tied to the letter Mr. Moss has.”

Drew nods, taking it all in. “Can you get us into the Moss house?”

“Wow. It sounds so sleazy when you put it that way. Mary Chris is my best friend. I’m there almost every day.”

“So that’s a yes.” He tosses a crust of bread to the ground, creating an instant riot as every seagull within fifteen feet converges. “Invite me next time.”

“Like tonight?”

“Okay.” He grins. “Third date at Mary Chris’s house.”

I toss a potato chip at his face, but he deflects it with a well-timed wrist block.

“Nice move.”

“Oh, there’s more where that came from.”

“Good to know. Potato chip defense is a dying art.”

“It’s a work in progress. Got taken out by a pretzel last week.”

I laugh, grateful to Drew for distracting me, even if it is just for a few seconds. “You’re sure you want to come tonight? Mare will probably have a few people over. You might have to actually meet some people.”

Drew’s face gets serious. “As long as I don’t have to talk to them or, you know, be nice.”

I throw another chip at him. This one hits him right between the eyes.

J
ason corners me at my locker as soon as we get back from lunch. “You had lunch with Drew Mattingly? I can’t believe you didn’t tweet live updates. Tell me everything.”

“Drew is helping me with something. We’re friends. That’s it.”

Jason throws his hands up in a move that looks like a cross between jazz hands and some kind of seizure. “Ahhh! Friends don’t stare at friends’ backs as they walk away. Not unless they’re helping you pick out an outfit.”

“I didn’t stare at him.”

Jason shakes his head. “Duh, I wasn’t talking about you.”

“Drew was not staring at me either.”