by Greta Boris
If she was, she was looking in the wrong place. It wasn't where she'd dropped it. Abby had seen it bounce across the dirt floor. It was buried in a pile of leaves about four feet away.
Knowing didn't do Abby any good. Her legs were tangled under Carlos's. Her back wasn't cooperating. If she made a move for the gun, Leena would get there before her. Panic snaked through Abby's throat and into her mouth. She tasted bile.
Carlos would bleed out if she didn't do something. This gave her strength. Saving him couldn't be added to the long list of things she didn't do. Tears welled in her eyes, and she turned her head to the side to let them drip to the ground.
The shears. Thank you, God. They lay where she'd dropped them when she reached for Carlos's phone, only a foot away.
She placed a hand on his leg and began to slide hers out from under it. He moaned. Abby froze, but Leena didn't look their way.
When her legs were free, she inched her right hand toward the shears. If she could knock the knife away from Leena, it might buy her a few seconds to find the gun. She would have to move quickly, use momentum to push through the pain that was sure to come.
Her hand closed over the long handle of the shears. She drew her legs under her and stifled a yelp. She tightened her abdominal muscles to keep her back as still as possible. She could do this. Her legs were fine. They were good. She'd use their strength to propel herself.
She inhaled, coiled, and sprang.
Leena pivoted, shock widened her eyes.
Abby swiped at the knife with the shears, but Leena yanked her arm away. The shears whistled through empty air.
Abby's exhausted muscles twitched, about to give out. She sank into a crouch to ease her back, but her right arm began to quiver. The shears were heavy. Much heavier than Leena's knife. She repositioned them, using both hands to hold them spear-like in front of her.
Leena was tiring too. Her movements were slow and uncoordinated, her right arm cradled against her ribs. She slashed at the air, but the knife didn't come near Abby.
So this was the standoff? Two middle-class, suburban women, neither having any idea how to fight, waving kitchen and garden implements at each other. If she hadn't been so afraid, Abby would've laughed.
Who would fail first? That was the question. Abby had youth. She was thinner, probably stronger. But she'd been strangled, tied up, had run miles, and her back was sending distress signals down both thighs. Her money was on Leena.
They circled each other, eyes locked on one another's, for endless minutes. Leena's were brown, like coffee, or chocolate. Why was brown always associated with food? If Abby compared them to dirt, or something worse, it would be an insult. And Leena's eyes were beautiful. Beautiful eyes set in a face contorted by anger and resolve.
The trail was quiet, almost peaceful. If it wasn't for her anxiety over Carlos, Abby would consider dying here. It wasn't a bad place to go, under the trees in the dappled sunshine, and she was so tired.
The shears had drooped several inches. Gravity pulled them earthward like a water witch's fork. Soon they'd be pointing due south. Then it would be over.
Noises. A scratch of dirt. A gust of leaves. A gut-wrenching yell. All behind Abby. Leena's eyes left hers for just a second. It was long enough. Abby lifted her spear and charged.
She felt it penetrate soft tissue and, as they fell, pound into something much harder. The impact sent shock waves through her back.
Leena didn't scream. Air whistled from her in a high whine. She flailed beneath Abby for a moment, then lay still.
Strong hands rolled Abby away onto the ground. Carlos thrust something at her. "Phone," he said, and collapsed.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
SATURDAY, MAY 28, 2:30 PM
MIMI PUSHED HER chair away from the long picnic table and began stacking dishes. “It was a major success.”
The last of the Home and Garden Tour attendees left an hour earlier. Abby was proud of Carlos. He and his team had worked hard to get everything ready, and it showed. They’d marked the plots of herbs with informational signs. Perennials and annuals bloomed between them. The old shrubs and trees had been pruned to best advantage. Even a stand of hollyhocks nodded in front of the old garden shed, which had been cleaned to shabby chic perfection. His creativity and eye for detail were visible everywhere.
Mimi had invited the Rojo staff and their families to stay for a “thank you” lunch. A long wooden picnic table covered with a red checked tablecloth and the remains of a Mexican feast sat near the ginkgo biloba tree in one corner of the yard.
Connie and Paul were seated across from Abby and Carlos. Mimi and Bradley were positioned at the heads of the table. They’d finished eating at least a half hour ago but were content to sit and chat in the warm sun. The others stood in the shade sipping beers and iced teas watching the kids play horseshoes and catch.
Bradley pulled a toothpick out of his mouth. “People raved about your work.”
Abby watched Carlos as he digested the compliment. A hand rose to cover the grin he couldn’t suppress, and color flushed his cheeks. “I think I’m going to be busy. I got a lot of requests for consultations.”
“Does this mean you’ll be doing more landscaping and less yard maintenance?” Paul said.
Abby knew that was what Carlos wanted, what he’d gone to school for. The maintenance work might be his bread and butter, but landscape design was what made the meal interesting.
He shrugged a shoulder. “That’s what they said they wanted.”
“Of course that’s what they want. And it wouldn’t surprise me if you get inundated with calls after Beach Cities Magazine comes out.” Mimi pivoted in her chair to face Abby. “A journalist and a photographer went to each house on the tour, taking pictures and interviewing the hosts. They loved this place. The writer must have talked to Carlos for an hour.”
Abby placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed. “That’s wonderful.” She was about to ask if the article would be in the next issue when a ball bounced across the table and landed with a splash in the dregs of the salsa.
“Ramon.” A stern voice followed it.
A moment later a boy of about eight, dark bangs plastered to a sweaty forehead, ran up to the table. “Can I have my ball?” he asked Mimi.
“Ramon.” Gab strode up behind him. “What do you say?”
“I said, ‘Can I have my ball?’”
“No, you say you’re sorry. You just ruined their meal.”
Ramon looked at his feet. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Mimi reached over half-empty serving dishes and baskets of chip crumbs to retrieve the soggy ball. She gave it a shake and handed it to him. “We were done anyway.”
“You better hose that off.” Gab led Ramon from the table.
“Who’s the kid?” Abby said. Surely he was too old to be Gab’s son, unless she had him when she was still in high school.
“He’s one of my employee’s nephews. Armando is watching him—obviously not very well—for his sister this weekend.”
A wiry man with a wide smile walked across the yard to where Gab and Ramon were washing the ball with the hose. When the ball was clean he grabbed Gab’s hand, and they returned to the clutch of adults on the far side of the yard.
“I don’t get that,” Carlos said under his breath.
“Don’t get what?” Abby said.
“Those two.”
Abby’s gaze wandered to the young couple. There was something about them that struck a familiar chord. When she’d met Gab at the office, she’d thought she must have seen her at a family party. But today she noted there was something about the pair of them, Armando and Gab, that niggled at her memory. Maybe it was the way her chin tipped up when she looked at him. Whatever it was, Abby was sure she’d seen them together before today.
Armando said something Abby couldn’t hear. Gab’s face clouded. She slapped his arm. He grinned. But before the grin, the mock anger on both their faces supplied the missing clue.
The Mission.
This was the couple she’d seen fighting on the bench months ago when she was still in the anchorhold. Three days after their argument, Abby had overheard Gab tell a friend Armando had cheated on her. Looked like she’d forgiven him.
“What about them?” she asked.
“I thought he was harassing Gab.”
“Harassing her?”
“Yeah, like sexual harassment. Coming on to her at the office. She threw a coffee carafe at him.”
Abby yelped a laugh. “You’re kidding?”
“Nope,” Carlos said. “I had to take him to the hospital.”
“Well, maybe he deserved it.” Carlos looked at her with confusion in his eyes. Abby stood and picked up their empty dishes. “If you cheated on me, I’d throw a coffee carafe at you too.” She kissed him on top of his head and followed Mimi into the house.
When they returned to the yard, Rosie and an athletic looking man stood near the table. She turned when she heard them coming. “Mimi, the place looks stunning. I was just telling Carlos, he outdid himself this time.”
“Next year we can include the interior of the house in the tour and show off your work,” Mimi said.
“At the rate we’re going, it might just be ready.”
Bradley, who’d been balancing his chair on its rear legs, brought the other two down with a thud. “I thought you two were done.”
“Not even close.” Mimi laughed.
“It never ends, trust me,” the athletic man held out a hand to Bradley. “Eric,” he said.
“This is my husband everyone.” Rosie made introductions all around.
“What can I get you to drink? Beer, wine, iced tea?” Mimi scurried off to fill their order, and Rosie and Eric settled into chairs.
“Sorry we’re so late. Eric had a meeting he couldn’t get out of,” Rosie said.
“Thought I was the only one who had to work weekends. What do you do?” Paul asked.
“I work for Pacific Financial, an investment company. Generally, I don’t work Saturdays, but the company is in an upheaval. We recently lost a senior partner.”
The sun still shone, but Abby felt a sudden chill. She rubbed her arms. Pacific Financial, hadn’t that been the firm Seb Skandalis had worked for? She’d thought she’d read that in the paper.
Bradley looked at Mimi. “Was that the guy who. . . ” His words trailed off.
“Seb Skandalis,” Abby’s voice sank to a monotone.
Eric nodded his head. “It was a shock.”
“We had no idea what kind of person he was.” Rosie stared at the glass of wine Mimi placed in front of her. “We couldn’t believe what we read in the papers.”
A minute ticked by while no one spoke. “It’s been a bit of a nightmare, dealing with his clients. Doing damage control with the press,” Eric finally said.
Abby felt Carlos tense next to her. “It was a bit of a nightmare for Abby and her dad too.”
Eric’s gaze darted to Abby, then Paul. She saw the light flicker on behind his eyes. “Oh,” he said. “Wow. Sorry. Didn’t put two and two together.”
“I told you.” Rosie’s lips thinned. She covered Abby’s hand with one of her own. “We didn’t mean to make light of your ordeal. Eric has been at the office seventy hours a week since that man was killed. He’s tired, not thinking.”
“You don’t need to make excuses for me, Rose.” His voice was tight. “Abby, Paul, I truly apologize. I didn’t in any way mean to compare the two situations. Work is work. Your experience was life and death. I’m sure it was horrendous.” His lips formed an empathetic smile. “I’m a dolt. Can you forgive me?”
A communal exhale circled the table. Abby could see why Rosie had married him. Eric had a winning way, a certain charm. “It’s okay,” she said.
“Forget about it,” her father said rising. “I promised Connie a tour of our construction site. Abby, Carlos, do you want to come along?”
Abby said goodbye to everyone. But Carlos only nodded coolly to Rosie’s husband. He’d been very protective of her since the day Leena had died. Which was ironic, since Abby was the one who’d saved them both. But she understood now. He wasn’t trying to control her, as she’d thought before. It was how he showed love.
It wasn't Abby's way. She listened, learned about the things that interested a person, paid attention. In doing that, however, she realized everyone had their own way of expressing their care and concern. Sometimes it was easy to miss the message.
The new kitchen, bedroom, office, and bathroom were framed out. Clean planks stood where black ash had covered everything only two months before. Abby stepped through the doorframe onto the concrete slab. The smell of freshly cut pine boards now replaced the sickening odor of smoke that had hung over the place.
“This is bigger than the old kitchen isn’t it?” Carlos asked.
“Yup,” Paul said. “We decided as long as we were redoing things why not do them right? I got some insurance money to play with, and had some put away." He gestured to the spot the old table had stood. “There’ll be a bank of windows right here, and a built-in breakfast nook.”
Abby’s father showed Carlos and Connie around what had once been her childhood home. Even without the walls, she could tell nothing would be the same. Not only would it be more spacious, it would have more light, more air, more breathing room.
“So why the expansion?” Connie said. “Are you planning to start a new family?”
Paul grinned at her. They’d become good friends while he’d boarded at her home. He’d left three weeks ago, and now lived in the standing half of the house. A fire cleanup and damage repair company had made it livable, and Abby had set up a makeshift kitchen for him in the old living room. But he still went to Connie’s for dinner two or three nights a week. “What can you make in a microwave?” she’d say, her voice filled with disdain, whenever he expressed worry that he was taking advantage.
“Increases the value of the house,” Paul said. “Most young couples these days, they want at least three bedrooms. This will technically be four. My office could be converted into, say, a nursery.” He didn’t look at Abby as he said the words, but she flushed anyway.
“Are you going to have Rosie in once the rooms are built?” Connie asked.
“No. None of that fancy stuff for me. I have my own decorator.” He put an arm around Abby’s shoulders. “Besides, if I decide not to sell, she’ll inherit. Might as well have things the way she likes them.”
Abby had been enjoying the rebuilding project, consulting with the contractor, shopping flooring and fixtures, and it surprised her. She was making decisions, and she liked it. Granted choosing kitchen tile wasn't life changing, but it was the kind of thing she would have avoided only months ago.
"You ready?" Carlos stepped close and took her hand.
"Yeah," she said. She'd made other decisions recently, more significant ones, and it was time to see one of them through.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
SATURDAY, MAY 28, 3:45 PM
CARLOS STOOD AND wiped the dirt from his hands. "It's beautiful," Abby said. The camellia bush already had one white bloom and several buds. The lone flower shone from the shade of the surrounding shrubbery like a full moon in the evening sky.
They stood only feet from Abby's anchorhold on the spot she'd first seen Hannah. Very few people would understand the flower's significance. There was no plaque, only a small, copper Coptic cross set into a bit of cement near its base. She'd asked Grant Hawthorne for permission to pour the cement and plant the bush as a memorial to the girl who'd lost her life and changed Abby's forever. He'd given it.
He'd been wonderful, even after he learned about Abby's stay in the anchorhold. He'd agreed to keep her secret, as did the police. And he refused to accept her father's resignation. "I don't want this getting out any more than you do," he'd said. "Let's keep it quiet. That way we can both hold on to our jobs."
"I feel like we should say a prayer or something,"
Abby said.
Carlos took her hand. "That's your department."
Abby closed her eyes and searched for the right words.
"Very nice." A voice interrupted her thoughts. It was Sylla. "Grant Hawthorne told me what you were doing. I came to pay my respects."
Surprised, Abby moved closer to Carlos and made room for the detective to stand next to her. "We were about to say a few words." Sylla came alongside and clasped her hands behind her back.
No one spoke for a long moment, then Abby said, "Father of lights, we know no one is ever truly lost. Your eyes are on the sparrow. Receive Hannah into Your home, we pray. Amen." Carlos and Sylla repeated the amen.
"Hopefully, there's one less ghost at the Mission now." Sylla spoke in her usual brisk fashion, but Abby heard the sadness underlying her words.
Abby looked at the mound of dirt around the base of the new plant. "It's too bad we couldn't bury her ashes."
"We've got to hold them for another year or so," Sylla said.
"Nobody has claimed her yet?" Carlos asked.
Sylla shook her head. "The picture was the only real thing about that passport. The rest was fabrication. We contacted the Cairo police. They've run the photo through their missing persons database, but they haven't found a match. Not yet. Maybe never will. It seems large numbers of Coptic girls go missing every year. Some end up in forced marriages, some as domestic slaves, some are trafficked to other countries. It's a big problem for the Egyptian government."
The weight of Sylla's words fell heavy in the quiet morning. "The weaker, the poorer, are always preyed upon by the greedy," Abby said.
Sylla met her gaze. "We're doing our best, but sometimes it feels we're trying to bail out the Titanic with a thimble."
"Not here?" Carlos's eyebrows arched. "I mean, that's why my parents immigrated. America, the land of the free and all that."
Sylla gave him a small smile. "Ever been to Beach Boulevard in Anaheim after dark?"
