If it worked, she cautioned herself reflexively.
But she knew it would work. It was the one trick she hadn’t learned at her grandfather’s knee. Her father, with all the ingenuity and desperation of an alcoholic in need of booze, had coaxed her bobby pins from her more times than she could count. If her grandfather left her alone with either of her parents—which, by the time she was four, he almost never did—he locked their stash of whiskey and beer in his bedroom. Which just so happened to have a knob lock with a spring mechanism.
Her dad would hound her, making promises and threats, wheedling and whining, until she pulled two bobby pins from her ponytail and handed them over. Then, he’d focus with laser concentration to make the pick and the wrench. Her mom would race inside and grab four beers, two for each of them. Never more than four, never fewer. Then her dad would hurriedly use the pick and wrench to relock the door. They didn’t want to tip off the old man that they could get in.
She shook off the old memory and turned her attention to the lock. She knew from one of Joe’s woodworking projects—turning reclaimed barn doors into residential doors—that a lock was set through a series of binding pins. The correct, elegant way to pick this lock would be to probe each pin, one by one with the hook, lift and set each pin in the correct order, then turn the wrench.
But much like her addicted parents, she didn’t have the time for finesse. Brute force scrubbing would also do the trick, and much faster. With her right hand, she inserted the pick deep into the keyhole so the little hook went past the last pin. Then, with her left, she inserted the tension wrench below and to the side of the pick.
Start with light pressure, she reminded herself. She pressed down on the tension wrench, held her breath, then raked the pick across the pins in a fast, smooth motion. As she pulled the pick back out, she pressed it up slightly to apply pressure to the pins. The plug rotated to the left, the lock disengaged, and she exhaled.
Thanks, Dad. I guess you were good for something, after all.
Aroostine eased the door open and called softly, “Dahlia?”
The still apartment was dark and stuffy. She kept the door propped open with her foot while she felt around on the wall to locate a light switch and flipped it on. After the overhead lights came on, she let the door close with a gentle thud. Then she locked the door and turned to survey the space.
A galley kitchen ran along the wall to the left of the door. A small living area sat straight ahead. To the right, a wall with two doors. She tried the first knob. It opened into a bathroom.
Aging white tile, blue and white plastic shower curtain hanging over the tub, toilet, small sink. She pulled aside the shower curtain. There were no toiletries in the shower caddy. She smiled at the sight of a plastic shower cap dangled from the faucet. If Dahlia’s hair was anything like hers, daily washing and drying would be a massive time commitment. The girl probably washed it every other shower, just as she did. And, in between washings, Dahlia no doubt wore the shower cap to keep it dry, just as she did—to Joe’s amusement.
A rack beside the combination shower/tub held a yellow bath towel. A yellow washcloth was draped over the edge of the tub. She touched it—dry. A matching yellow hand towel, also dry, hung from a bar mounted on the side of the medicine cabinet over the sink. A dried-out sliver of soap sat on the sink basin.
She opened the mirrored medicine cabinet. Three of the four shelves were empty. The bottom shelf was littered with makeup samples, a few stray cotton balls, an open three-pack of toothbrushes that held a single toothbrush. She closed the cabinet and checked the wastebasket positioned midway between the sink and the toilet. It was empty.
She closed the door, walked ten feet down the hall, and tried the second knob. Dahlia’s bedroom. A futon bed, unmade, with a colorful woven blanket hanging half-on, half-off the bottom of the mattress as if it were melting into a pool on the floor. A cheap pine dresser stood against the wall, three of its drawers still open.
She peered inside. The top open drawer was empty. The middle held a handful of tank tops and shorts, sundresses, a couple bathing suits. The bottom contained heavy wool sweaters, a pair of snowpants, thick ski socks. Dahlia’d taken only the clothes that were in season and had left behind her winter and summer clothes. She planned to return at some point.
Aroostine slid the closet door open. Two navy blue polos and two pairs of khakis hung from the rod. A wicker hamper sat on the closet floor. She nudged the lid off and sifted through the dirty laundry. Three polo shirts, another pair of khaki pants, workout gear, several pairs of socks and underwear, one bra, and a pair of pajamas. She replaced the lid. A pair of snow boots, a pair of running shoes, and a pair of strappy sandals were lined up under the clothes rod. The shelf above the rod was empty. An ancient upright vacuum cleaner was tucked into the far corner.
She closed the closet door and huffed out a breath. She took another look around the cramped bedroom. A paperback novel and a fitness magazine sat on the floor near the head of the bed. She lowered herself to the floor and searched behind the futon. Nothing. She stood and stripped the sheets, shook out the pillowcases, then lifted the blanket and checked under it. More nothing.
She headed back into the main living space. The living room was bare. Two tall chairs were pulled up to the kitchen island. The chairs were plastic; one red, one white. They looked like they’d come from an outlet store—probably at a deep discount because of the color mismatch. A messy pile of books sat on the kitchen counter. She leafed through them—another romance novel, a thriller, a nonfiction book about getting ahead in business, a memoir.
The refrigerator and freezer were both empty. There were two cans of soup and a box of pancake mix in the skinny pantry next to the refrigerator.
Four plates, four bowls, four glasses in one cabinet. Four forks, four spoons, four butter knives, a can opener, a magnet for a Mexican restaurant, a book of matches, a dime and a penny in the silverware drawer. A small pot, a medium-sized pot, a medium-sized skillet, and a colander were stored in a drawer next to the stove. A caddy under the sink held rubber gloves, sponges, dish soap, and three bottles of multi-purpose cleansers.
The kitchen trash was empty.
Aroostine didn’t know what the girl had taken with her, but she hadn’t left much behind.
She leaned against the counter and closed her eyes. Seeing Dahlia’s space wasn’t proving to be helpful. She might as well smell it.
She inhaled deeply. Musty air with a faint, lingering hint of an artificial lemon scent—a cleaning product. She sniffed again. What was that third smell? She opened her eyes and frowned at the empty apartment. Maybe she’d pick up the scent better in the bedroom.
She went into the bedroom and pulled the door closed behind her, focused on the smells in the closed-up space. The lemon-scented cleanser again, the same stale air smell, and a new smell of laundry detergent, tangy sweat, and soap wafted up from Dahlia’s bed sheets and blanket. But that wasn’t what she’d noticed in the kitchen.
She heard the distant ding of the elevator car arriving down the hall. She closed her eyes and took another big sniff, starting to feel mildly silly. And then it hit her. Not one smell—a combination. Male body spray, cloying and musky. The sharp scent of aftershave. A woodsy smell that reminded her of Joe’s deodorant. And a caramel-like scent that smelled like her adoptive father’s hair pomade.
She opened her eyes and stared around the room. A man had been here fairly recently. No, at least two men. A man wearing drugstore body spray was unlikely to also wear aftershave. The aftershave wearer might also use a hair wax. Or might not. An older man and a younger man, she decided. Possibly another man or two.
What have you gotten yourself into, Dahlia Truewind?
The front door opened with a bang. She froze.
22
Dahlia walked into her apartment, tossed her keys on the counter, and dropped her heavy bag on the floor. Then she froze. The lights were on.
Had she left the l
ights on? Her mind scrolled frantically through her actions on Wednesday night. She’d grabbed her diary, an armload of clothes, her toiletries, and some food that would travel well—bottled water, energy bars. Then she’d emptied the trash, unplugged the toaster and her alarm clock, turned out all the lights, and run.
Had she definitely turned out all the lights?
As she hesitated just inside the doorway, trying to remember, her bedroom door opened.
A scream rose up in her throat.
A tall Native woman walked out into the hallway with her hands outstretched and a reassuring smile on her lips. Dahlia swallowed her scream.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Rue Jackman. I know Dahlia’s mom. Are you a friend of Dahlia’s?”
Dahlia wrinkled her forehead and nearly blurted out the truth, then she remembered her disguise. This woman, whoever she was, had taken one look at the pink hair, the nose ring, and the outfit and decided she couldn’t be Dahlia. She bit back a smile.
“Yeah.”
“Do you have a name?”
Dahlia bristled. “Yeah. And I have a key, too. How’d you get in?” She raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.
Rue laughed easily. “I came over to check on her because her mom’s worried about her. The door wasn’t locked, so I let myself in to make sure everything was okay. But she’s not here. Do you know where she is?”
Dahlia eyed the stranger. She most definitely had not left her door unlocked. And her mother didn’t know where she lived, so she couldn’t have sent this woman to check on her. Rue Jackman was a liar. But she was definitely Native American. And judging by her flat accent, she was from somewhere back East. She didn’t sound like anyone Dahlia knew.
Could Markham have sent this woman after her? Fear exploded in the pit of her stomach like a fireball.
Be cool. Even if she’s here for Markham, she doesn’t recognize you. Just stay chill.
“Um, no.”
“So you stopped by to see if she was home with all your worldly belongings in tow?” Rue looked down at the duffel bag.
Dahlia toed the bag with a pink boot. “Oh, yeah. I … um … I’m headed to Chicago for a while. I wanted to say goodbye in person. You know, since she wasn’t answering her phone.”
Rue locked eyes with her. “Your friend’s in trouble. If you know where she is, please tell me so I can help her.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“You tell me. Someone was in this apartment before I showed up. I think they picked her lock and went through her things. Does anything look like it’s missing?”
Dahlia shook her head. She hadn’t left anything worth taking. And she wouldn’t be surprised if Markham’s goons had searched the place.
“Hmm. Do you have any idea what they could’ve been looking for?”
“No. Why would I?”
Rue shrugged. “You’re her friend. Listen, I drove all the way from Minnesota this morning. It’s been a long day, and I’m hungry. Is there a restaurant around here where I could get a bite? If you want to join me, I’ll treat.”
Dahlia hesitated. She’d had a long day of her own. And she was starving—and living off a dwindling pile of cash. She wasn’t in any position to pass up a free meal. She just wished she knew whether she could trust this woman.
While Dahlia weighed her response, Rue went on, “I’m in the mood for tacos, if you happen to know where we could get some good ones.”
Tacos? That sealed it. She’d take her chances with Rue Jackman. After all, even if Markham had sent her, what was she going to do to her in the middle of a crowded restaurant?
She hoisted the bag back over her shoulder. She couldn’t very well leave it here in case Bedrock Force decided to re-search her place. Her stomach roiled at the image of Swanson pawing through her things. She pushed the thought away.
“Let’s go.”
23
Aroostine stood on the sidewalk beside the truck while the girl fussed with her duffel bag, shoving it down into the footwell of the passenger cab where it couldn’t be seen.
“You can stow it in the back with my camping gear. There’s plenty of room,” she offered.
“Nah. It’s fine here.”
“Or you could bring it inside, if you’re really worried.”
A shake of her head sent bright pink, chin-length hair flying around her face. “It’s kind of tight in there. Besides, I have everything I need right here.” She patted her jacket pocket.
I’ll bet you do.
She followed the girl into the bright yellow taco shop. The cramped interior was loud and busy, which suited her. The din would cover their conversation. It would be hard to get lost in the crowd, given her dinner companion’s appearance, but anyone who came looking for them would have to do some work. She raised two fingers at the smiling hostess, who picked up a set of menus and plunged into the sea of bodies without waiting to see if they were following her.
Aroostine took the seat facing forward. The girl grimaced but didn’t make a big deal about sitting with her back to the door. She turned her attention to the menu.
“What’s good here?”
“Everything. I like the chicken tacos best. Wanna split an order of chips and salsa?”
“Sure,” Aroostine agreed. Then she placed the menu face-down on the table and leaned forward.
The girl drew back, wide-eyed. “What?”
“You’re not sure you can trust me. I get it. You’re in a tough spot and you don’t think your mother knows about any of it.”
“My mom?” She narrowed her eyes. “What are you even talking about?”
A waiter appeared with two glasses of water.
“Can I get either of you anything else to drink?” he asked, pen poised over his pad. “Margaritas are half off.”
“Water’s fine for me,” Aroostine said.
“Me, too.”
“But, we’re ready to order. We’ll share the chips and salsa. And I’ll have the chicken tacos with guacamole.”
“Same, only hold the guacamole,” the girl said.
“Thanks, ladies. I’ll put this in right away.”
They handed him their menus.
“Could you bring our check with the chips and salsa?” Aroostine asked.
He gave her a quizzical look. “I guess so.”
“Thanks. We might need to leave in a hurry. I wouldn’t want to stiff you.” She smiled.
He smiled back uncertainly then walked away to put in their order.
“What was all that about? You’re planning to run out and ditch me here if I figure out what you’re up to, aren’t you?” the girl demanded.
“Nope. But you should eat fast in case the guy who followed us here from your apartment gets tired of waiting for us to come out.”
“Wait—we were followed? And I don’t live there. That’s Dahlia’s place.”
Aroostine gave the girl a knowing look as she felt around her neck to locate the chain. She pulled the beaver charm out from under her shirt and dangled it toward the girl.
“Recognize this, Dahlia? I know you do. I’ll admit the pink hair and the outfit threw me off for a few minutes, but I recognize your eyes from your picture.”
“Where did you get that?”
“Your mother gave it to me. She thought it might help me find you.”
“My mom … she’s here? In town?” She dragged her eyes away from the charm and looked wildly around the restaurant as if she expected Janice to materialize from the crowd.
“No. She flew all the way to Pennsylvania to ask me to look for you.”
Dahlia shook her head. “No way. My mom couldn’t afford a plane ticket and she’d never leave—”
“Judge Orr brought her to see me. The judge is a friend of mine, and she thought I could help your mom.”
Dahlia’s eyes flashed fear. “Why? What’s wrong with my mom?”
The waiter returned and placed the chips and salsa on the middle of the table, alo
ng with the fake leather check presenter. Aroostine flipped it open and scanned the bill then handed it back to him with a twenty-dollar bill and a five. “Here you go—we don’t need any change.”
“Thanks for the tip, but what if my service sucks?” He grinned playfully.
After he left, Aroostine lowered her voice, “Your mother’s out of her mind with worry. When you missed your weekly call two Sundays ago, she got in touch with the college administration and found out that you’d been lying to her for over a month. She was afraid something bad had happened to you.”
The girl’s face hardened. “I’m fine, obviously. I just … I’m trying something new, taking my life in a different direction.” She gestured at her face and hair.
Aroostine waited a beat then started to fiddle with the clasp of her necklace. “Okay, I’ll tell your mother you’ve reinvented yourself as a 1990s punk rocker and don’t want to have any contact with her.” She removed the chain, slid the silver beaver off, and pushed the charm across the table.
Dahlia closed her hand around it and squeezed for a moment. Then she nestled it in her jacket pocket, just so. She locked eyes with Aroostine and stared unblinkingly at her.
It was like looking in a mirror—leaving aside the shocking hair color and the nose ring. Dahlia’s brown and gold-flecked eyes were the same shape and color as her own. Amber honey eyes, Joe used to say.
The girl drew a shaky breath. “Please don’t tell my mom I don’t want contact. That’s not true. I just … I screwed something up and I have to fix it myself.”
Aroostine reached across the table and covered the girl’s hand with hers, just as she’d done back at home with Janice. “No, Dahlia. You don’t. I can help you.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I’m in a lot of trouble. You can’t get involved.”
“I do understand. And I’m already involved, whether I want to be or not. I’m not going to sit by while a well-financed, heavily armed private military contractor chases a nineteen-year-old girl in the name of national security. That’s not a thing that’s going to happen.”
Called Home Page 10
