What You Want to See

by Kristen Lepionka

  She arched an eyebrow. “And yet, here we are.”

  “I told you, I have a work thing.”

  The corner of her mouth tipped up. Then she lifted her left hand. “I saw you clock this the second I sat down.”

  I took a second before responding. “I’m a detective. It’s what I do.”

  “I’m sure that’s it.”

  “Is it over?”

  “Probably.”

  “What happened?”

  She blew on the foamy surface of her chai. “What didn’t happen is a shorter list. We didn’t love each other, for instance. Or even like each other very much.”

  “Why get married, then?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice going far away. “I found him interesting. That’s where it starts for me, you know that. Then I didn’t anymore.”

  “So it had nothing to do with her.”

  “Who’s her?”

  “Your girlfriend. The photographer,” I said. “Thao.”

  A slight flare of her nostrils. “That’s over. No.”

  “Or me.”

  “No. Just me, and him, and his endless supply of ironic hats.”

  It wasn’t funny, but we both laughed anyway.

  Then her expression darkened. “And his oxy habit,” she added. “It doesn’t get any less interesting than that, does it.”

  “My brother mentioned something about that the other day. He saw him, at the hotel.”

  “Looking to score?”

  “That’s what it sounded like.”

  She shook her head. “At least I got a beautiful house out of the deal.” She sipped her tea. “He’ll never get that house from me.”

  “It is a beautiful house.”

  Catherine raised her mug and clinked it against my glass. “So let’s hear about this work thing.”

  I opened a new browser tab and navigated to Leila Hassan’s Facebook page and flipped the computer around so Catherine could see. “Do you know her?”

  Catherine looked at the screen, her expression blank at first. But then her eyes narrowed. “I—kind of, yeah. How in the world did you figure that out?”

  I tapped the edge of the screen. “Mutual friends.”

  “Oh. Right. I forgot that you even have Facebook. You never use it.”

  “So how do you know her?”

  Catherine clicked through Leila’s profile. “She was a student. At a workshop I taught at this little letterpress studio in Worthington.”

  “What kind of workshop?”

  She bit her lip. “She came to two. Intaglio. Both levels. She was good, too. More advanced than the first-level class, and I told her that, but she said she needed a refresher. She’s a designer, I believe, but she studied printmaking in art school.”

  “Intaglio,” I said. “Why do I know that word?”

  “It’s a medieval printing technique. You engrave a metal plate, either by hand or using acid. It’s kind of like a stamp, except the materials give you the capability to do astounding detail. It’s how money is printed, for example. The portraits?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s intaglio.”

  “There’s a demand for workshops about this?”

  Amusement flared in her pale green eyes. “Old-school technique is always in demand. Letterpress, stuff like that. Wedding invitations and stationery, especially.”

  “Right, wedding invitations,” I said as it hit me, where I’d recently heard about intaglio. From Arthur, one of many specialty production and finishing options on offer at Ungless Printing.

  “How long ago was this?”

  She leaned on one hand. “The workshop was, oh, last year. February, I think.” She pulled a bulky flip phone from her pocket and clicked some buttons. “Yeah, February.”

  “Talk about a thousand years old,” I said. “That’s the cell phone? I thought you said twenty-first century.”

  Both corners of her mouth tipped up this time. “Baby steps. As it is, this thing annoys me to no end. Why would anyone want to be accessible all the time? Anyway, so that’s that. I met your lady friend two times over a year ago. Does that help?”

  “Not really.”

  “Sad.”

  I chewed my lip and clicked back to Leila’s profile. “Do you think she’d be willing to meet up with you?”

  “Um, why would I need to meet with her?”

  “You don’t, I do. And she seems to be hiding out somewhere.”

  “Oh.” Catherine sipped her tea. “Maybe. What’s this all about?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but I know she’s involved,” I said. “You don’t mind?”

  “If this is how the universe delivers you to me,” she said in a way that made heat rise to my face, “who am I to complain?”

  * * *

  I was late to Taverna Athena, but fortunately Joshua was later. I got a booth near the window and ordered a drink and the melitzanosalata. It was a quarter past seven when he arrived, his face nervous. “Sorry I’m late,” he said as he sat down across from me, “there was an accident on 270 and then I had to stop at home to change. I hate keeping somebody waiting, especially you. I’m lucky some other guy didn’t take my spot.” He gave an awkward laugh and looked around desperately for a waiter.

  “No worries,” I said. “And hey, Joshua, relax, we’re just catching up.”

  He let out a long sigh. He was a handful of years older than me, a big teddy bear of a guy with a scruffy salt-and-pepper buzz cut and stubble to match. He had a good heart, and he’d been through a lot. Supportive over Shelby coming out this year, but since then he’d gotten a little weird around me. I couldn’t figure out if it was because Shelby had confided in me long before she opened up to him, or because he’d assumed I was straight and was embarrassed for low-key flirting with me the first time we met, or if there was something else to it.

  We made small talk until he had ordered and received a beer. Then I said, “Listen, Shelby is fine.”

  “I know she’s fine. Like what could happen to her in a day, right?”

  We looked at each other, each fully aware of what could happen in a day.

  “I just, Roxane, I don’t want to have that kind of relationship with her. Us at odds all the time.”

  “I know. So you have to listen to her.”

  “But she’s only eighteen, for God’s sake. She thinks she’s all grown up, but she isn’t. She’s still a baby. Would I let her go to some cabin with a boy? No way. So why would I let her go with a girl?”

  “You do know that being gay doesn’t mean she wants to have sex with every other girl she meets, right?”

  He blushed bright red and went quiet.

  “She’s not having sex with anyone,” I added, “and when you tell her she’s not allowed to make friends, she feels really, really isolated. And she’s already isolated, because of everything that’s happened.”

  “I never said she’s not allowed to make friends.”

  “No, you’re just telling her that she’s only allowed to see her friends on your terms while she’s living in your house.”

  “I know I shouldn’t have said that. It just came out.” He looked down at the table. “But how am I supposed to just let her go off with people I don’t know?”

  He didn’t say after everything, but I heard it anyway. He added, “If you’re going to let her go, at least can you get the address for this cabin? In case anything goes wrong or whatever.”

  I finished my drink, my chest aching for him. “Nothing is going to go wrong,” I said. “But sure, I’ll ask her. I’m not letting her do anything—she’s an adult. She can go if she wants and that’s all. I know I have no business giving parenting advice, okay, but as a former teenaged girl, I can tell you that you treating her like a child now is only going to make her want to leave faster, and she already wants to leave.”

  “She’s too young. I mean, come on. How old were you when you moved out of your house?”

  I almost laughed. “I was seventeen
,” I said. “I wasn’t even finished with high school. My dad kicked me out, actually, because I was dating a girl and he didn’t like it. I lived with my brother until I graduated.”

  As I said it, I watched Joshua’s expression morph into a kind of confused horror. “But that’s—I don’t want her to leave. I want her to stay.”

  “Well, you asked,” I said. “So I moved out when I was young, and I turned out all right, relatively speaking. And the thing is, it’s not a matter of Shelby moving out or staying in Belmont. It’s between her moving into a good situation, or a bad one. She can’t stay in that house. You both deserve a fresh start. Have you thought about looking for a new place together?”

  He took a long pull of his beer. “Well,” he said, “to be honest, I owe money on that house. A lot. I took out a second mortgage six, seven years ago—terrible interest rate, but I didn’t have a choice. I was out of work and got behind on stuff.” He looked down at the beer bottle in his callused hands. “So I can’t get a new place.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Joshua, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s my own fault. I know that. Too much debt, not enough money. I couldn’t cover two houses, and God knows the house would never sell anyway. There’s already three houses on the market on our street. Nobody is touching any of them.”

  He finished his beer and motioned to the waiter for another. I tossed back the rest of my drink and nodded for a refill too.

  “So that’s why I can’t move, even though I’d love to get a new place for me and Shel.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “And when she says she can’t stay there, and I can’t fix it, I feel like I’m failing her. And I guess I didn’t really get it till this week, that trying to make her stop talking about it is just pushing her out faster.”

  “It is.” I touched his hand. “She doesn’t want to get away from you—that’s not what she wants at all. Last night she was really rattled from the fight you had.”

  The waiter brought our second round and we sat in silence for a while.

  Finally, Joshua said, “So what am I supposed to do?”

  I felt like an idiot for thinking that I was in a position to give Joshua advice. My big plan was to convince him to move. It hadn’t occurred to me that he literally could not. “I don’t know,” I said. “But step one is trusting her. That you raised a good kid. Because she is. She’s a really good kid. Smart. But she needs her space, so give her that space. She wants to go to Hocking Hills with some friends, let her.”

  His face fell.

  “And when it comes to the apartment thing, give her some credit. She’s being very smart about this, she’s looking at a lot of places. Olde Towne East is a great neighborhood. I’ve lived there for years.” Besides, I thought but did not say, the reason we were even having this conversation was that far worse had happened down here in Belmont.

  Joshua sighed again. “But what if something goes wrong? She’s just a kid.”

  “Come on, you know that Shelby’s more responsible than either of us,” I said, and we both laughed. “She can stay with me for a few days while things cool off between you. Maybe then you could show her some support, maybe look at some places with her?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Okay. That sounds good.” He finished his beer and touched my arm. “Why do you always know exactly what to do?”

  “That couldn’t be further from the truth, but thanks for saying so,” I told him.

  * * *

  When I let myself into the apartment, I saw the faint blue glow of the television. Shelby was on the sofa, watching an episode of Law & Order, the one where Claire Kincaid tries to quit her job. “Hiya,” I said. “I see you’re embracing the bachelor lifestyle in the same way I do.”

  “I never heard of this show before. But it’s good.”

  I sat down on the other end of the sofa. “Just when I think I’m over it, you go and make me feel old again. This show was in its prime when I was your age.”

  Shelby smiled. “You aren’t old. You just feel like that because the world makes you feel bad sometimes. Can I tell you something?”

  I nodded.

  “Sometimes I feel that way too.”

  Out of nowhere, my eyes welled up in the dark. “A lot of stuff has happened to you already, girl.”

  “What did you talk to my dad about tonight?”

  “That’s between us old people,” I said. I would never tell her about Joshua’s mortgage problem. “I think I got him to understand why you don’t want to live in Belmont anymore, at least.”

  “Not that he’ll do anything about it.”

  “Maybe he won’t. But understanding is something, at least. So when are you heading to the cabin?”

  She perked up at that. “Tomorrow morning. I think we’re staying till Friday, as long as the weather isn’t gross and rainy.”

  “Are you excited?”

  “For sure. Miriam’s cool, and I love Hocking Hills. It’s so pretty. I’m going to grill veggie dogs for everyone—hopefully it will make them like me.”

  “I’m sure you don’t have to purchase anyone’s affection with veggie dogs, but even if you did, that’s guaranteed to work. So you haven’t met the other people yet?”

  “There’s Miriam, and her sister Abby, and Abby’s boyfriend, and their cousin, I think. I haven’t met them but we have a group text and they seem cool.”

  “One thing your dad and I talked about,” I said, “is that he wanted me to ask you for the address of the cabin. Just so someone knows where you are.”

  “What, for the police report? When I disappear too?” Shelby made a frustrated groan. “Fine. Whatever.”

  “Hey, it’s a not a bad idea. Someday, when you’re old too, you’ll wish people cared about where you were.”

  She pulled out her phone and tapped at the screen, her face illuminated in a pale white glow. “I’ll text it to you when Miriam finds out,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  She gave me a small smile. “Is he going to be like this for the rest of my life?”

  “Probably.”

  She sighed again. “When I say I live in Belmont, people are like, OMG, did you ever see the guy, do you know where it happened? And I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want that to be the one thing about me, you know?”

  “Yeah. I know.” I touched the rubbery scar on my wrist. I didn’t want Belmont to be the one thing about me, either. The one case I solved. The one time I made a difference. “Look, Shelby,” I said, “I know it’s hard right now. I don’t want this situation to define either of us. And I really don’t want you to have to come of age thinking you hate your father. That’s what happened to me, and it screwed me up, a lot. So you can stay with me as long as you want. Not an official move in here situation, but you don’t have to go home when you get back from Hocking Hills, if you aren’t ready.”

  Shelby covered her mouth with her hand.

  “But you can’t cry,” I added. I fanned at my face. “Because I will too.”

  “Okay,” she said quickly, nodding, blinking fast.

  “It’s just that everyone should have somebody who makes things easier and not harder.” I unfolded myself from the couch. I didn’t have a person like that at the moment. Tom used to be it, but that wasn’t the case anymore, it seemed. I felt a full-blown tantrum building behind my eyes and I needed to escape to the privacy of my bedroom before it happened.

  Shelby was still nodding.

  I held out my hand for a fist bump as I walked out of the room, and she tapped her knuckles lightly on mine.

  FIFTEEN

  The UPS notice was still on the door of Leila’s building, and the neighbors still didn’t want to talk to me when I checked on her place again in the morning. I hoped Catherine would come through soon with a means of getting to Leila, but antiquated printing processes might not be high on Leila’s list of priorities at the moment. So I switched gears and decided to see if there was anything el
se I could learn about Agnes Harlow’s potential relationship with Marin.

  Sam Kinnaman lived with his daughter and her wife and kid in a twisty subdivision on the far outskirts of Dublin. I got lost back there for nearly ten minutes before realizing that there were somehow two streets with the exact same name, and eventually found my way to a medium brown gable-front with an open garage full of crap. I walked up to the house and heard a woman saying, with no small degree of frustration, “Brandy, please, those things do not spark joy and we’re getting rid of them.”

  A little blond girl in a polka-dot sundress was sitting on the cement floor, flinging things out of a giant pile. “But this is mine and this is mine and I still want it,” she whined. Then she saw me walking up the driveway and gave me a big smile. “Are you here for the yard sale?”

  A woman poked her head around the corner, holding a dusty French press and a strip of price stickers. “Can I help you?” She was about thirty, blond, clad head to toe in a lululemon outfit that probably cost more than my whole wardrobe. She looked wary of me.

  “My name is Roxane, and I’m a private investigator,” I started.

  “Oh.” She smiled and set down the coffeemaker. “I’ve had people coming up all morning, asking if they can shop. The sale isn’t till Friday! You’re the one he was telling us all about.”

  “I promise I won’t even look at anything,” I said. “Are you Sam’s daughter?”

  “Daughter-in-law,” the woman said. “Molly. Sam’s at his rehearsal—he’s playing piano for a community-theater musical this summer. You look familiar. Have you been on TV?”

  I shook my head, not wanting to get into it. “I just have one of those faces.”

  “Let me grab Suzy real quick. I’m sure Sam will be back in a few minutes but I know Suze will want to talk to you. Brandy, come with me, sweetheart.”

  Molly took her daughter’s hand and they disappeared into the house through the garage. I perused a table stacked high with seventies-era cookbooks, touting the benefits of microwave ovens. One of them showed a whole turkey on the cover. Despite my firm lack of interest in cooking, I flipped it open, curious to see how exactly a whole turkey could be cooked in a microwave. Then the garage door opened again and a tall, short-haired woman in a chambray shirt came out. She had Sam’s thick eyebrows and the Harlows’ square jaw and she looked about ten or so years older than her wife. “The sale isn’t till Friday,” she said, then quickly added, “I’m kidding. Molly’s very concerned about people trying to shop early.”