by Deb Caletti
“Lila, gross. ‘Budding romance’?”
“You know what I mean! I didn’t even realize the similarities. Maybe some part of me did, I don’t know. So much is under the surface. I just don’t see things sometimes.”
That was for sure. Lila signaled the waiter. She changed her mind about the wine. Then she leaned forward, took my hands.
“Baby, I’m leaving him,” she said.
“You are?” I was so relieved. So, so relieved.
“I don’t know what this means for us, but we’ll get through somehow.”
“That’s great, Lila. That’s really great.”
“I’m scared of him. And now he’s gotten me involved in a terrible mess.…”
“I know.”
“I had no idea what he was doing. I feel like an idiot. I thought he was a big, successful real estate man. An art collector…”
I didn’t entirely believe her, that she had no idea what he was doing. But it didn’t matter. It felt so good to hear her say that she was leaving Jake. Something was being done. I wish I could explain how beautiful she looked sitting across from me, and how wonderful it felt for her to be honest and real about her own mistakes. But even more than that, I wish I could explain what I saw in her eyes. What I understood. How she had hoped for things. How it was complicated, really complicated, for her to know how to get them.
“I’m going to tell him this weekend. I can’t do it tonight because it’s our anniversary, and he’s got this fancy dinner planned.”
“Oh, Lila…” I groaned. But I didn’t know about any of this. I didn’t know how you sometimes didn’t say the important thing because of an anniversary or a birthday or because it was Christmas or Valentine’s Day, or his mother had just died, or his cat was sick, or he’d been nice or had paid the check or had just helped you or was about to.
“After that, I promise. I just need to wait this out. He’d kill me if I did it tonight.”
Of course, she didn’t mean that literally.
* * *
The Lamborghini was in the driveway when Lila and I got back home. You didn’t keep regular office hours when you were a real estate tycoon–slash–art thief.
Max greeted me like I was the parent coming home after his night with a mean babysitter. I could feel his jazzed tension, and his ears were back and he was yawning a lot and kept jumping up even though I told him to quit. Jake sat in the White Room on that white couch. In front of him, on the glass table, there was an enormous bouquet. It was the size of a pup tent. White lilies, white orchids, white roses. It was stunning, very Lila, no expense spared.
Her face lit up when she saw it. But like this whole story that I’m trying to tell you right now—it was not what it seemed.
Because Jake was seething. It didn’t make sense. If he had bought these for her, he’d be pleased, seeing her beaming like that. But no. He looked murderous.
“I thought these were from you,” he said before she could even set down her purse. “For our anniversary. Fucking bastards.”
“What?” Lila was having trouble understanding too.
“The guy handed me the flowers, and I signed for them.”
Inside that bouquet was a subpoena for all of Jake’s business records. They’d tricked him into taking it. Score one for the FBI.
* * *
Before I left to meet Nicco, I tapped on Lila’s bedroom door to say good-bye. She was getting ready. She wore a glittery gold dress, but she was barefoot. She hadn’t put on her heels yet. She smelled good. I heard the shower running.
“You’re still going, huh?” With Jake’s legal troubles deepening by the minute, I thought their plans might change, but no.
“He’s in a mood.” Lila rolled her eyes. She held her lipstick, twisted it upward, the red ready to meet her mouth. But her hand trembled. It gave me an awful feeling in my stomach.
“Maybe you shouldn’t go.”
“That’s what I said, but he’s made all these arrangements.”
“You don’t have to,” I said.
“It’s fine. You look pretty.”
“Thanks.” I was wearing the flowered sundress we bought that day at Paige. “You do too.”
“Love you, baby,” she said, so of course I said it back. Those were the rules.
“Love you.”
* * *
“At least they’re going out,” I told Max. “It’ll be okay. You can just kick back with a relaxing bowl of water and a nice dinner of brown crunchy stuff.”
I swear, he looked doubtful.
That awful feeling in my stomach came with me as I stepped out the front door of 716 Sea Cliff Drive. And then the ghost leaned in close and tried to speak. I couldn’t hear her, but I felt her cold, forever presence, and I shivered.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Exhibit 68: Blue wool blanket, 90" x 90"
Since Nicco and I were only going to Baker, I walked. There were no good places to be alone. Nicco’s roommate was having a party at his place, and so all we had was his car and the beach.
I hurried to the end of the street, took the stairwell to the shore. I could barely see the steps. The sun had set, and the fog was already drifting in. It sounds like one of Lila’s films, the fog some moody metaphor or bad omen, but I can’t help the way it was. When I reached the bottom, the beach looked like it was filled with floating apparitions.
“Boo,” he said. And then arms went around my waist. Hands pulled me close.
I let out a cry. “Goddamn it. Don’t scare me like that.”
“I didn’t want you to have to walk down here alone. It’s so hard to see.”
“It’s creepy. But beautiful.”
“You are.” He pulled me to him. His mouth was already on mine.
“Hey, thanks a lot,” I teased when we pulled away. I socked his arm. “Creepy but beautiful.”
“Only beautiful.”
It got crazy hot, fast. Mouths and mouths. Need. And here was another reason he was right about how sex changed everything, because who even wanted to joke around right then? Who cared about talking? I mean, telling each other about your first-grade teacher and your dreams for the future wasn’t this. It was nice and great and important, but not now.
It was just Nicco, and Nicco’s dark curls and dark eyes against the white of the night. He’d brought a blanket this time, the one I remembered from his bed, the woven blue one. We walked away from the parking lots, toward the darker end of Baker, toward China Beach, but we didn’t get very far. We were holding hands, and hands moved up arms, and then he turned and then I did, and his body was against mine, and we were drowning in it again.
“I wish we could go to my van, but the patrol car was right there in the parking lot,” he said.
“Is there nowhere in this city you can park a—”
“Come here.”
We were down on the sand. Somehow, the blanket had gotten under us. I didn’t even notice him spreading it out. We were kissing for a long time, trying to slow it down, because slow was maybe better. My sundress was shoved up, and his shirt was off. The stupid sand was getting everywhere in spite of the blanket, and, God, Baker was always colder than you remembered. A wind picked up, and the fog swirled, and it was so eerie, and the mist from the sea blew up and dampened my skin.
“God, we’re getting soaked,” Nicco said. His hand was on my hair. He moved it down and cradled my face. “Mist on eyelashes.” Something for his notebook.
“Did you feel that?” I asked. Because, oh, no. That wasn’t mist. It was a drop, a big fat drop, landing on my bare shoulder.
“Noooo,” he groaned. Because, yes, there was another. And another. He stood up and so did I. He shook out the blanket and put it around me. “I didn’t even know it was supposed to rain! We’ll take our chances in the van.”
“Wait,” I said. “I’ve got an idea.”
“I like ideas. I love ideas.”
Oh, God. Why did I say it? Why?
“No one’s home.�
��
“Wait. Are you sure?”
“Yeah. They were getting ready when I left.”
“No, I mean are you sure you want to go there?”
“Very.” Very, because there was no ghost voice then, was there? No terrible warning, knocking. I couldn’t hear anything over how I was feeling. Want was louder than anything else. “Look, the tide is out, and I can practically see our stairs.”
“Shortest distance between two points is a line,” he said as the rain started to fall harder.
We ran. My hair was soaked and so was his, and I could see that his clothes were getting soaked too. I wanted to take all that stuff off. Cold bodies in warm sheets—oh, it sounded amazing. I wondered what it would be like, him in my bed, where I’d so often thought about him. I was nervous about going there, but I did quick mental calculations. We wouldn’t be there long. Lila and Jake always stayed out really late.
We reached China Beach as the tide crept in. It did come in fast, so fast. We stood at the bottom of the 104 steps. We paused, and I saw Nicco’s profile, the way he looked toward the house above us. You could see it up there, even in the fog.
Nicco was reluctant. God, maybe he heard the voice, warning.
“Come on,” I said. “It’s fine, I promise.”
“Yeah?”
“Kiss,” I commanded, and then he did, and that settled it.
“Jesus,” he said. “What is it about you?”
We ran up the stairs. I still had that blanket around my shoulders. Halfway up, he caught me on the landing. And it was raining hard now, windy, enough that the wind whipped around those old mansions, but it didn’t matter, because it would be warm soon. We could just let the rain soak us and feel what it felt like to be in that storm together.
I laughed. He pressed me against the wall. The blanket fell off my shoulders, and his hands pulled the top of my sundress down, and as I shoved my hand down his shorts, my laugh wound its way up, up, up to 716 Sea Cliff Drive. Up the rest of those stairs, to the dark patio, where Jake sat brooding.
Nicco ground his hips against my hand, and then I didn’t want anything between us, so I took my hand out. I could feel the rain on my bare skin. I could feel Nicco’s mouth on my neck, and the rain and the wind and the fog and I was lost. Too lost to hear those footsteps, but not lost enough to feel the instant terror when I heard that roar.
“What the FUCK is going on here?” Jake shouted.
Oh my God—the panic! Shit. Shit!
Nicco broke away from me and struggled to pull on his shorts and I was trying to get my dress back up, and Nicco was shoving that blanket at me so Jake wouldn’t see me there, half naked.
“I… I…” Nicco was bending and shoving and buttoning. He could barely speak.
“Get the fuck out of here. GET. THE. FUCK. OUT. OF. HERE.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” Nicco’s voice shook.
“I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!” Jake was tearing down the stairs. He was almost to the landing. His shirt was open, and now he was getting drenched too. His face was twisted in rage.
“Sir, I’m sorry.…”
“Go,” I said. “Go.”
“I can’t leave you with—”
“Go! I mean it!”
Nicco hesitated. I gave his shoulder a little shove. And so he turned. He turned and ran down those steps and then he was gone.
“Look at the little pussy, running away!” Jake said, with the singsong of a playground bully. But then, when he reached the landing where I stood, his voice turned vicious. “You little slut. Look at you.” He grabbed a handful of the blanket and shoved me backward.
I clutched the blanket to my body. I felt so ashamed.
“I can’t even deal with this. This is crazy. This is OUT OF CONTROL.”
Well, he was right about that.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry,” he spit. “You disgust me. Get inside.” He put his hand around the back of my neck. I felt his fingers on my skin, pressing, and they felt bad there, where Nicco’s fingers had just been. Jake was leading me upstairs by the neck, and he was being rough, but it was his skin on mine that felt the worst.
“Jake,” I said. My voice was soft. He stopped and he looked at me then. He looked right into my eyes. The rain beat down, and he held my eyes as he always did. I wasn’t sure what I saw there, I wasn’t sure what he was going to do next, but I could feel his breath on my face, breath that smelled like some kind of alcohol. “Let me go.”
He dropped his hand. And then he whirled away from me and stomped back up those stairs. I felt so humiliated, but I hated him too. I hated his big, blocky head and his horrible, meaty hands and his money and this house and everything about him. I hated him. He repulsed me.
I put my hand to my neck where Jake’s fingers had been. I realized that my heart necklace was gone, lost somewhere in the night, the chain broken. I began to shiver. I was shivering so bad that every part of me was trembling. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to run back down those stairs. To follow Nicco and never return. What would have happened then?
Something else. Something different.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Exhibit 69: Miyabi Birchwood chef’s knife, 8", stainless steel blade, wood handle
That blanket was heavy and dragging, wet with rain, and so I dropped it outside. Through the big doors, I could see Jake inside, the back of him, flying up the stairwell to Lila’s room. I saw the glass on the table next to me, empty of its brown liquid, his chair knocked over from rising with fury.
The shouting from Lila’s room had already started. You let her run around! Jake yelled. You’re not her father! Lila yelled back. You’re raising a slut, Jake said, and then there was the sound of a slap. And then him again: Goddamn you!
This fight, the last one, it wasn’t about Jake’s crimes or the FBI or stolen paintings. It was about me. Me, and whether or not I belonged to myself. Her, and whether or not she did.
I’m leaving you! Get out of here!
It’s my house, you stupid bitch. You think you’ll leave me? You’ll never leave me.
Thuds, crashing. Screaming. Her screaming. Max ran in circles downstairs, whining, trotting half up the stairs and down again.
I had to do something. I felt in my pocket for my phone.
But it wasn’t there. It wasn’t there! Where was it? I had no idea. I ran outside to look on the patio, but no. It could have fallen out of my pocket down at the beach when we were on the blanket, or while we were running, or on the stairs. It could be anywhere. I remembered the security system, that button with the little red cross that meant emergency. I ran to the box on the wall and pushed and pushed and pushed the button.
And then came a scream like I’d never heard before. A primitive sound. A terror sound. I grabbed Max by the collar and practically threw him into the garage and I shut the door. I didn’t know if help was coming. I couldn’t wait for it if it was, because it might be too late by then.
I was in a panic. I didn’t know what to do. Something. Something! I would scare Jake—that was my plan, if you could call it a plan. I went into the kitchen. I grabbed one of those knives. One of those fancy kitchen knives stuck on that magnetic holder.
And then I ran upstairs.
I did.
On the stairwell, I saw that poster of Lila on the ground, the glass broken as if a fist had gone through it. I ran to their room. The door was open, and I saw Jake with his arm raised. He was coming at her. I saw a flash of black. I thought it was a gun, maybe.
“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” I shouted.
Lila looked at that knife and screamed. “Baby, no!” She grabbed the knife from me. And as Jake charged toward her, she thrust out her hand and the knife went in. God, into his body! His eyes looked at us both in shock. Blood started to… just seep through his shirt. I shut my eyes. I turned away, put my head in my hands in horror and confusion, but not before I saw the expression on his face.
Disbelief. Betrayal. How could you?
My head was turned away, but I heard it, the crashing stumble backward, the hard thud of his landing.
And then Lila began to sob. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.”
I looked. She was on her knees, next to him. She was stroking his forehead. Blood was pooling beneath him, soaking the hem of her satin robe. He didn’t look right. His eyes didn’t. A terrible sound was coming from his throat.
“Baby, help me here!” Lila craned his neck back, breathed into his open mouth. Her hands and arms were all bloody and it didn’t look real. Nothing seemed real. It was like an R. W. Wright movie, the blood, the body, the girls, but the one girl was frozen; she just stayed frozen for way too long, and the body didn’t get up again—it just lay there.
“Baby, what am I going to do?” Lila was crying. She was pleading. “You’ve got to help me. Please, you’ve got to help me.”
She stared and stared into my eyes. And even through the cold distance of being frozen, even through the unreality of the film playing, I knew what she was asking.
* * *
An ambulance arrived, and then the police. There was a sudden swirl of lights and people, and the house was full of cops and attendants. A different van came, and Jake’s body was taken outside on a rolling stretcher, and Lila’s attorney, Bill Greer, suddenly appeared.
It was all a spinning mass of confusion, but when Detective Don Chambers leaned toward me and said, “Sydney, can you tell me what happened?” it was clear what I was supposed to do. I was guilty anyway. I felt guilty. I’d wanted and I’d taken and now I was getting punished, like the dirty, slutty girls in the R. W. Wright books. I’d been hungry, and hungry was wrong and bad, and now look. That fight had been about me, and I had gotten that knife, and I didn’t listen hard enough to the ghost when she’d tried to speak. I would help Lila, just like she asked me to.
