Interlude

by Anna Cruise

  This isn’t a newsflash. “No shit. But I’m done. I’m done with all of this. Stop the fucking car.”

  She pulls to the curb and screeches to a halt. “Fine. Get out.”

  I open the passenger door.

  “Nice knowing you,” she says.

  “Fuck you.”

  “You already did,” she reminds me.

  “Wait.” Claire reaches a hand out to stop me. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” I’m out of the car now, standing on the sidewalk. “Don’t walk away? Don’t get myself untangled from this shitstorm you two have created?”

  “There’s nowhere to go,” Claire says quietly. Her eyes are red, tired-looking, but they plead with me. “If you leave, you’re as good as dead. Gino will be looking for you.”

  “I’ll leave town,” I tell her. “I’ll go see my mom.” Even though I say this, I know I won’t. I don’t have a couple grand to get to Guam.

  She ‘s half out of the car now. “We should stay together,” she says. “We can figure this out. Come up with a way to get out of this.”

  “There is no ‘we.”

  “There has to be.” Her bottom lip trembles and she lowers her voice. “Please. I…I can’t do this alone. I know you don’t know me, I know you don’t give a rat’s ass about me or my sister, but I think you’re a good guy, Nash. And a good guy wouldn’t leave. Not now.”

  Her words stab at me. Goddammit.

  “Are you two done?” Lydia asks, yawning. For someone being held hostage fifteen minutes earlier by a prick who was ready to slice her open, she’s remarkably calm. “Because, by my calculations, Gino is probably already at your house, looking for us.”

  I frown. “Why would he be at my house?”

  “Because that’s where he found me.” She raises her eyebrows. “Look, I don’t have time to explain right now. Are you in or out?”

  I look at Claire. The cool blonde who approached me outside my house is gone. She looks worried, defeated, broken, and I feel another pang of sympathy.

  “Please,” she whispers.

  I hate that I care. I don’t want to care. But I do.

  I slip back into the car and slam the door shut. Claire’s expression is one of relief.

  “Thank you.”

  I just nod. I don’t want to be thanked. I don’t want to be needed.

  I just want to be safe.

  And I’m not sure I ever will be again.

  twenty-four

  “Whose house is this?”

  We’re on La Jolla Scenic Drive, halfway up the west side of Mt. Soledad, and Lydia is parked in the driveway of a gated property. She pulls up to the keypad and punches in a code. The wrought iron gates swing open and she drives through. The security cameras mounted just beyond the gate are motorized and they shift as we wind our way up the drive.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  The drive curves past manicured lawns and a pond with a rock waterfall. A clay tennis court comes into view, along with a half-basketball court. This isn’t a house; it’s an estate, and we soon pass a small bungalow. At first I think it might be a pool house but since there’s no pool around, I guess it’s the servants quarters.

  Another minute later and the house comes into view, a mansion of ungodly proportion, a palatial white monstrosity that looks like it belongs on a southern plantation. Palm trees flank its sides, and a bubbling fountain take center stage in the roundabout in front of the massive wooden doors.

  Lydia parks the car in the roundabout and opens the door. Claire and I have no choice but to follow her.

  The front doors open before she has the chance to knock. A small guy with wire-rimmed glasses smiles nervously. “Lydia?”

  She nods.

  He motions us inside.

  The inside is just as impressive as the exterior. Polished, wood plank floors, plush area rugs, deep-cushioned couches and chairs, walls hung with oversized oil paintings that look like they’re worth more than my house, flower arrangements everywhere.

  “Thanks for having us, Ron,” Lydia says. She plants a kiss on his cheek and his entire face turns red.

  “Sure,” he says, coughing nervously. “Glad to help.”

  He takes a look at me and Claire, sizing us up. Then he turns back to Lydia. “You got what you needed?”

  Lydia reaches into her sister’s purse and pulls out the baggy. I didn’t know she transferred it from the Fruit Loops box. “Right here.”

  Ron nods. “Okay, okay. Good. I…I’ll go ahead and get started. Uh, you guys can sit down and just hang out, I guess.” He glances at me again. “You alright?”

  The question is directed at me. And, no, I’m not alright.

  “I’m fine,” I say shortly.

  “You just look a little sick…”

  “He’s fine,” Lydia says dismissively.

  Ron tugs on the collar of his shirt. It’s an old Star Wars shirt, one that is supposed to look like a Storm Trooper outfit, and it looks ridiculous on his skinny frame. “Okay. So, yeah, just stay put and, uh, don’t touch anything.”

  He pads down the hall and disappears.

  Claire whirls on her sister. “Who is he? And why are we here?”

  “Relax,” Lydia says. She lowers herself onto one of the couches, a blue one with a lounger, and stretches herself out.

  “Don’t tell me to relax,” Claire says. “I want to know why we’re here. And everything that has happened since I left this morning.”

  Lydia sighs. Her hair is up in a ponytail and she unwinds the elastic, freeing the waterfall of red so it spills onto her shoulders.

  “Fine,” she says, relenting. “But take the batteries out of your phones.”

  Claire shakes her head. “Why? We’ve been talking this whole time. What the hell does it matter now?”

  “Because I just remembered,” her sister snaps. “Just do it, alright?”

  Claire looks like she’s going to argue. They stare at each other for a moment, neither backing down, and Claire finally relents. She digs her phone out of her purse and hands it to her sister.

  “You?” Lydia asks, looking up at me.

  I think about arguing with her, too. But I’m too tired. And I want answers, too. I toss her my phone.

  With phone carcasses on the coffee table in front of her, Lydia smiles and says, “Okay, where should I start?”

  “First things first,” Claire says. She’s taken up residence in a chair across from her sister, an oversized plaid one with a matching ottoman. “Who is this Ron guy?”

  “Just someone I know,” Lydia says, shrugging. “Someone I know who’s willing to help us out.”

  “How do you know him? Does he live here?”

  “No. He housesits. That’s his job. He has a business doing that. Only sits for big timers, people who want a little added security while they’re gone.”

  An image of weasly Ron protecting anything makes me chuckle. “And they chose him?”

  Lydia’s eyes narrow. “Don’t let his looks fool you. He’s a genius. He can keep anyone out.” She smiles. “Or let anyone in.”

  “Okay, so he housesits,” Claire says. “How do you know him? And how can he help us?”

  “We’ve crossed paths online. And he found us a buyer.”

  “What?” Claire sits up straight. “You mean you’ve never met him before?”

  “Not in person—”

  “Jesus, Lydia, are you really that stupid?” Claire is on her feet now, planted in front of her sister. “And you just trust him? Just like that?”

  “Yes,” she says simply.

  Claire looks like she’s ready to punch her sister. I don’t blame her.

  “Despite what you think, I do have a brain,” Lydia retorts. “I put out a couple of feelers and Ron answered. We’ve worked on stuff together before. I know I can trust him.”

  “Let me get this straight.” I’m speaking now. “This guy is going to help you sell drugs. Illegally. Just out of the goodness of his h
eart?”

  “Well, no,” she admits. She twines her hair in her hands, twists the elastic back around it. “He’s doing it for ten percent.”

  “Ten percent?”

  “Ten percent of the profits. He’s nice, but he needs something in it for him, too.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Do you have a better idea?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I did. It was ‘let’s give Gino his shit back and mail the drive in anonymously and go our own separate ways.’ Remember that?”

  “That isn’t going to work.”

  “Well, no shit,” I tell her. “Especially considering we just duped a drug dealer, we’re sitting here with half a kilo of heroin, and you now have someone else involved, too.”

  Claire interrupts us. “You know what? Start from the beginning. How did you end up with Gino today in the first place?”

  “He was at Nash’s place. Casing it, I guess. Waiting for one of us to show up. I should have known.” She rolls her eyes. “I should have gone around back. Could have been in and out no problem, but the Uber guy and I were chatting—”

  “Uber guy?”

  “How else do you think I got there? Walked?”

  Claire doesn’t answer and Lydia continues. “So we pull up and I see Gino in the El Camino and I kind of freak. Because the last thing I need is for Gino to know that the drugs are in your house—”

  “How did they get in my house?”

  “When I was showering.” Lydia grins. “Remember? I turned the water on and then went outside and grabbed my bag from the porch. Stuffed it in a box of cereal above the fridge. You said you weren’t a good cook and the box was shoved way in the back of the cupboard so I figured it was as good a spot as any.”

  “But you told us last night that they were in a storage facility,” Claire says.

  “I know. But I didn’t tell you which one. And, technically, they were. It just so happened the ‘facility’ was Nash’s house. I wasn’t going to tell you it was there because then you’d know exactly where I was headed.

  “So, anyway, I see Gino in his car and freak. I know I can’t go inside the house but at this point, he’s seen me. So I tell the driver to take me to the storage place instead.” She wrinkles her nose. “Cost me an extra fifteen bucks.”

  “So he followed you there?”

  Lydia nods at her sister’s question. “Of course. I make a big show out of swallowing a key and he grabs me and threatens to cut me open to get it. And then he called you. You guys know the rest.”

  “Why did you plant the extra key in my wallet?” I ask. “How did you know to do that? How did you know things weren’t going to go according to plan?”

  “I didn’t,” she says. “But nothing ever goes according to plan. I was just covering my bases.”

  I frown at her. I don’t buy it.

  “Look, in a perfect world, I was going to go down to your house, grab the drugs, and get back to the apartment. Should have taken an hour, two at most. I should have been back well before Claire got home from school and you woke up.”

  My frown deepens. “Woke up?”

  She pauses and her eyes widen a little before she looks away.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just meant that you were tired,” she says.

  “Bullshit.”

  I think about the morning. The phone call from Chase – it’s a little clearer now – and breakfast with Lydia. How I was fine for a while, and how it hit me all of a sudden. I remember her touching me, hovering over me on the couch. Her lips brushing my forehead, my lips, murmuring that I would be okay.

  “Did you…” I swallow. “Did you drug me?”

  twenty-five

  “I can explain.”

  “Jesus Christ.” I rake my hands through my hair. It all makes sense now. The sudden sleepiness, the sensation of not being able to move. “You drugged me.”

  “I had to.”

  “What?” I take a step toward her. I don’t care that she’s a woman. I want to throttle her.

  “I had to get out of the apartment,” she says. “And I knew you’d freak if I tried to leave.”

  “So you drugged me. Sure. Makes sense. If you’re a fucking psychopath.” I’m a foot away and I bend down and bring my eyes level with hers. She doesn’t flinch, just stares right back at me, her green eyes clear. “What did you give me?”

  She hesitates. “GHB.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s a sedative. Kind of.”

  Claire speaks. “Where did you get it? From Joey?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Joey didn’t deal this shit. I got it at a club. Some guy tried to put it in my drink.”

  “So it’s a date rape drug?” I have to take a step back because I’m afraid of what I might do.

  “It’s not a roofie. It was just supposed to make you sleepy. Make you not care.”

  It did both those things. It also made me puke and made me feel like my head was floating away.

  “I can’t believe you drugged him.” Claire’s voice is laced with disgust. “You could have killed him. What is wrong with you?”

  “He was never in any danger of dying.”

  “You didn’t see him when I got back to the apartment.” Claire is on a rampage. “It took me a few minutes to wake him up. He vomited everywhere. He could have aspirated on it. Died right there on Zoe’s couch.”

  Lydia pales a little and her lips draw into a tight line. “But he didn’t,” she finally says. “He’s fine.”

  She doesn’t apologize, which just makes me angrier. I’m about to rip her a new one when Ron pokes his head back into the room.

  “I think we’re set.”

  We all turn to look at him.

  “Yeah?” Lydia is all smiles now. She stands up and squeezes past me. “Show us.”

  She follows Ron down the hallway and I’m left standing there, still dumbfounded and fuming. Claire looks equally pissed.

  She sighs. “I am so sorry. I don’t know what she was thinking—”

  “Not your fault,” I say shortly.

  “I know. But it sort of is.” She rubs her forehead and closes her eyes. “If she wasn’t so hell-bent on this stupid mission…if she wasn’t so stubborn and headstrong…”

  If she wasn’t a total lunatic, I want to add. But one look at Claire keeps me from opening my mouth. She can’t control what her sister does, how she behaves. If anything, she’s been the only other voice of reason over the last 24 hours.

  “It’s not your fault,” I repeat. I hold out my hand to her. “Come on. Let’s go see what they’re planning. So we can figure out what we can do to stop it.”

  twenty-six

  Ron and Lydia are huddled around a laptop in a room that looks like a cross between an office and a library. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases line one wall, filled with expensive-looking, leather-bound books. Two leather couches sit across from each other in the center of the room, a simple black coffee table between them. And in front of a bank of windows that overlook a sparkling, kidney-shaped pool, sits a mahogany desk the size of my car, a desk they’re both squeezed in behind.

  “Try for tonight,” Lydia is saying.

  Ron’s fingers fly over the keyboard, the clicking of the keys the only other sound in the room.

  “Hold on,” Claire says.

  Lydia looks up.

  “I already told you, selling isn’t an option,” Claire says. “We need to just turn it over to the authorities.”

  Her sister rolls her eyes. “Sure, because that would solve everything. Are you forgetting something, Claire? The drive?”

  Claire glances at Ron and I know what she’s thinking: does he know about it, too?

  “I don’t care about that anymore,” Claire says firmly. “Destroy it. Burn it. Drop it in the ocean. My only concern is you and me and Nash – and our safety. Selling heroin and skipping town isn’t going to solve anything.”

  Lydia laugh
s. “Don’t be stupid. Of course it will. We’ll have cash to leave.”

  “We don’t have to leave if we turn it over to the police.”

  “Oh, and you think Gino is just going to play nice and leave us alone once we get the cops involved? How naïve can you be?”

  “Of course he won’t,” Claire says. She is in front of the desk now, her arms folded across her chest. “But the police can put us in some sort of protection program. Keep us safe.”

  Lydia sighs. It’s an exaggerated, condescending one and it instantly raises my hackles.

  “You still don’t get it.” She takes a deep breath. “Let me spell it out for you, Claire. We can’t turn over the drugs, in the same way that we can’t just turn over the drive. Because we don’t know who we can trust.”

  “We’re not talking about the stupid drive anymore.” Claire’s eyes are shooting daggers. “We’re talking about untangling ourselves from this mess before we get in any deeper.”

  “Well, that’s pretty much impossible,” Lydia says, shaking her head.

  “Nothing is impossible.”

  “No?” Lydia nudges Ron’s fingers. “Can I see this for a sec?”

  He looks at her, then us, then back at her. He nods.

  She types something on the keyboard, then spins the laptop so it’s facing us. I take a few steps closer so that I’m standing next to Claire. We don’t touch but I can sense her stiffen, hear her sharp intake of breath as she focuses on the screen.

  “Yeah,” Lydia says, her voice flat. “Now there’s this.”

  I squint, trying to read it, then take a few more steps toward the desk. The screen is open to a local news site, a news article with the headline, “Suspect Sought in Pacific Beach Murder.”

  I scan the first paragraph. It’s about Joey’s death and the investigation. And Lydia is named as a suspect.

  “So now I’m no longer a ‘person of interest’ but a suspect.” Lydia’s expression is hard. “Guess when that came through the newswire?” She glances at the ornate grandfather clock nestled in a corner. “About five minutes ago.”

  “I don’t—”

  Lydia cuts her sister off. “Gino. He told someone. One of his contacts at SDPD. He told them about the drugs and the drive. So, if they didn’t know before, they know now.”