by Erin Huss
"I'm here. Curious…I'm here with a…new…Shanna Roberts…last month…what do you know…a Michael Smith."
"Chase, my phone is broken. I'm going to lose you."
…
"Chase?" I looked at my screen. The call was still connected. "What about Michael Smith? What about Shanna? Chase? Hello? Crap."
I swallowed back a lump of panic—but it bounced right back up. Chase had said "Michael Smith." I was sure of it. He had also said "Shanna Roberts." Chase had no idea Shanna Roberts had skipped. Michael Smith was connected to Jessica Wilders somehow, but how was Michael Smith connected to Shanna Roberts? And if both Jessica and Shanna were connected to Michael Smith, did that mean they were somehow connected to each other?
And since I knew Shanna and I had her mother, did that mean I was now connected to Jessica Wilders?
Maybe the worst-case scenario portion of my mind wasn't so wrong after all?
CHAPTER TWENTY
See also: Defender
I soared past plans A thru C and landed on D.
Plan D: Rub temples and bite at lip until Patrick knocks on the window, taps his imaginary wristwatch, and tells you to get outside.
When I opened the door, Trevor and Mr. Nguyen were forehead to forehead. "You have a blue aura," Trevor said.
"Cambria is back," Patrick announced. "Time to get a move on."
The wind had dwindled to a breeze, and we walked along the pathway in the first courtyard, through the ivy-laced breezeway, and past the pool. Trevor must have said "wow" and "amazing" a dozen times during our journey, pointing to everything from the blooming flowers to the clean railings. If I weren't wading through a smog of panic, I would have burst with pride. As it was, I had to make a conscious effort not to wet myself.
Had I gotten myself mixed up with Jessica Wilders and what press was now calling the Ghost Confidential Murders?
"Have we ever had a resident by the name of Michael Smith?" I asked Patrick under my breath while Trevor inspected a bush.
"I can't remember the name of every resident we've ever had at all the properties…I mean communities. Why?"
I shook my head. "Nothing."
While Trevor and Mr. Nguyen chatted about water consumption, I peeked into the third courtyard to make sure Kevin wasn't out and about and nude.
No Kevin, but Trent in Apartment 23's tight-pant brunette had arrived. She performed her balancing act up the stairs. She waved to Larry, who was on his upstairs balcony vaping, and to Silvia, who was in the doorway yelling at her parrot, Harold, on her shoulder.
"Smoke will kill Harold!" Silvia berated him from her doorway.
Larry puffed out a cloud of smoke with a devilish grin on his face. The situation was exaggerated by Silvia, who had on a baby-blue nightie turned see-through by the sunlight, and Harold, who had on a diaper.
They make diapers for birds?
Who knew?
I was getting quite the pet education today.
"I'm calling management." Silvia slammed the door.
My phone buzzed from my back pocket.
Ignore.
Trevor stuck his face up to mine, and I went cross-eyed. "I can see Kevin's door is still black?"
"Yes. But we did fix the window," I pointed out. "Now that's he's back, I can speak with him about painting the door if you like. I was told he had more flexibility since he's the owner's son."
Trevor looked taken aback. Unfortunately, he didn't take any actual steps back. "Kevin is home?"
"He's home?" Patrick mirrored Trevor's shock. "Why didn't you tell me Kevin was back?"
To be honest, I didn't think it was that big of a deal. But instead of saying that, I said, "Ummmm," because I have a way with words.
"The agreement was that he goes to rehab. A short prison sentence won't work," Trevor said.
"As far as I knew, he was sentenced to three months in prison and then rehab," said Patrick.
"If he didn't do rehab, then he can't live here." Trevor cleaned his glasses with the sleeve of his shirt. "If he didn't keep his end of the deal, then I don't keep mine."
Mr. Nguyen made himself scarce by inspecting the ground.
"Kevin can't leave," I said. "Isn't three months in prison good enough? He did rehab last year, and it didn't work. I think prison might have had a bigger impact. He looks better and is acting normal."
Trevor peered through his giant glasses to be sure all spots were gone before he shoved them back on his face. "Rehab gives him the tools required to stay clean. Prison gives him more contacts to buy drugs from when he gets out. We went through this before. I thought he had decent representation. What idiot lawyer would get a drug addict out of rehab?"
He did not just snub the experienced and dedicated Thomas J. Dryer, Attorney at Law. I was about to go all Silvia on him, but Patrick said, "We could have him pay rent" and saved me from myself.
"If he wants to live here for free, then he has to follow my…I mean…his parents' rules. I realize he had a taxing childhood. My aunt and uncle are old-school souls. But he's over forty years old now. At some point you have to take accountability for your own actions…" Trevor drew on and on, but something about the phrase "taxing childhood" stuck with me.
A taxing childhood…
Where had I heard or read this before?
I thought back to the picture of Jessica on the front of Daily C-Leb Mag. Her deep-set brown eyes. The article. Taxing childhood.
Jessica, Shanna, Michael Smith…
…Jessica and Shanna and Michael Smith…
Jessica and Shanna and Katherine and Michael Smith and a taxing childhood?
"Cambria!" Patrick snapped his fingers in front of my face.
I gazed at him.
"What do you think about our idea?" Patrick asked, trying to sound polite, but I could tell by his face he was irritated.
I stared at him. "Idea?"
"What is going on with you?" he hissed under his breath.
"We're going to have Kevin pay rent," Trevor said. "At a discount, but if he defaults, he's out, just like every other resident."
"But he's not like every other resident," I said. "His parents agreed he could stay here for free so long as he doesn't contact them. Why should he be punished because he suffers from addiction? As a McMill, as the trustee, shouldn't you look after the well-being of not only the com-mu-nity but also your cousin? Addiction is a disease. We should be helping him, not hindering him. He needs support. Having him pay rent now when he just got out of prison is a terrible idea. It's the opposite of what you should be doing." Though Kevin paying rent would help my bottom line…quite a bit. But still. Kevin and his parents had an agreement. Right was right. And while I wasn't allowed to say anything about the cheaters and secret gamers around here, I could stick up for Kevin.
Patrick pulled at the few hairs he had left on his head.
Trevor pressed his eyebrows into a V. "You're bold, Cambria Clyne. You're wrong, but you're bold. I like you. Kevin pays rent. Let's move on." He waved for the group to follow then swung an arm around Mr. Nguyen's shoulders. "I'd be curious to hear your take on what the energy of this place is."
My phone buzzed. It was Tom. He must have gotten a new phone. The call dropped before I could answer. The phone buzzed again. It was a 310 area code, and, once again, the call dropped before I could answer. My voicemail notification lit up, but I was unable to access it.
I followed the group of men, my mind still churning over how Shanna Roberts and Jessica Wilders were connected. Shanna Roberts, Katherine Roberts, Jessica Wilders.
The little light bulb in my head turned on.
Jessica was twenty-eight the day she was murdered. Which meant she was born in…carry the one…add the two…
The little light bulb in my head reminded me that my phone had a calculator, except I couldn't access my calculator. So I resigned myself to using my fingers…add the two…Jessica would have been fourteen.
Fourteen!
Could her child
hood have been "taxing" because she had an addict mother? An addict mother whom she found dead of a drug overdose when she was merely fourteen years old?
If that were the case, then would that make Jessica and Shanna sisters?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
See also: Snoop
"I have to go!"
The three men whirled around. Somewhere under his beard, Trevor's mouth was agape. Mr. Nguyen looked concerned. Patrick shot me a disapproving frown before saying, "Where could you possibly have to be right now?"
"It's an emergency." I fumbled the keys out of my pocket and juggled them around. "Here. Go look at the vacant apartments." I tossed them to Patrick. They bounced off his face.
Note to self: you have the world's worst aim.
"If it's an emergency, then we'll accompany you," said Trevor.
"It's not that kind of emergency. It's…personal." I left the last part open for interpretation.
No more questions asked.
I couldn't tell them that I thought Shanna Roberts'—who, oh yeah, skipped on her lease—sister was the super-famous and super-dead Jessica Wilders, and I was pretty sure I had their cremated mother on my desk, because I'd sound crazy. And maybe I was crazy. Maybe Tom was right. I had turned an innocuous situation into an episode of Law & Order—or better yet, Ghost Confidential.
Mr. Nguyen plucked my keys off the ground and handed them to me. "I have my master key. You go ahead."
Poor guy looked confused.
Patrick and Trevor rocked on their feet, unsure of what to say next when Mother Nature did me a solid and diffused the situation. The wind returned and blasted our exposed skin with tiny blades of debris at record-breaking speed. I held up my hand to protect my eyes.
Trevor's man bun came unraveled, and his hair waved around him as if he were Pocahontas singing about the colors of the wind.
Patrick covered his eyes and hunched over in agony, while Mr. Nguyen yelled, "Let us go see Apartment 17!"
"Good idea!" Trevor fought with his mane to get it back in place. "Let's go inside."
I tugged on Mr. Nguyen's sleeve. "Take them to the other vacancy if they breeze through that one quickly," I said.
He nodded. "No problem. Everything OK?"
"We'll see."
I ran to the office as fast as I could, which wasn't fast at all, more like an excited shuffle, because I was out of shape and…well, I was out of shape. I'd officially squashed any hope of a golf cart. At this point, I hoped for a job when this was over. I hoped I wasn't in prison for harboring a celebrity's dead mother when this was over. Heck. I hoped I wasn't dead!
I took a seat behind my desk, shook the mouse to wake up my computer, and googled Jessica Wilders' mother.
Birth Name: Jessica Katherine Wilders
Place of Birth: San Fernando Valley, CA
Parents: Jerald Wilders (56) and Katherine Roberts (deceased)
My head imploded.
The urn on my desk belonged to Jessica Wilders. I'd found it Tuesday morning, hours after she'd been murdered.
The question remained: why was it in Apartment 17's carport cabinet? Something told me Steph Woo had nothing to do with it. The close proximity to Shanna's carport was too great of a coincidence.
Without warning, the computer screen went black. "No, no, no! Not right now, please." I shook the mouse. "Turn back on, please?" There was no use. The power was out.
Technology was really screwing me over.
My eyes cut to Mom.
Fine.
I leaned in close, cupped my hands around my mouth, and whispered, "What is it that you want?"
She didn't answer back. Thank goodness, because things were already too paranormal for my taste. I swiveled around in my chair and rolled to the filing cabinet, pulled Shanna's file, and flipped to her application.
Name: Shanna Katherine Roberts
Age: Twenty-One
I punched the numbers into an actual calculator because I didn't trust my fingers. In 2004 Shanna was seven years old. Jessica was fourteen, and Shanna was seven. Now I was sure of it—Shanna Roberts and Jessica Wilders were half sisters. I had their mother on my desk and not a clue what to make of this situation.
I called Chase but was unable to get through on my piece-of-crap cell, and because the power was out, the office phone didn't work either.
It was time to take matters into my own hands. I excitedly shuffled to Shanna's apartment and opened the door. Nothing had changed. Not that I expected it to. I cracked the living room window in hopes that fresh air would stifle the allergens.
No such luck.
It felt as if a pair of imaginary hands were wringing out my lungs. My eyes filled with tears, my throat itched, and my nose was a free-flowing faucet of snot. It wasn't pretty.
Wasn't pretty at all.
The one-bedroom apartments are 800 square feet with two walk-in closets, a hall linen closet, and an open kitchen plan, filled with cabinets. This was a lot of space to cover in the short amount of time I had left to breathe.
I threw open the kitchen cabinets, one by one, in search of what? I wasn't sure. All I knew for sure was Shanna and Jessica were sisters and I had their mother. Someone attempted to break into my apartment the night before, and Shanna disappeared that day.
Coincidence?
Methinks not.
I feared that (A) Shanna was involved with her sister's murder, or (B) Shanna had been murdered.
Though Hampton said the killer didn't break in. He shot from the outside, Rambo style. It seemed unlikely the killer would steal Shanna's home furnishings. It also seemed unlikely someone so ostentatious would break into my apartment by removing the screen. Which meant it was probably Shanna coming in to get her mom.
But this was all a theory. I hoped there was something left behind to debunk it. I didn't want to be mixed up with Jessica Wilders more than I already was. People around her were dropping dead by the minute.
And I wasn't in the mood to die that day.
Nothing was left in the cabinets aside from a plastic bowl and a dirty Keep Calm and Act On mug. The bathroom cabinets were bare except for an extra roll of toilet paper. The master bedroom was bare. I opened one of the closets, and out came an orange tabby cat. He rubbed his body against my leg and purred.
Will there be a new animal every time I open a door?
"Sorry. I can't pet you," I said to the feline. "If you could go somewhere else, that would be great."
The cat stretched his front legs and yawned. Then he walked to a slice of sunlight on the carpet and lay down.
Inside the closet, a white linen shirt hung on a velvet hanger. There was a litter box on the floor, along with a scratch post. If I had use of my nasal septum, I was sure it smelled awful. I patted my hand around on the top shelf and found a white paperclip that looked to have been painted over when the apartment was turned. That was it.
The door for the water heater cabinet was ajar. I was able to access the flashlight on my phone to take a peek. Behind the 30-gallon tank was a weathered shoebox that once held pink sneakers, kids size 12. I lifted the lid and found a stack of letters, a dried rose, photos, a Barbie, and a cheap plastic charm bracelet with a variety of seemingly inconsequential charms: a baby bottle, wrench, anchor, guitar, dog, cat, bird, toothpaste.
I pulled a picture from the stack. It was a woman with dark brown hair and deep-set brown eyes. Her cheeks were sunken and her hair thin. She was sitting on a webbed lawn chair with a beer in one hand and a cigarette pressed between her lips. There was no date or name on the back, but I had a sinking suspicion this was Katherine. She had the same eyes as Jessica and Shanna. The next picture was Katherine with two little girls. I recognized one instantly as Jessica. The gap-toothed smile gave it away. She looked to be around eleven years old, while the other girl seemed to be about four. Katherine stood with a hand on each of her daughters' shoulders. Both girls had matching plastic charm bracelets around their wrists—the same one that was in the box.
<
br /> The stack of letters was bound together by a rubber band. Most were still sealed. On the front of the pile was a letter addressed to Jessica Wilders with a Los Angeles address, sent in 2009. RETURN TO SENDER was stamped on the front. I counted twenty-seven letters in total. All but three were sealed, with the RETURN TO SENDER stamped in big, hard-to-miss red lettering.
I slid an opened letter from the stack. It was from Jessica to Shanna. A single sentence: Stop writing me.
In the back of the bundle was a white paper folded into thirds. It was an email from Shanna to Jessica. I scanned the message. The cat hair in the air caused my vision to blur, but from what I was able to read, Shanna was desperate to connect with her older half sister, but Jessica did not want to pursue a relationship.
I felt a tinge of heartache for Shanna. Her mom had died when she was seven years old. Per the article, she sat with her dead mother for at least a few hours and was then sent to foster care, while Jessica went with her father. I'd be crushed if my sister wanted nothing to do with me. Not that I had one. But I could imagine.
It didn't mean that Shanna had anything to do with Jessica's death though. Maybe she was so overcome with grief that she moved. Or maybe she chose this apartment because it was close to Amy Montgomery, Jessica's on-set rival, giving her easier access to plant incriminating evidence in her car.
Gulp.
Also behind the water heater was a well-worn spiral notebook. The front and back covers were ripped and faded. The spiral wire that looped around the side was misshapen and inflexible. Many of the pages were smeared beyond legibility, and what wasn't smeared was scribbled writing.
A flyer for the Animal Center for Chance Adoption Fundraiser slipped out and fell to the floor. On the front of the flyer was a picture of Jessica holding…Munch?
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and looked closer. It was Munch alright. There was no mistaking that face. I thought back to what Amy had told Chase, how Jessica had been upset about what had happened at a fundraiser she'd had over the weekend.
