I prop the door open for Effie. Charlie follows while carefully balancing a clear plastic box loaded with a sea of blue hair gel and precisely arranged food products.
Effie sniffs the air deliberately.
“It’s my 3-D animal cell project,” Charlie tells her. “Starting to rot.”
“Well, set it on the counter here and let’s take a look.” Animal cell and 3-D take the stink out of it for Effie, who lifts the edge of the Saran Wrap cover with enthusiasm. Charlie snatches the offending letter out of Effie’s other hand.
“Miss Effie, this letter is from your insurance company.” Charlie begins to skim. “They’re going to give you $100 off your deductible and a $25 Amazon card if you fill out this form and they approve your numbers. They also want your cholesterol.”
“Damn spies, all of them.” She pokes a finger into the blue cesspool. “Put 1984 on your reading list, Charlie dear. The man was a soothsayer. My waist used to be nineteen inches. Maybe I’ll write that in their little chart. And then I’ll call the cops and sue for sexual harassment when they send somebody around with a tape measure.” Her finger continues to poke away in the box. “Hair gel for cytoplasm. Clever girl. What grade did you make on this project?”
“A minus. Which is like, really good for this teacher. The average in her class for this project over her twenty-six-year career is a C plus.”
“Well, I’d say that’s the sign of a bad teacher. What was the minus for?”
“The nucleus. I used a clear plastic Christmas ornament from Hobby Lobby.”
“And the nuclear membrane isn’t rigid. Hmm. Gotta hand that one to her, I suppose.”
“Should I dump this in the compost, Mom? The jar said the hair gel is all-natural.”
“It seems like more of a biological weapon at this point. I will let you and our neighborhood scientist make the call. I’m going to change into some sweats.” And swig down a couple of aspirin.
I navigate the hall in the dark and flip on my bedroom light. There is a man, sleeping on my bed. Face turned away. And yet his reaction time is still better than mine. I’m looking down, fumbling for the gun in my waistband, and he’s already leapt the six feet across the bed, shoved a hand over my mouth, and stifled my scream.
I struggle against him. His other arm is pressing my back against a brutal chest. Charlie is in the house.
“Shh. OK?”
I stop squirming. Nod. He releases his grip and I flip away, stumbling. I find myself staring furiously at Charlie’s father.
“Jesus, Lucas,” I hiss. “You scared me. Where in the hell did you come from? Why can’t you knock on the door like a normal person?”
He shuts the door. “I’m sorry. I meant to text as soon as I got here. It was a twenty-nine-hour journey that involved turbulence and an Army pilot who enjoyed it a little too much. The cab dropped me off a couple of hours ago. Your bed was very comfy. I went right to sleep. Might have left some sand in your sheets.” His face is closer to mine than necessary. “You smell like strawberry crepes.” For a second, I remember what it was like to be wrapped in a burrito of solid Army muscle. And then I feel another little ping for Bill. He’d texted twice today. How’s your day? About two hours later: Come on, butterfly girl, talk to me.
“Why, again, are you here?” Trying to hold my ground in every way.
“I had a disturbing Skype session with Charlie. After your night with a domestic terrorist.”
“Oh.” I sit on the end of the bed. She hadn’t mentioned telling her dad, but why wouldn’t she?
Lucas plops beside me and tosses his arm around my shoulders. “I figured I might be needed, but you’d be afraid to ask. Also, I’m trying to be respectful of your parental boundaries. If you don’t think I should be here, I’ll go. Charlie doesn’t have to know. I can slip out the way I came in.”
“Which I assume is through the front door.”
“Well, yeah. You’re paranoid about everything but your security code. You should change it more than once every five years.”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, I don’t want you to sneak out. Charlie should know you’re here.” That you’ll come for her.
I knew Lucas. It didn’t matter what had just rolled sweetly off his tongue-he wasn’t about to go quietly after traversing an ocean for his daughter.
He has dropped his hand to my waist. Distracting. He lifts up the bottom edge of my shirt, lets his finger drift, and tugs out the.22. “You could use a little practice on your quick draw. You shouldn’t carry a gun if you can’t get it out of your pants.”
I try to summon up a retort and fail.
“How about a little refresher tomorrow?” he asks.
My head is no longer pounding. If I still believed in them, I’d say this man was a godsend.
Lucas had never once judged my sanity, or told me no.
He slips the gun into my hand. “Put it up.”
“I need a favor tomorrow morning,” I say.
“Which involves?”
“Digging.”
My bedroom is dark, except for the glow of the iPad. I’m propped against a stack of pillows. A full glass of wine is within reaching distance on the nightstand. Lucas is sprawled snoring on the couch, the contents of his duffle spilled out on the living room floor. Charlie is texting under her covers. The evening’s competitive father-daughter game of Assassin’s Creed was a little too instructional for my comfort. I was relieved when Lucas snapped off the video game about half an hour ago and tucked his teen-ager into bed for the first time in months. She pretended to be too old for tucking in, but we all knew better.
The dark is friendly, for once. The man on our sofa has sifted all of the bad things from the night and stuffed them under his pillow.
Still, I’m not at rest. I’m determined to take a little trip into the past.
I hold the picture in my hand closer to the light, which makes her eyes dance. A trail of Spanish lace spills down her hair and across her shoulders. A tiny locket nestles in her throat. A modern girl transformed into a beautiful antique bride.
I had clipped Benita’s wedding picture out of the newspaper a very long time ago, about two summers after the trial. It contains only the most basic information. In the photo, Benita is beaming up at a very white man with a very white name. The bride’s parents are listed as Mr. and Mrs. Martin Alvarez and the groom’s as Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Smith Sr.
OK, Benita aka Ms. Joe Smith. I type Benita Smith into the iPad search bar and click on Images. The first twenty-five faces do not belong to my Benita Smith. The twenty-sixth picture is a red Mercedes, and the next is a shopping mall Christmas tree followed by a pearl bracelet and a baby’s foot. Farther down, a kitchen pantry with bright red rooster door handles. In case she really did go into her uncle’s cabinet business, I click to that page. No luck. I skip through endless, useless Benita Smith story links before I head to Facebook to search for Benita Alvarez Smith. Nothing. I delete her maiden name, and the Facebook screen rolls up hundreds of Benita Smiths.
Part of me doesn’t want to work too hard at this. Would she really know something that could help Terrell? Did she overhear something? Suspect something?