“I guess so. I mean, her boyfriend died.”
A nurse entered to check vitals and refresh the drip.
After she left, I said, “Trevor told me that Adam had a relationship with a rich guy. The guy gave him a watch, as a gift. And Adam gave it to Trevor.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is that what Olivia was looking for when she showed up? The watch?”
Jasmine shrugged. “I just talked to her for a minute.”
“Did you know about it? Or the rich guy? Maybe Trevor mentioned something about a boat?”
“Not to me.” She plucked a tissue from the box on the bedside table, wiped her nose. “Who’s the rich guy?”
“His name’s Shelby Fuller. He’s got a yacht. The kind of thing you tell your friends about.”
“I mean, he never said nothing to me,” she said, “but—”
A strangled noise cut her off.
We turned toward the bed.
Trevor Vogel was upright, rigid, eyes bulging, jaw hanging open to reveal a graveyard of blackened teeth. Every monitor attached to him was alarming, heart rate and blood pressure skyrocketing.
He began to claw at the lines.
“Oh my God,” Jasmine said.
She leapt from her chair, trying to grab hold of his hands. “Stop that.”
I jumped up to help her.
“Stop it. Stop. Help.”
Two nurses rushed in, elbowing us out of the way and calling for sedation. They pinned Trevor’s arms and legs. A third nurse appeared with a syringe and put it into his line. He kicked and writhed, rasping as though his vocal cords had been cut. His head rose off the pillow. His face and neck were distended and purple as he searched the room, finding first Jasmine, pressed into the corner, sobbing with her hands over her mouth; then landing on me, where his gaze remained for ten endless unblinking seconds before he went limp.
They booted us from the ICU. Nicely — visiting hours were almost over — but firmly. The charge nurse caught us at the door, wanting to know what we’d done to upset the patient.
“Nothing,” Jasmine said. “We were just talking.”
“About what?”
“I don’t...” She looked to me. “A boat?”
“Well,” the charge nurse said, “maybe avoid that topic, huh?”
Jasmine refused my offer of a ride home, saying she’d wait for Trevor to wake up.
“Can you text me if he does?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
I hesitated. “You sure you don’t want to come back in the morning? He’ll be out for hours.”
She shook her head. Sank down opposite the ICU doors with her back to the wall.
I was exhausted. I’d been awake for the better part of forty-eight hours, driven hundreds of miles, eaten little and poorly. I wanted nothing more than to fall into bed.
Highland Terrace, where Damian Roby’s mother and sister lived, was only two blocks away. I’d take that as an omen.
I swung by.
Gerald Roby’s white Corolla was parked outside.
Wheels propped on the sidewalk. Dame’s signature move.
I pulled over, readied my camera, tore open an energy bar.
Shortly before ten p.m., Damian Roby exited the house holding a wrapped foil roasting pan. Leftovers to see him through. He turned in the doorway and bent way down to kiss his mother goodbye.
She waved as he walked to the Corolla. Love you, baby.
Roby set the pan on the passenger seat, going so far as to buckle it in.
I followed him. For once he was making my life easy, sticking to the speed limit and signaling lane changes. He seemed to be headed home. Then he got off 580 at MacArthur and drove to Lockwood Gardens, a public housing development, close to his own neighborhood and likewise situated under the Oakland airport flight path.
Parking on Eastlawn Street with his wheels propped, he carried the pan to 6515.
The door opened to him. I waited to see if he was dropping off food or staying the night. Airplanes passed low enough to vibrate the car. I couldn’t ask Regina to look up the tenant: Her notifications were silenced. Catching up on lost sleep.
Probably for the best. I had an inkling of what she might say.
Stick a GPS tracker on the car!
I didn’t have a tracker. Trackers were iwweegal.
At midnight I drove home and collapsed.
Amy took Saturday for herself, going for a leisurely run, a pedicure, dinner with girlfriends. I did the Bay Area kid thing: farmers’ market, playground, Chabot Space & Science Center. As the 3-D planetarium show started up (Mars... the ultimate voyage...) I sneaked my phone out and checked messages.
No news from Jasmine Worth.
“Daddy,” Charlotte whispered.
Her mouth was set somewhere between disappointment and satisfaction. I could almost see her marking a mental notch — ammunition for a future argument.
“They said no phones.”
“You’re right,” I whispered and put it away.
“See bideo,” Myles said.
“It’s not a video.”
“See bideo.”
“Nothing to see, buddy. Let’s watch the show.”
“See. Bideo.”
People were shooting us dirty looks.
“Myles,” I said, leaning in. “This is a movie theater. We have to be—”
He emitted the earsplitting howl Amy and I call The Weapon of Myles Disruption.
“Myles—”
Somehow, he got louder.
A voice from the back yelled, Take him out.
Cold-sweating, I reached for our bags. “Let’s go, Charlotte, please.”
“But it just started,” she said.
“We’ll discuss it later.” I hoisted Myles over my shoulder — he was still screaming — and began sliding down the aisle, knocking knees, mouthing apologies.
I was the Worst Father in the World.
“Charlotte. Come on.”
“But I want to see the movie.”
“Let’s go. Now.”
She continued to protest as we straggled to the parking lot.
“It’s not fair. Why do we have to leave just ’cause he’s a baby? I hate him.”
“You’re angry, you really don’t ha—”
“I do, I hate him.”
As soon as I buckled Myles in, he went silent, smiling at me cherubically.
“Can we go back in?” Charlotte said. “He stopped.”
“We’re already outside.”
“But I want to see the movie.”
I got in, wrestled with the seat belt. “We’ll see it another time.”
“When?”
“Tuesday,” Myles said, his stock answer for any question involving time.
“Can we come tomorrow?” Charlotte asked.
“I’m not sure that’s going to be possible,” I said.
“Awwww.”
“Please don’t ‘awwww’ at me.” I finally forced the buckle in and started the car. “We’ve had a great day. You got ice cream, you—”
“I want Mommy.”
“I regret to inform you, my darling,” I said, craning to back out, “that you have me.”
I stomped the brake. Charlotte was still wearing her 3-D glasses.
She said, “It’s dark.”
Both kids immediately fell asleep.
I chanced a drive-by of 6515 Eastlawn Street. The white Corolla hadn’t moved.
Charlotte, drowsy: “Where are we?”
“Nowhere.” I raised my phone to snap a picture and accelerated away. “Who’s hungry?”
“Me! Can we get pizza?”
“Pizza it is.”
“Yay. You’re the best daddy in the world.”
“See bideo.”
In the evening, with the kids down and Amy still enjoying her freedom, I sat at the kitchen table, gnawing crust and scrolling on my laptop. The tenant at 6515 Eastlawn was named Nia Coleman, per her socials a certified personal trainer and nutrition consultant. She offered free fitness tips, roping in friends to demonstrate.