“Agent Wheatley is there now, and I explained the situation,” Erica said as she dialed for a taxi. Meanwhile, I thanked Ivy inadequately and accepted a jar of that floral-scented aloe with a promise to reapply it (and see a real medical professional as soon as I felt safe to). Then I offered Ivy my phone number before I remembered itwasn’tmy phone number. I didn’thavea real phone number anymore, or any other contact information.
But still, we promised to meet when it was safe, if ever. We needed to talk about Ethan. Although I had a feeling I’d soon be talking about him plenty.
After checking the perimeter again, my professor hustled me outside to a taxi. Both Erica and Ivy had insisted I get a few hours of sleep in the expansive spare bed, and as muchas I’d protested, I didn’t regret the chance for some blissful unconsciousness. But I was up soon enough to attack it all again, dressed in Ivy’s leggings, flip-flops, and a hooded long-sleeved T-shirt with some floral surf brand logo, the drawstring pulled tight around my bunched-up curls, topped off with a pair of comically oversized movie-star sunglasses masking most of my face.
“Talk to him andonlyhim,” Erica warned.
I nodded and placed my seared body gingerly into the seat, watching weak streaks of pinkish-gray light just grace the suburban rooftops on four sides, offering a grounding glimpse of the distant peaks. This endless night was finally ending, and my clothing was too warm for the weather, but the weather wasn’t the point. When I got home, I wanted people to focus onme, not the angry, glistening, pus-filled blisters wallpapering my body, and the where-on-earth-have-you-been questions that would inevitably follow.
When I was finally alone, standing in front of my full-length filigree mirror, I knew I’d have all the time in the world to see fully what I had lost.
“But what about you and Alma?” I finally asked Erica, just before she closed the door.
“Wheatley sent a squad car to park down the street and keep an eye on the house,” she explained. “The officers don’t know the details, only that we’re under protection. He said it’s better if we stay put for now.”
“Now you have to trustthreecops instead of just one?” I exclaimed. “And what about that guy Ivy saw, and?—”
Erica closed her eyes, her ragged, deep breath revealing just how much she was struggling, evenwithoutMilagros lying intubated in a hospital bed somewhere. “I know, I know. But we’re getting to the point in this thing where you don’t ask too many questions.” She gave me a fast, awkward, very-Erica hug,slammed the taxi door, and signaled to the driver. And then there was no arguing because she was halfway down the block already.
Thank God Erica was still relatively calm. Because home, when I arrived, was pure chaos.
Nearly a dozen police cars were outside, jammed together in the circular drive, lights flashing, tires crushing the carefully manicured landscaping. A pair of them had even cracked one of the ocotillos nearly in two. Officers in official windbreakers, some with holstered assault weapons, marched grimly in and out of the front door, hoisting files and folders and electronic equipment. And across the front door, that yellow tape with the black lettering that always seemed to signify something horrible, at least on TV.
My breath shortened and my fight-or-flight kicked into overdrive,again. At this rate, I was certain I’d wind up hooked up to a heart monitor by the end of the day.
Something crunched underfoot, and I glanced down to see broken glass scattered across the lawn, glinting in the sunlight. Following the trail, I gazed up fretfully to see one of the living room windows smashed wide open.
“Daddy?” I shouted.
As I stood frozen, the front door flung open, and the housekeeper ran outside in a tizzy, disheveled silver strands flying from her usually neat hair. She was flanked by two alarmed-looking cops in windbreakers, and she caught me by the arm as I tried to duck under the tape.
“Where is he?” I demanded.
The housekeeper sighed. “Miss, please, you can’t?—”
“I don’t care.” My eyes scanned the house again, my heart slamming against my ribcage, checking for any signs of damage or injury. I marched toward the tape. “I believe federal law bans you from preventing access to my domicile.” I had no ideawhat the fuck federal law said, but the key was to sound like I did. “And where’s Agent Wheatley?” Neither of these two cops matched the description of him Erica had given.
“Miss—” the housekeeper began, a million questions frozen on her lips, evenwithouta glimpse at the burns.
Not waiting to hear them, I tore away, grabbed the yellow tape, threw it aside, and ducked underneath through the front door, sprinting toward the living room, coming to a stop in the kitchen just outside it, the housekeeper following on my heels.
My father—voice raspier, face more drawn and haggard than when I’d left him—was in the midst of an explanation to yet two more agents, both wearing the same windbreakers with bold yellow lettering on the back. The place had been flipped upside down—drawers pulled out, cushions upended, papers fluttering everywhere—but to my relief, no guns had been drawn and other than the one smashed window, no signs of a struggle. That was the privilege of being an ex-millionaire CEO, I supposed. It was certainly the privilege of beinghisdaughter that let me burst past the barriers without the bullets flying. But I obviously wasn’t complaining.
“Mr. Wainwright-Phillips, our evidence shows that you were the primary investor in the venture,” a plump, freckled female agent with spiky strawberry blond hair was saying in a flatly unsympathetic tone. “Your name is on every single piece of paperwork we’ve been able to recover. There’s no other?—”
My father interrupted, which evenIknew he shouldn’t be doing without his lawyer. But I didn’t blame him for protesting. Hewasbeing unfairly accused.
“And I told you thereis. The bastard defrauded me, with the help of one of my own slaves. It was all going on right in front of my eyes. God, I can’t believe how blind I was.”
I closed my eyes, trying to calm myself enough not to scream before I heard the rest of his outlandish theory.
“I lent him a highly valuable slave, one of my best investments, in good faith, in a deal that would benefit all of us”—I couldn’t help rolling my eyes—“and he stole him right out from under me.”
Stole?
“Mr. Wainwright-Phillips.” This was a tall, muscular, dark-brown-skinned male agent. Wheatley. He was younger than I had pictured, and his voice was different, in a way. Not sympathetic, necessarily. But capable of grasping nuance, at least.
Talk to him and only him.
