Anna Scotti recently began a perhaps permanent hiatus from a twenty-year teaching career, in order to focus on writing—including writing a screenplay based on the character featured in these pages. This is Scotti’s second inclusion in The Best Mystery Stories of the Year—the first was “A Heaven or a Hell” (2022), also first published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. In 2023, Scotti’s short story, “Schrödinger, Cat” was a finalist for both the ITW “Thriller” Award and the Macavity Award, and received a third-place Readers Choice Award from EQMM. The same year, her unpublished short fiction collection, They Look Like Angels, was a finalist for the Killer Nashville Claymore Award. In addition to mysteries, Scotti writes poetry and young adult fiction. Watch for stories coming up in EQMM and in Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine. Find her at annakscotti.com.
Vindi whined and pawed at the door. I groaned, rolling out of Marta’s big fluffy guest bed, which triggered a cloud of lavender scent to rise from too-soft pillows. As my feet sunk into Marta’s adorable lemon-patterned bedside rug, I missed everything about my spare little pool house—the hard bed, the bare floor, and most of all, the privacy.
“Go on,” I told the big dog. She darted into the hall without a glance backward. Vindi, my irritable and decidedly ungrateful rescue greyhound, had finally found her person. It sure as hell wasn’t me; Vindi barely tolerated me, treating her brother Meme with discernible disdain when he lay at my feet or danced at the door with his leash in his mouth. No, for no real reason I could ascertain, Vindi had decided that Marta’s younger son, Diego, was her personal ward. She tracked him through the house, guarded the stairs that he was too young to go up and down alone, and licked crumbs off his face and hands at every opportunity. Diego loved her back in the rather brutal way of toddlers, and I winced every time he sunk his little hands into her short coat or grasped her bony tail, trying for a ride. But Vindi showed no aggression at all, simply shaking Diego loose as necessary, then nuzzling his head or licking his cheeks. Diego’s big brother, Tony Jr., liked Vindi too, but she mostly ignored him. As for the six-foot, black-haired, green-eyed master of the domain, Antonio Sr., he didn’t have an opinion about Vindi, because he was stuck in my pool house with only Meme for company.
COVID had slammed Santa Monica hard; my landlord had recovered from an early bout, though his restaurant hadn’t. When Chez Jason closed, fourteen employees lost their jobs. With no vaccine in sight and Marta expecting their third child, Tony had reluctantly decreed that he’d have to move in with a roomie for the duration. His job as a homicide detective simply involved too much contact with the unwashed, unmasked public. It was Marta who’d suggested that Tony and I trade houses. My employer, Kennerly Prep, had put all the teachers’ aides on furlough at the start of the pandemic, and Marta didn’t like the idea of my being alone for however many weeks or months quarantine might last. Besides, she’d argued, Tony would pay my rent, and I could help her with the kids. As children of an essential worker, they were eligible to attend day care, but Marta had laughed scornfully when Tony told her that.
I’d said no, initially, but Marta is a lot easier to say no to than her husband. He took my hand, gazed into my eyes, and I found myself mumbling agreement with every fool thing he said, just to get away with my honor—and my friendship with Marta—intact.
So Tony got my digs, my dog, my luxury-free way of life, and somebody to watch over his wife and kids, while I got a comfortable room, a private bath, pool access, and Marta’s superb home cooking. I hated it. I loved her and the boys, but with everyone yapping nonstop on TV and the internet about an epidemic of loneliness, most days I wanted nothing more than a few hours—or weeks—alone. Tony and Marta’s suite was on the ground floor, along with baby Diego’s room, but little Tony was upstairs next to me, and he got out of bed several times each night, wanting a snack or a hug or needing—God help me—fresh pajamas. I tried to handle it when I could; Marta was getting big to run up and down those stairs. But my job at Kennerly had been with middle-schoolers. I’d never been around little kids much, and they require a different kind of patience.
Marta had the boys at the table when I came downstairs. Little Tony was munching happily on waffles while Diego slipped bits of his under the table to Vindi, who sat with her head resting on his plump knee.
Marta turned from the sink, one hand cupped comfortably under the mound of her belly. Just six months along, she was so slender that she looked like she had a basketball tucked under her loose T-shirt. “Morning, Cam! Are you ready for—hey! What’s wrong?”
I shook my head. “Nothing’s wrong. Just coffee, please, Marta.”
She poured me a cup and motioned for me to sit down.
“I’m thinking of taking a little road trip. Camping. Just one or two nights. You’ll be okay with the kids, won’t you?”
Marta shrugged. “I’m a cop’s wife,” she replied, as if that were answer enough. And I supposed it was, given Tony’s crazy hours. She was used to going it solo.
“But where can you go? Everything’s closed, Cam. The whole country.”
I nodded. “State parks are closed. But federal lands, they never close. And they’re not policed. I’ll just throw a bedroll in my car and I’ll be all set.”
Marta looked doubtful.
“I’m not gonna bother anybody,” I assured her. “I just need a little space. I’ll be back before you know it.”
I hadn’t always been a loner; once I’d had a family, a fiancé, a best friend, and a host of coworkers at my dream job at the fabled Harold Washington Library in Chicago. That had all ended when said fiancé murdered said best friend, with whom he’d been playing slap and tickle, as they say, behind my back. In the years since, I’d become someone very different from the nerdy girl whose biggest fear was defending her dissertation before a committee of PhDs. Life in WITSEC was supposed to end someday, when the government had enough on my former fiancé and his backers to put all the honchos away forever. Until then, I was on pause, and I’d learned to live without many of the things I’d once held dear.
I wasn’t allowed to visit any of my old haunts, not only Chicago, but also all the places where I’d tried to make a go of it so far. Even my hometown was on the no-fly list, although there would scarcely be anyone there to recognize me now. I didn’t care. I just wanted the road and some wide-open space.
I hopped on PCH and headed down the coast, thinking maybe I’d find a beach in Orange County and catch a few waves before heading inland.
The parking lot at Huntington was closed, but I found a spot on the street and made my way across the broad, white beach to the sparkling water. Huntington is what most people think of when they picture an L.A. beach. No homeless encampments, no CBD shops steps from the water. Just an endless expanse of clean beige sand and wave after whitecapped wave slapping the shore. There should have been surfers out; the waves were good. There should have been kids on boogie boards at the break, and families scattered over the sand, and tourists oohing at dolphins and wondering if they were sharks. Instead there was a flock of seagulls waiting at the water’s edge and a single sandpiper that ran back and forth, pecking at the goodies deposited on the shore as the tide receded. A blue face mask bobbed on the water like a jellyfish. I kicked off my Rainbows and used one of them to catch it, throwing it up onto the sand to grab later.
The shore was deserted, but even an empty beach is a noisy place, with the rush of the waves and wind. I guess the solitude gave me a false sense of ease, because I didn’t know he was there until he plopped down in the sand beside me.
“Cam.”
I sprang to my feet, wielding a flip-flop like it was nunchucks. He looked up and cracked a thin smile. “So much for the mousy librarian.” I forced my shoulders to drop, though adrenaline still coursed through my chest and temples. My handler. I hadn’t seen him in nearly a year, but he hadn’t changed. Plain suit pants, blue oxford shirt rolled up at the sleeves—his idea of casual, I guess. His mask matched his shirt and they were both the color of his eyes and of the sky behind him. “Marshal. What the hell are you doing here?”
He took a paper mask from his breast pocket and handed it to me. Instead of putting it on I dropped back onto the sand, more than the requisite six feet from him.
“Can’t a fellow need a day at the beach?”
I eyed his black oxfords. “You’re not exactly dressed for it, Marshal. Did you follow me all the way from Venice?”
He shrugged again. “You can call me Owen, Cam. I’ve told you that. Marshal seems unnecessarily … western.”
“Is Owen really your name?”
He smiled again, but there was something automatic about it. “It’s as real as yours, I guess.”
He had a point. I’d been Audrey Smith, Serena Dutton, Juliette Gregory …
“Seemed like you were on a mission to get somewhere,” Owen continued. “By the way, I believe the speed limit’s still sixty-five, even on the San Diego Freeway.”
Owen had a formal way of speaking that matched his clothing and his clean-shaven, square chin. I’d fantasized a few times about grabbing him and planting a kiss right on his incongruously full lips. I’d like to know if there’s a red-blooded man inside that Ken-doll placidity.
There weren’t many reasons for my handler to get in touch. The best possible scenario was that my ex was finally going to trial for racketeering, specifically bribery, extortion, arson, dealing in controlled substances, and … oh yeah, homicide.
Owen’s eyes met mine, and for once I saw something other than cool professionalism. This scenario wasn’t going to be best-case.
“I know it’s been hard on you, Cam.” He hesitated. “I guess the hardest part is being without your family. I’ve tried to keep you informed. But sometimes …”
My parents had been told I was presumed dead, per a confidential but reliable tip. That kept them from looking for me, but left the door open for me to spring back into their lives someday, posttrial. I had long ago stopped imagining what torture it had to be for them, picturing my death at the hands of the spoiled, sloppy band of miscreants Owen referred to as “the cartel.” Sloppy didn’t mean harmless. My ex had killed a woman right before my eyes. Owen had explained, and I got it, that it was safer for my folks to believe me gone forever.
Owen was watching me. He seemed almost fearful. “Out with it, Owen,” I told him. “As Nietzsche said, ‘Nothing is more precious than honesty.’”
He winced. “I don’t actually know who Nietzsche is,” he admitted. “Or was. But I do know how close you were to your dad.”
I waited. A pulse throbbed in my temple, in time with the waves rushing to the shore.
“Cam.” He blinked. “Your father passed away on April nineteenth, after two weeks of illness. It was COVID-19. Your mom came through it just fine. She’s okay now.”
A long time ago, lifetimes ago, April nineteenth had been my birthday. I wondered if my dad had hung on till then, somehow hoping he might see me again. The girl my father had known was gone. She had a new name, a new birthday, and a new identity. But she still lived inside me and her hurt was filling me up, choking me and forcing tears from my eyes. “When is the funeral?” I asked. “I will be going, Owen. To hell with your bullshit rules. I’ll wear a disguise, I’ll stand in the back, whatever you want. But I will be there.”
Owen sighed. “Cam. The funeral was at the end of April, as soon as your mom was well enough. I couldn’t tell you. I knew you would want to go.”
I got up and brushed sand from my clothes. He put out a hand and I flicked it away. The water had receded even farther from us. Low tide. “That leaves my mother with no one, Owen,” I told him. “I don’t have any siblings. Her only brother is dead.”
He nodded. “I know. I’ve been keeping an eye on her. Your cousin Marsha does too. And there’s a neighbor—”
His voice was like a swarm of annoying insects buzzing around my head. “Just shut up,” I suggested.
He blinked, nodded, and walked off across the sand. Back to me, he pulled off his mask and let it dangle from one hand.
*
Owen was not a bad guy, from what I knew, but there was no love lost between us. What most people don’t know about WITSEC is that the majority of witnesses being protected are criminals themselves, waiting to turn state’s evidence against other criminals deemed more dangerous or more important by the judicial system. The marshals that run federal WITSEC—and there are multiple state versions of the agency too—are no-nonsense guys and gals who would score off the charts on a resistance to change scale. They are interested in following the rules and preserving the lives of their wards to get them to trial; comfort and happiness for said charges factor very little into the equation.
Withholding the news of my father’s death until after the funeral had been Owen’s job. I got it. My parents had been safer not knowing the truth. But that hadn’t protected my father in the end, and I didn’t know if I could forgive myself for letting him die without knowing the truth about me. I crossed the hot sand and hopped into my Versa and got on the freeway, heading north back toward Los Angeles. And toward the Oregon border.
*
The brick corbel-gabled house where I’d grown up was impossibly small. It hadn’t seemed so at the time; I’d been an only child and I’d had everything I’d wanted—bikes, pets—and always, books. I’d been the class bookworm all through elementary school, graduating to chief nerd in high school. Didn’t have a boyfriend until sophomore year at college. Scholarships had made that possible, but there hadn’t been a lot left over for travel. Wellesley, Massachusetts, is a world away from Medford, Oregon—and being restricted to visiting home just once or twice a year had been good for me. I’d grown up a lot in my four years at The Blue, but I’d stayed close to my parents after graduation, flying them out to Chicago for visits as often as I could persuade them to come. My ex had made that possible, and I cringed, remembering our spacious penthouse on the Gold Coast. I’d been naive to believe the few hundred bucks I kicked in for rent covered half. Covered the cable bill, more likely, and he’d accepted even that much reluctantly. There had been a lot of red flags in that relationship, but my ex had been a very pretty boy—probably still was—and I’ve always been a sucker for those, even in my librarian days. Rich and charming hadn’t hurt either. Of course, now I know that many sociopaths are utterly charming. Nowadays a guy tries to charm me and I run screaming out of the room.
Now, parked across the street and a few houses down from my childhood home, I felt confident no one would recognize me. Once upon a time I’d been a proper lass in straight skirts and twin sets, hair smoothed back in a tidy bun. I was close to the same weight I’d been back then, but I’d traded twenty pounds of jiggle for twenty pounds of muscle. I’d cut my hair—radically, and bleached it to an ombré blond, and I had a ring of platinum studs in my ear where modest pearl clips had once nestled. I’d worn glasses my entire pre-WITSEC life, but now contact lenses did the job and also changed my natural baby blues to an unremarkable hazel. Black Ray-Bans and tattered yoga pants the old me wouldn’t have been caught dead in completed the transformation.
*
Laura Ashley curtains hung in my old bedroom window, faded but still pretty—tiny pink rosebuds on a navy-and-gray background that I could have drawn with my eyes closed. My canopy bed, shower curtain, and even my bathrobe had all been done in the same fabric, a gift from my parents on my fourteenth birthday, along with dozens of paperbacks and a hardcover copy of Boston Adventure that was one of the few treasures that made it into my life on the run.
“I remember, I remember the house where I was born,” I whispered. “The little window where the sun came peeping in at morn.” I stopped, feeling foolish. Odd that a poem written nearly two hundred years before my birth could so perfectly capture the melancholy of a twenty-first-century girl.
I knew that I couldn’t speak with my mother or have any contact at all. I just needed to see her, to see that she was okay, somehow, although I knew she couldn’t be. She and my father had been more like twins than partners. They’d finished each other’s sentences, fixed each other’s coffee, made the bed together every morning. It was only by knowing they had each other that I’d been able to bear deserting them.
My back was aching—I’d spent the night in my car on BLM land and then driven straight to Medford, stopping only for a bathroom break, bitter coffee, and a stale donut at the California-Oregon border. I’m not a big person, but the Versa is really not made for a comfy night’s rest. I was considering hopping out of the car for just a moment to stretch my back when the front door—my old front door—opened. My mother stepped out into the early-morning light, blinking.
I sunk lower in the seat and tugged my watch cap down to meet the frames of my Wayfarers. But my mother didn’t even glance my way. Like a sleepwalker, she shuffled to the edge of the lawn and picked up the newspaper. Mom was thinner than she’d been eight years before, almost frail, and her hair, originally a light mousy brown, was shot with silver. My mother had always prided herself on good posture, but now she hunched over as if she were trying to curl up into herself and disappear.
When she’d gone back inside I started the car, blinking hard to try and dissipate the hot tears that threatened to spill over. Big girls might cry, but all the tears in the world never fixed anything.
*
The cemetery was decently cared for, at least, but I couldn’t find my father’s plot and I knew better than to ask. I figured it would be unmarked—it can take months or even a year for a headstone to arrive. But there were several fresh graves and finally I just picked the one that seemed most likely. It was near a pretty Doug fir, and there was a stone bench where my mom could sit if she visited, and someone had laid a bouquet of jonquils on the grave—my mother’s favorite flowers. Kneeling on the grass with my hand pressed flat to the fresh sod, I had so much to say to my dad, but the only thing that would come out was, “I’m sorry.” My voice cracked and I began again.
“I’ve made so many mistakes, Daddy,” I said finally. “I know I should be here to take care of Mom.”
Something moved by the fir and I got up fast. It was a pretty harmless-looking kid, a nice-looking kid, actually. Seventeen or eighteen, dressed in impeccable black 511s and fresh Nike Air Maxes, the ones with the black swoosh. He was maskless, but far enough away for that to be okay. I nodded and he grinned, lifting one eyebrow.
Boys sure hadn’t dressed like that when I was growing up in Medford.
In fact, the boys I’d seen on the streets and in the 7-Eleven here in town still didn’t dress like that. I felt a sick thrill of fear move down my spine.
My ex wouldn’t bother to post a kid at my father’s grave on the off chance I’d show up to pay respects. Of course he wouldn’t.
Of course he would.
I was the key witness linking him to the cold-blooded murder of my best friend, and a handful of other crimes to boot. He had plenty of money; it was scruples he was short on. It wouldn’t be a big deal for him to send a soldier to spend a few weeks in Oregon, keeping an eye out for me.
The boy was definitely watching me, but that didn’t mean much. I’m no Gal Gadot, but I’ve been told I’m fairly easy on the eyes if you like the wiry type.
A black S450 came through the big metal front gates, cruising slowly, looking for something. The driver was maybe thirty, thirty-five, wearing Persols and a black fabric mask. He motioned to the kid, who gave me a last grin before stepping out to the drive and hopping in.
I couldn’t see what state had issued the plates; they were too dirty to read, although the car itself was pristine. I swallowed hard. Tried to look nonchalant as I headed back to my car. There was no point in pretending it wasn’t mine; the Versa and the Mercedes were the only cars around. But if they ran my plates all they’d get would be a fake name and a fake address—there was nothing to link Cam Baker to the person I’d once been.
Nothing except a grave in Medford, Oregon, and a weather-beaten corbel-gabled house.
But as I pulled out of the lot, I saw that the Persol man and his teenaged companion weren’t so sinister after all. They’d parked the Merc by a white-marble mausoleum and the man was arranging a bouquet of pink tulips carefully at its base. The boy stood, hands clasped in front, head bowed. Their wife and mother? I shrugged.
It was time to go home. I should not have broken the rules of WITSEC, and my insubordination was making me paranoid. I checked my phone and saw a couple of missed calls from Tony. Where you at? Call me, he’d texted, and then retexted with exclamation points.
When I phoned back, he sounded exasperated. “Marta’s worried about you, Cam. Why’d you take off?”
“You know why, Tony,” I said. “Two little reasons. We love them a lot but they make a lot of noise.”
He laughed. “Hey, those are healthy boys. Buy earplugs.”
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I just wanted to sleep under the stars for a night or two. I’ll be back late tonight or early tomorrow.”
Tony covered the phone with his hand and said something. Then he was back. “Cam,” he said seriously. “If you’ve got trouble, I can help. We can help. You’ve got the Santa Monica PD at your service.”
I smiled. “How’s my dog?”
“Meme’s okay. Probably lonely. I’m working a lot of doubles. Figure I might as well, since I can’t be at home.” He hesitated. “Don’t worry. Chef Jason’s letting him out a couple times a day when I’m gone.”
The measure of contempt Tony managed to squeeze into the words Chef Jason was all out of proportion to anything poor Jason had ever done wrong. He was an arrogant, self-important young chef on the rise—or he had been, until the pandemic—but he wasn’t really a bad guy. It pissed Tony off that Jason referred to my little cottage as the “pool house” when there was only a hot tub, and even that was treacherously slippery with mold. Tony expected Jason to stop by to fix leaky faucets and loose window sashes, but if he’d actually done so, he could probably have doubled my rent. I was okay with our arrangement, but after a month at Tony’s palatial digs in Culver City, I could see why he was annoyed.
“Well, I care about you, Cam,” Tony said. “So if—”
“Gotta go,” I told him, and hung up fast. I’d pretty much gotten over my colossal crush on the ridiculously gorgeous Detective Antonio Morales—falling in love with a guy’s wife and kids will tend to help that process along—but I never like to tempt fate. “Our wills and fates do so contrary run,” I told myself, staring into the rearview mirror, “that our devices still are overthrown.” Ah, Hamlet. I hadn’t seen or even read Shakespeare in months, maybe years. I sighed for the person I used to be.
I should not have stopped at the market on my way out of town. I knew better; even in disguise, even just running in to grab a couple of protein bars and a bottle of water, it was risky. Owen had gone over the rules ad infinitum. But the market was the last stop before I jumped back on the freeway, and there were only a couple of cars in the parking lot, and I decided to chance it.
It wasn’t the market I’d grown up shopping at; we’d mostly used the big Kroger in town, but I’d been in a few times over the years. Not much had changed. I didn’t recognize the plus-sized woman at the register. She looked up, took in the ombré-blond hair sticking out from my watch cap, my cropped yoga pants and tee. Her eyes lingered for a moment on Piltdown man, tattooed on my right ankle. I guess I passed muster because she gave me a diffident wave and looked back to the folded magazine she held in one plump hand. Brad Pitt grinned up at her.
The aisles were empty. There was a nice selection of bars, so I grabbed a half-dozen and headed for the refrigerator in the back. I was reaching for an Earth20—bottled in Oregon!—when a soft voice said wonderingly, “Lorraine? Lori?”
I knew what I was supposed to do. Walk out without turning around, as if I hadn’t heard. Get in my car, and drive, drive, drive, and contact Owen for instructions before I really got anywhere.
That’s what I was supposed to do. But those instructions didn’t factor in how it would feel to hear my own name, my real name, from my mother’s mouth after eight years on the run. My heartbeat was an ache in my chest that I could not bear. I dropped the bars and turned to her, very slowly.
She looked even older up close, her eyes a faded blue like jeans that have been washed a hundred times, her hair a mostly silver halo around her lined face, an impossibly beautiful, impossibly dear face I’d thought I might never see again.
“Mama.” I hadn’t called her that since I was five years old. It had been Mother or Mom since the first day of kindergarten.
She put a hand out to touch me, hesitantly, as if perhaps I wasn’t real.
“Your eyes, Lori. Your pretty hair … I—Daddy.” She stopped. Rubbed her eyes as if she was trying to wake up.
“Mama. We can’t. We can’t. I shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous for us both.” I shook my head hard. “Don’t tell anyone, Mom. Someone will be in touch with you. Don’t tell anyone. Promise.”
She nodded. Looked bewildered. As I turned away, I heard a sob catch in her throat.
I’m not supposed to call attention to myself, ever, and in a high-risk situation, that rule was supposed to go double. So I probably shouldn’t have left the market without buying anything, but I simply couldn’t make small talk with a clerk while my mother waited at the back of the store, forbidden to speak to her only child, risen from the dead.
I got in the Versa and took off toward Jacksonville, following the streetcar route. I could have thought of fifty things I’d have rather done than call Owen and confess that I’d blown my cover, but for my mother’s protection and my own, I had to. First, though, my friends. The only friends I still had in the world, in fact, and I wasn’t kidding myself. I knew this was going to be goodbye forever. I thought Marta would probably keep Vindi, and if she wouldn’t take Meme too, maybe Tony could find a home for him. Poor guy; it would be his third adoption since he’d escaped the hell of the racetrack.
I pushed the little Versa hard to get it close to seventy, but then I realized I might get pulled over and I slowed way down. A tiny part of me, the part that probably still believed in unicorns and Santa, wondered if Owen might let me keep my Cam Baker life if I pinky-promised and crossed my heart never to go near Oregon again. But I knew. Cam Baker was dead; as dead as Audrey Smith and Juliette Gregory. As dead as a mousy brokenhearted librarian named Lorraine Yarborough.
I waited until I was just a few hours out of town before I dialed Tony. I had to swing by my place at Jason’s to grab some things before Owen whisked me off to Oz or wherever I’d be going next. I had a couple thousand in go money stashed in books on the mantel, and a silver locket my dad had given me for my dateless, pimply sweet sixteen, and my mother’s diamond engagement ring, treasured but too small for her middle-aged fingers. I sometimes wore it on a chain around my neck. There was Boston Adventure; I wasn’t leaving without that. A couple of sweet notes kids had written me at the Kennerly School.
But I wouldn’t see Tony. He was too perspicacious and I cared too deeply for him for that to be possible. It had been hard, the time he’d asked me point blank if I was in WITSEC and I’d had to play dumb. Soon he’d know for sure, I figured. Unless Owen could come up with a story good enough to fool one of SMPD’s finest.
“Hey, you.” I kept my voice light. “If you’re not at my place, I need to grab a couple of things, if you don’t mind. I promise I’ll wear my mask.” Part of distancing was staying strictly in our own bubbles. Mine included Tony’s wife and kids; his included the entire rest of the world.
Tony sighed, exasperated. “Trust me, Cam, your germs are the last thing I’m worried about. I had a drunk vomit on my shoes last night and the smell is just—”
He stopped. “I’m not home. But if you’re coming up this way, I could meet you for coffee.”
“Sure,” I said heartily, without any intention of following through. “What time does your shift end tonight?”
“It’s quiet so far,” he said. “If nothing kicks in, I’ll be off at nine.”
I calculated fast. I couldn’t make it to Santa Monica much before that. I was about to do my best friend really dirty.
“The Starbucks at Wilshire and Fourteenth has a patio,” I told him. “Meet me there at nine-thirty. If I’m a little late, order me a half-caf cap.” By the time Tony figured out I wasn’t coming, I’d have been to the cottage, kissed Meme goodbye, grabbed my gear, and scooted out of his life forever.
*
I should have phoned Owen immediately, but I’d done so many things I shouldn’t have already that it hardly seemed pressing. Even if my mother broke down and told one of her girlfriends or my cousin Marsha or the minister at her Presbyterian church, it would take a little time for word to get around. But she’d always been pretty good at keeping a secret. I pulled into the driveway behind Chef Jason’s bungalow and went in, reviewing my mental checklist. Everything was right where I expected it to be—cash, book, notes … but not my mother’s ring. I cursed. That was at Marta’s, of course, along with my favorite clothes and my computer.
Meme knew something was wrong. He whined and pressed against my legs, trying to stop me from leaving. Finally I went to the refrigerator, found some sliced roast beef Tony was probably going to be annoyed as hell to find missing, and used it to coax Meme into letting me out the door. He started barking like his heart was breaking before I had the car in gear.
A confused-looking guy in a beige windbreaker was standing in the sallow glow of the streetlight, comparing something on his phone with a semi-folded street map. He looked up and motioned for me to stop as I backed out of the drive, but I ignored him. He’d have to figure it out old-school—I was on a very tight schedule if I was going to pull this off. Besides, I try never to chat with strangers on a lonely street after dark.
It was nine o’clock when I pulled up to Marta’s. I knew the kids would probably be asleep, which would make everything easier. I glanced down at my phone and my stomach turned. Four missed calls from Owen. Maybe my mother had spilled the beans after all. He would have to wait. This was not my first time at the rodeo—once Owen determined the need to move me, it would all go like lightning. Any part of my Cam Baker life that I did not have on me when he picked me up would be lost forever.
Marta struggled to pull herself out of the soft couch cushions as I let myself in. The alarm made an urgent beep until I punched in the code: 459-1054. I smiled. I was going to miss Tony’s sense of humor. 459 is the police code for “home invasion.” 1054 is the code for “possible dead body.”
“I’m going out again in a minute,” I told Marta. “Be sure you set the alarm again when I leave.”
Vindi had padded down the hall to greet me, a first. I bent to scratch her ears, which she tolerated for just a moment before heading back to stand guard outside Diego’s room.
“We missed you,” Marta said sleepily. “The boys wanted Auntie Cam to give them their bath.”
The smile I gave her felt like one of those garish masks people were wearing around town, the kind with a clown smile drawn on where the mouth would be.
“You okay, Marta? How’s my niece?”
She patted the bulge of her tummy and smiled again. “Hungry, like always. And missing Dad.” She sat up awkwardly. “I think I’ll make a quick sandwich. Can I fix you one?”
I declined and headed upstairs to grab my stuff. Marta was going to have to go it alone, unless Tony moved back in, but that would put her at an unacceptable risk. Maybe her mother would come from El Paso. I thought about my own mother. The shock and hurt in her cracked voice. The hope blooming in her faded eyes before I’d walked away.
I grabbed the ring and shoved a few pairs of panties and a T-shirt into my computer bag. Tied a sweatshirt around my waist. I was ready to run when I heard a noise—very soft—from outside. It could have been anything—a possum, a creaky branch, the wind. It could have been anything, but when I glanced outside I saw a slim figure in a beige windbreaker working at the window just below mine. Diego’s window.
Stealth or warning? I let my adrenaline decide.
“Marta,” I yelled. “Hit your panic button! Call nine-one-one! Get up here to Tony’s room and lock the door!” I was still screaming instructions as I barreled down the stairs, but she wasn’t going for the alarm or calling the cops. She’s a mom. She heard Tony and lumbered up the stairs to his room with astonishing speed.
Vindi was going wild, clawing at the door to Diego’s room so hard that her paws left bloody streaks down the yellow paint. I kicked the door and let her in and there he was, the mild-mannered fellow I’d seen on the street outside my pool house, fumbling with a map. He didn’t look so harmless now. He had a big ugly smile and a big ugly Desert Eagle .44 to match. It’s a huge piece, way more firepower than most people need—even criminals. But there was no time to offer him a lesson in moderation. He had the gun trained on me, hammer back. The slide was racked and ready to fire. Vindi froze at my side, growling low in her throat. Diego lay in his crib frantically sucking on his thumb, staring at me. “You got five seconds to get in the car,” the intruder began, swinging the gun toward the toddler.
Five seconds was more than Vindi needed. With a strangled cry, she leapt at the man and knocked the gun from his hand as he fired. At the same moment, I heard sirens blare from far away, and Marta began screaming, pounding back down the stairs. Diego opened his mouth and matched her, note for note. “Binnie! Binnie!” he wailed, arms outstretched toward the dog.
Sliding in Vindi’s blood, I scooped the Eagle up in both hands. An Eagle weighs four and a half, five pounds—way too heavy for me—but I pushed hard with my right hand and pulled back with my left to stabilize it, just as Tony had taught me. With a big piece, if you let the gun wiggle it can jam. The man grimaced and hopped back out the window, racing for his car. I leaned out the window without hesitating. He’d have made great fertilizer for the Morales’s lawn. Unfortunately, when I pulled the trigger, nothing happened. The next round had failed to feed.
Marta flew into the room with Tony Jr. in her arms. She slid on Vindi’s blood, cried out, and leapt toward Diego’s crib. But it was all over. Vindi lay silent and perfectly still, unmoved by the baby’s heartbroken cries. The sirens were close. I threw the Eagle onto the high bookshelf, making sure Marta saw it. I wanted to crouch by Vindi and thank her and pet her but I couldn’t. I wanted to hold Diego one more time and tousle Tony Jr.’s hair and tell Marta that I would never stop being sorry. But there wasn’t time. There was just enough time to grab my bag and run out the back door. My Versa was parked in front; gone forever.
I slipped down the dark alley, smelling Vindi’s blood, smoke from the Eagle, and my own rank perspiration. I was sure that Beige Jacket had taken off, but just in case I kept my footsteps light and my breathing soft and even.
I didn’t stop moving until I was at least three miles from the Morales’s place. I found myself contemplating the big stone steps of Beyond Baroque, some kind of literary gathering spot on Venice Boulevard. They hosted poetry readings, that kind of thing. I’d been reading about the joint since my Chicago days but I’d never been. And now I never would go.
The building was dark, with only weak solar lights in the lush garden providing any illumination. I found a shadow and sat down. I had to call Owen, but there was another call I needed to make first. My mother had to be baffled, scared, hopeful—all of the above. She’d be frantic to hear from me. I thought maybe I could let her down easy; explain that I had to stay in hiding until the trial, whenever that might be, but that I’d be parked on her doorstep the moment I was free. I imagined her soft hands touching my hair. My real name, my true name, on her lips. Lori. Lorraine.
But there was no answer. Her house phone rang and rang, and if my mother had joined the twenty-first century and gotten a cell phone, I didn’t know the number.
Owen picked up on the first ring. “Location,” he demanded. “Code orange, Cam. This is for real. The cartel is onto you. They tracked you from Oregon, goddamnit.”
“No duh, Marshal,” I told him. “I spent the last half-hour whupping bad guys. I’ve got my go bag—no car—and I’m ready to roll.”
“Location,” he demanded again, and I gave it to him. It was a continual irritation to Owen that I insisted on keeping tracking off on my phone. All things considered, I had to admit he had a point.
Owen told me to get low and close to the building, behind a shrub if possible, and to wait for him without using my phone again.
“Turn it off, Cam. No lights. Code-orange procedure.”
“Owen, wait,” I told him. “Wait. My mom—she knows. I saw her. She saw me. I’m sorry, I—”
He cut me off. “Your mother is in the hospital under twenty-four-hour guard,” he said abruptly. “They roughed her up a little, but they were interrupted by the mail carrier and fled—”
I gasped.
“She’s going to be okay. Now sit tight and do not move. Clear?”
He hung up without waiting for an answer.
*
Owen picked me up not fifteen minutes later. His car was as inconspicuous as his clothing—a Dodge Stratus, charcoal gray. What was more conspicuous was the SIG Sauer P250 he held loosely in one hand as he held the door for me, head swiveling the whole time. I didn’t speak at first. There was nothing to say. I was overcome with shame. I’d betrayed Tony’s confidence in me, put his wife and kids in mortal danger, gotten one of my dogs killed and abandoned the other. Because of me—my sentimentality, my inability to follow instructions, my arrogance, to be truthful—my mother had been terrorized by thugs and I was on the run again—with nothing but a few pathetic possessions that seemed meaningless now that I’d risked so many lives to get them.
Owen spoke at last, far more gently than I deserved.
“It happens, Cam,” he said. “You’re not the first to blow cover, and you won’t be the last.”
I bit my lip and tasted blood. “I’m not Cam anymore,” I said finally. “I’m no one.”
He glanced over at me, then back at the road. “You’re Lorraine Yarborough,” he said. “None of this changes that. This is temporary, and it will end, Lori. It will. And then this will all be in the past. Dead, gone, and forgotten.”
I stared out at the dark street. “The past is never dead,” I told him. I doubted he would pick up the Faulkner reference, but lately Owen had been full of surprises. He flashed me a grin. “It’s not even past,” he said, finishing the quote. He signaled, moved right, and headed onto the freeway toward LAX. The sky was a navy velvet cape, spangled with a thousand stars.
*Lori and I have been through a lot together—she’s witnessed murders, fled crime scenes, and had her heart broken more than once since her first appearance as “Cam Baker” in the pages of Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine in 2018. Over the same span of time, I’ve lost loved ones, survived a pandemic, weathered years of teaching secondary school, and have sometimes felt as jaded as Lori with her hand-me-down dogs, beat-up wheels, and borrowed identities. Lori is in many regards my alter ego—impatient, hapless, cynical, sometimes abrasive—but is just a bit better educated, a bit more intelligent, and more than a little bit braver than I. She works out more, too. And that’s the fun of being a writer with a recurring character. Lori can snap out a quote from Shakespeare or Donne or Baudelaire while I’m fumbling for my glasses to look it up in Bartlett’s. She sleeps alone in a bedroll in a national forest while I need a flashlight and pepper spray to walk the dog around the block at night. Lori is in many ways my better but, as she grows, so do I, and we’re both grateful to the editors and readers who make it possible for us to keep adventuring.