My phone’s happy little bells begin to chime.
My hands are shaking, my eyes fixated on the water.
But there’s nothing in the pool.
Nothing at all.
I answer, not bothering to check who is calling—I don’t care—
I just want to talk to a real person about real things.
“Ez,” says Hugo, “are you there?”
“Where?” I breathe anxiously, feeling the sun hot on my skin again, my senses returning, because I was lost in some kind of eco-psychic vortex. I sit down hard on a white marble bench near the pool, kick off my boots, and yank off my socks. I need to feel the ground, but it’s just more white stone, so I get back up, walk fast to the grass, and nudge my toes into the tickly blades.
I sigh, relieved.
“Ez.” Hugo’s tone verges on urgent. “Are you all right?”
Hugo …
“Yes,” I snap, realizing, right then, that I’m still annoyed with him. “I’m fine.”
“Why do you sound so frightened?”
Oh, no, I can’t play the question game—not right now.
“I’m not frightened.”
He’s silent. We know each other in this way. He’s debating whether to question me, or to go ahead and show his emotions.
“I was worried about you,” he says, his voice muffled.
I nearly melt.
I scrunch my toes farther into the grass, unconsciously digging for the sweet, fecund earth underneath. The fear of a few moments ago is gone; the pool twinkles like a benevolent cove in the ocean, a breeze wafts the sultry, deep scent of hundreds of roses to surround me, and I almost feel wrapped in his arms.
Then Hugo lets me have it.
“What were you doing at DVI yesterday?”
Here we go with the questions.
“What do you mean, ‘What was I doing?’”
“What were you doing?”
“Is that really your business?”
“Are you being rational?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Ez, I don’t—I don’t want you to get hurt. There’s something going on with your friend Charlene’s brother, Anthony Pryce. His daughter is dead, and whether it’s by foul play or not doesn’t matter at this point. Suzy’s eyeing him as a suspect. He’s already bailed on one meeting with her. Is this muy rico person playing games? Or is he hiding something? I know you probably feel a sense of duty toward him, but …”
But …?
I’ve already got my boots and socks in my other hand, and I start walking up the stairs to the veranda and the house.
“I’ve got to go, Hugo,” I say into the phone.
“Ez, where are you?”
“I’m helping an old friend.”
“Oh … Ez.”
I can tell by his exasperated tone that he knows exactly where I am.
“Bye.”
“Dammit,” he says.
I hang up.
~
I stride onto the white polished marble hallway, take a few steps, and almost careen into Anthony, who’s being led out the front door.
He’s in handcuffs.
I work quickly to process my feelings because Hugo could be right. Anthony, a member of the De Vos family, albeit by marriage, could be just another rich guy playing games with the system. But then, unlike the rest of the De Vos family, he seems to have a conscience about certain important things. Okay, they’re things I can relate to and admire. Like the wonderful green choices at the DVI office building that his receptionist, Christi Shah, said he designed. And he also defended his daughter and her environmental documentary, which I thought was valiant of him.
But if Anthony can so easily compartmentalize his life—having a green building as a way to offset guilt about his eco-disaster of a house and his planet-destroying company—what else can he justify?
Heck. I don’t know.
Ultimately, I wonder whether Anthony may be a rebel within these white walls … a black sheep.
I have a soft spot for rebels.
My dad was one, too.
Besides, Anthony asked me to come to his house to help his mother, and I want to make sure she’s all right.
I do feel I owe it to her.
And to Charlie.
Anthony stops and turns, the two men on either side of him stopping, too, as if the overt wealth of this place has some kind of subliminal, controlling influence, even on the thick-skinned officers of the LAPD. Anthony’s eyes are forlorn, his mouth still crushed, as he tells me in a voice that remains polite, “Emerald, thank you so much for coming.”
I reply, with empathy, “I’ll stay with your mom and dad for a while, okay?”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you again.”
I nod. “You’re welcome.”
The door opens, and who do I see?
Oh … no.
He’s standing on the front steps with a smattering of press: the lucky ones, I guess. The ones on Detective Whitney’s good list. It’s Hugo, front and center, mic in hand. He sees me, and his usual sexy, devil-may-care grin is wiped away in a rush of frustration and anger.
I give him a little wave.
The door closes.
~
The white-clad butler, Joseph, appears at my side with barely a sound, a silver tray in his hand, a crystal tumbler of iced tea with the same kind of exquisite lemon rind that graced Anthony’s mom’s water delicately perched on the edge, but without the straw.
Interesting.
Did he surmise I don’t use straws?
Or did Anthony?
Because I don’t—they just create more litter.
Regardless, I offer a solemn, “Thank you.”
He tells me, “Detective Whitney will see you now, Dr. Green.”
“Oh?” I reply, my heart speeding up.
Like a rabbit’s, I suppose.