2
I loved driving the hills of San Francisco in my vintage rag top bug, but somehow it had freaked Dad out when I bought it. His reaction to my excitement when I found the right yellow fabric with red and black ladybugs to replace the torn head lining was just plain weird. Or so I thought at the time.
The distance from Dad’s office to our house was only a few miles, but nearly a half hour drive in afternoon traffic.
Mom should have been home by then. She usually timed her trips to the design center to avoid rush hour traffic. She’d be surprised to see me on a Monday afternoon. I came home on Sundays to get a home cooked meal but seldom during the week.
I drove between the massive square pillars marking the entrance to Seacliff, lowered the car windows and enjoyed the briny aroma of the breezes off the ocean.
China Beach, the one beach in San Francisco safe for swimming, was below the cliff side of the house. “Safe,” that is, if one was a fan of water temperatures that barely hit sixty degrees on the warmest summer day.
After my brother and I had left home for college, my parents down-sized from six thousand square feet on Pacific Heights to a four bedroom six bath Italian Renaissance villa in the only San Francisco neighborhood adjacent to the ocean and reduced household staff to day help.
Like most of the houses along the avenue, my parent’s was built in the 1920’s. Well-mannered lollipop trees lined the quiet street, maintaining a height blocking no house’s view, and symbolizing the perfect order that marks the graceful neighborhood.
I punched in the code that opened the heavy wood planked garage door. Mom’s car wasn’t in the garage.
I bound up the stairs to the kitchen door, punched another code, and hurried through the kitchen and hall to Dad’s antique pine paneled study. I opened the pencil drawer of his desk, pulled out a tiny box, and turned it over. On the bottom of the box was a code from which I eliminated the date of my birth, 5-25-1987, so that 5927561896847 became 97-68-64, the combination to Dad’s safe.
A hinged colorful oil painted by some old friend of Dad’s swung open with the touch of my finger. I used the combo, and extracted the familiar, dingy file folder. Without bothering to close the safe or the painting, I sat down in the worn leather chair that had been Dad’s my entire life and opened the file.
It was in reverse chronological order with the earliest items in the back. I flipped to the bottom of the pile of papers. A newspaper clipping folded around a lock of hair caught my eye. I unfolded the dark, fragile paper and stared at a black and white photo of a young woman my age. Long blonde hair fell past her shoulders in what was meant to be her college graduation portrait.
Something in her eyes felt familiar. The headline identified the girl in the photo as Alexandra Johnson. Alexandra? Was I named for her?
I heard a noise from the front of the house. Must be Mom, but it didn’t sound like the garage door opening. I heard the tinkling of breaking glass in the front of the house––.
Shit! What was that? The shrill security alarm rang.
I peeked around the edge of the doorway opening into the hall. A dark figure with a gloved hand reached through the broken pane, stretched to grasp the door handle lock, and undid the dead bolt.
I heard a voice, maybe two voices. How many were there? It wouldn’t be smart to stick around to find out. On autopilot, I gathered the papers and the lock of hair off the top of the desk, stuffed them back into the file, picked it up and ran.
My car was parked in the front . . . where the break-in was occurring. That wasn’t an escape option.
I bolted to the French doors that opened onto the terrace. Wisps of gray fog filled the air.
I ran across the terrace, down the steps to the garden below, and to the trail that led down the cliffs to the beach.
I scrambled down the path of the railroad tie steps, shoving aside overgrown shrubs. A manzanita branch scraped my face and neck.
A sharp, loud noise from the street above scared me into a faster pace.
If only I knew some of the neighbors, I’d know where to go for help.
But I didn’t even know how to access all the walled-in houses.
The going was faster once I reached the beach but the sand hampered my run.
A glance up the side of the cliff and a glimpse of a dark figure in the mist quickened the pounding of my heart.
The tide was in. Waves broke on the jutting rocks, blocking access to the adjacent sections of the beach.
There was nowhere to go.
I shoved through tall brush and ducked into the shadows under the overhang of a stone terrace. A brisk, cold wind whipped through my hair and blew sprays of moisture off the water.
I dug my cell out of my pocket. Marginal service. I pushed the speed dial for Dad’s cell. When it went immediately to voice mail, I tried Mom next.
I didn’t want Mom to come home and happen on the burglars.
Another voicemail. “Mom, don’t go to the house. Call the police, stay away. Burglars broke into the house. Stay away.” I sent her a text: “burglars in house.”
I dialed 9-1-1. “I need to report a break-in in progress. And I think I heard a gunshot.” I gave the address. “No, I left. I’m hiding below the neighbor’s deck. Please tell them to hurry.”
I huddled in the cold, damp sand listening for sirens but all I could hear were waves crashing on the rocks pounding in the same rhythm as the pain in my head.
My hands shook as I tried to call Mom again, but now I had no service. I checked the time. It had been less than five minutes since I’d called for help.
I clung to the file folder, wondering why I’d brought it with me in my panic. I used the light from my phone to look at the newspaper clipping again.
My heart jumped when I saw the grainy photo of the male college student who went missing the same night that Lexi was killed. I knew him. But how could that be? Yet his face . . . it was as though I knew exactly how his face felt, the rough texture of his beard on my skin.
Whoa, Al, get real. What are you thinking?
I shoved the paper back into the file and stood up. I hadn’t heard any sirens but I needed to go back up. Waves splashed into my damp and cold hiding place. The rising tide would soon reach me.
Uncertain as to what I would find at the top, I took my time climbing up the path. Had the bad guys left?