THE IMPOUND LOT consisted of a grungy trailer surrounded by a tall chain-link fence covered with warning signs. Behind the gate were rows upon rows of cars in various states of disrepair. Chris pulled up outside the trailer and parked.
“This is a waste of our time,” he said.
“You never know until you try,” I said, popping my door open. I turned around and grabbed his cane out of the backseat.
“I actually do know. Impounding cars is something we do every day.” He took the cane from me, but I noticed he didn’t really need it to get out of the car. He was improving.
“Well, so it’s registered to Jones. He’s gone. His family won’t claim it because it wasn’t his. I’m guessing it was actually Bill Hollis’s, because everything in the free world belongs to Bill Hollis in one way or another, and he’s not going to claim it, either.”
Chris squinted. “Because he’s gone, too,” he said. I nodded. He seemed to search for a moment. “Shot?” I nodded again, my stomach dropping. What would he do when he finally remembered that night? When he finally remembered who shot Bill Hollis? And why? His forehead creased, and he rubbed it. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“It’s something,” I said. He shook his head, irritated. “So if nobody’s going to claim it,” I continued, ignoring him, “maybe they’ll let us. It’s better than letting it just sit there. Money is money, right?”
“So they’ll prefer to make a hundred fifty on it from us—illegally—rather than sell it at auction—legally—and make a few thousand.” He chuckled. “Nikki, you are impossible.”
“So you’ve told me. Again and again. Can we?” I gestured toward the trailer.
He shrugged. “Why do I have a feeling that fighting you is futile?”
“Because I win,” I said. “Or have you conveniently forgotten all the times I’ve kicked your ass in the dojang?”
“I let you win.”
Our footsteps crunched over the gravel drive. “So you suddenly remember that?”
He grinned. “Don’t need to remember it. I just know it. Like I know the sky is blue.”
I rolled my eyes. “Wait until that leg heals, and we’ll see who needs to let who win.”
“Yes, we will.”
He clomped up the two wooden steps that led to the trailer’s door and opened it, stepping back to let me inside first.
“No, you go ahead,” I said.
“Ladies first.”
“You’re injured. You should go first.”
“Can you just make one thing easy? Please?” He opened the door wider. “Go.”
I sighed. This didn’t fit into my plan at all—which was, of course, never to actually ask someone if we could see the car. Asking almost never worked out well for me. Now I had to think of something on the fly. I walked into the trailer’s lobby, my footsteps sounding hollow on the nubby carpet floor. There were a couple of beat-up chairs with stained cushions pushed against the wall, a dusty fake plant in the corner, and a counter with a window dominating one whole end. Next to the counter was a plain wooden door. Nobody was at the window. Instead, there was a note that instructed visitors to ring a bell for assistance. I pretended I didn’t see the note so I could buy myself some time.
After a few long seconds, he sighed, reached around me, and tapped the bell. We heard the noise of movement in what I guessed was a whole other room somewhere behind the counter. Think, Nikki, think.
I patted my jeans pockets, putting on what felt like the fakest panic look ever. “I forgot my phone,” I said. I tugged down the hem of my shirt so he couldn’t see the outline of my phone in my back pocket.
Chris’s face screwed up. “So? I have mine.” He held it out.
“No, I don’t need your phone. I need mine. I think I might have lost it.”
“Probably not. I’ll call it.” He started to punch numbers into his phone. Something I hadn’t thought of. If my pocket started ringing, he was going to get suspicious. And for good reason. I pulled his arm, making him juggle his phone, a look of annoyance crossing his face. “Calm down. It’s just a phone.”
“You know what, it’s probably in the car,” I said. “I should look.”
The movement behind the window got louder—hollow footsteps that matched ours—and a woman appeared at the counter.
“Right now?” he asked. “Can’t it wait?”
“I won’t be able to relax until I have it. It’s got important things on it.” I turned my back to the window and lowered my voice. “You can handle this until I get back, can’t you?”
“Of course I can. The car’s unlocked.”
“I’ll be right back, I swear,” I said, heading for the door.
I wondered if he knew I was lying. Probably. He was pretty good at knowing what I was going to do even when I didn’t know what I was going to do.
I shut the trailer door softly behind me, and then sprinted across the gravel. I didn’t have all the time in the world; I had to get moving fast. I jogged along the fence line, looking for anywhere that might have some sort of breach. A hole, maybe, or a place near the ground where an animal had bent the wire pushing his way in. I ran all the way to the far end, where the fence turned into a small grove of trees, littered with rusty car parts and old tires. No holes, no breaches. I was going to have to climb.
Quickly, I scanned the lot for a watchdog or a person or a camera. Surely there was a camera somewhere, but I didn’t see one, and I figured if I didn’t see it, it probably didn’t see me. The cars at the back looked like they’d been there a long time and had mostly been used for parts, so it was probably a safe bet that they didn’t bother to monitor comings and goings. I glanced at the trailer—the door was shut, so Chris was either still waiting for me inside, or he was arguing his case. My case. Whatever. The case.
I had to move fast.
Ducking, I raced over to the cluster of trees—tall weeds slapping against my shins—while praying that I wouldn’t step on a snake or a rabid animal’s nest or a colony of ground hornets. I kept going deeper, until I reached a spot where the weeds and limbs were intertwined in the chain link. I couldn’t get any more covered than this.
I stuffed my toes and looped my fingers into chain-link holes and pulled myself up, trying to move as quickly as possible, thanking God the whole way that there was no razor wire or even barbed wire to contend with at the top. The fence was tall and kind of unstable, and I swayed, gripping so hard my fingers were white, as I hoisted my leg over the top and stood, straddling the fence. I started to get dizzy from the height, but reminded myself I didn’t have time for dizzy. And I sure as hell didn’t have time to fall off this thing.
I swung over the fence and scurried down the other side, dropping into the dirt when I got about three feet off the ground.
I was in.
And now that I was in, it seemed like finding the truck would be an impossible task. Made even more impossible if Chris was actually successful in getting it released to us. I doubted he ever would, but he’d surprised me with his abilities before, and if they were bringing the truck out to the parking lot for him, I was screwed.
I walked several feet down the aisle I’d landed in. Like I’d thought, most of these cars were shells, missing tires and bumpers and engine parts, doors open to reveal gutted insides. The truck would not be back here.
I turned myself so that I was facing where the trailer had been—I could no longer see it from where I was—and started jogging between the cars, passing up aisle upon aisle, until I got to what looked like new stuff. Colors jumped out at me where license plates hung. I closed my eyes, trying to clear my mind and focus.
Candy cane and mustard. Brown, brown, brown. That was what I was looking for.
I opened them, and again the entire rainbow pushed in on me. Bits of candy cane here, mustard there, brown everywhere.
God, this seemed impossible.
I decided to look at trucks only. If it wasn’t a truck, I let my eyes skip over it, flinging its plate colors out of my way. I’d thought that would make this easier, but practically every other vehicle there was a truck. Red, blue, white, white, silver, red, red—the colors of the vehicles themselves making it even harder to concentrate on the plates.
I wound my way down four aisles this way, until I heard voices coming from the direction of the trailer, which was much closer now. Time was running out. I pushed myself harder. Run faster, concentrate better. Hug the cars, stay out of sight. Keep moving, but pay attention. I was sweating. And my head was starting to throb.
Just when I turned the final corner—taking me close enough to the trailer that anyone who stepped out back for a smoke would see me—and thought I was going to have to backtrack and start all over again, I saw it.
Silver truck. Candy cane. Mustard. Brown, brown, brown.
VP 111.
Jones’s license plate on a car that Luna got away in. I made a beeline for it.
Just as I reached for the door handle, my phone rang, startling the shit out of me. I snatched it out of my pocket before it could ring twice and spark someone’s attention.
“Jesus, what?” I hissed into the phone.
“I don’t know why I was surprised that you lied to me. Where are you?”
“Looking for my phone.” My voice was cool, challenging.
“Bullshit. But nicely done. It worked. I can tell I’m still off my game.”
Probably true. “I take it you weren’t successful in getting the car released.”
“How do you know I’m not sitting in it right now?”
I opened the driver’s-side door with a soft click and slid onto the bench seat, keeping myself low so nobody could see my silhouette. “Because I am,” I said.
“Damn it, Nikki. You’re in there?” I heard a distant rattle of chain link, as if he’d tapped it or, more likely, pounded it with his fist. “Do you know how illegal this is? Now I have to arrest you.”
“Can’t,” I said, opening and shutting every console door I could find. “You’re technically not on the clock. Convenient for me, huh?”
“I doubt anyone would mind if I brought in a B and E.”
“You don’t have handcuffs.” I pawed through rolls of mints and pens and a stack of fast-food napkins. Just like this was any old car.
“I can get creative.”
I stopped what I was doing. “But we both know you won’t. Plus, you’d have to catch me first, and that’s not happening on that leg of yours. So, listen, get in your car and go. There’s some sort of Laundromat or something on the street behind the lot. I saw the back side of it when I was climbing in. Go park there and wait for me. I won’t be long.”
There was a trademark Chris Martinez pause, where he wanted to appear to be mulling over his options but was actually just kicking himself for knowing that he was going to give in to whatever I wanted him to do. He may have forgotten me, but part of him still remembered us. “If you get arrested, it’s on you. I won’t bail you out this time.”
I stopped, sat up, tucked the phone tighter between my ear and shoulder. “You remember?”
“Remember what?”
“Bailing me out of jail.”
Another pause. “Yeah. I guess I do. You did something typically stupid like assault an officer or something. But you were set up, right? And somebody wanted me to let you go.”
“Blake Willis,” I said softly.
“That’s right,” he said. “Blake Willis.” But it was as if he were repeating the name to only himself, trying it out to see if it jogged any memories.
I didn’t want it to jog memories, and I couldn’t explain why. It had to do with the magenta, with the kiss, with the way things had been between us after Blake, his gorgeous, totally-put-together ex-girlfriend, had left him. There was nothing wrong with Blake Willis. Actually, everything about her seemed absolutely perfect. Which was why I didn’t want her back in his life. It was hard to compete with perfection.
You’re not competing, Nikki. It never was a competition.
“Just wait for me at the Laundromat,” I repeated, and hung up, quickly flicking the sound off so it couldn’t ring again.
I couldn’t be worrying about Blake Willis. I had to get through this truck and get out of here, because there was something about the way he said it that made me believe Chris really meant that he wouldn’t bail me out again.
I stuffed the phone back into my pocket and continued rummaging. Nothing. Nothing on top of nothing. Whoever had abandoned this truck had made sure to clean it beforehand. Not surprising, given the professional criminals that Luna had for friends.
I grunted in frustration and sat back with my fists in my lap. Not that I was super hopeful that I would find someone’s driver’s license or a neon sign that would point the way to Luna’s hideout, but I had been more hopeful than I realized that I would find something. Anything better than a wadded straw wrapper and the car manual.
Sighing, I opened the door and slid out, trying to keep low to avoid being seen. Just before I closed the door, something under the seat caught my eye. I reached in and pulled it out. Before I could really study it, I heard voices coming from the direction of the trailer. I popped up enough to see through the windshield. Two hulking men were stepping down the wooden stairs from the trailer onto the lot. They were talking loudly, gesturing, laughing. No idea they had a trespasser only about thirty feet away.
“Shit,” I breathed, sinking down against the side of the truck. Did I shut the door and risk the noise attracting their attention, or did I leave it open and hope they didn’t notice? In the end, I decided on a combination of both. I let the door gently swing closed and then pushed it slowly until it engaged the lock with a soft click. I pressed my lips together, perking my ears for any sense that the men had heard it. More laughter. Apparently they hadn’t.
I shuffled forward a few feet and rose up again, peeking over the hood. They were still there, still talking, only now they were moving toward me, one twirling an overstuffed key ring around one finger. If I stayed where I was, in two minutes they would be on top of me.
There was no way I was going to stay there.
I pushed away from the truck and, staying low, scurried across the aisle. I plunged in between a BMW and a Buick and crouched low again, pressing my back against the Buick and trying not to breathe. Didn’t help.
“You hear something?” I heard one of the guys say.
“No.”
“Sounded like footsteps right over there,” the first one said. I chanced a glance over the trunk of the BMW, only to see them making a beeline for the silver truck I’d just been inside. I had to go, and go now.
I leaned against the door for a second longer, bracing myself, and then sprang into action. I popped up, turned toward the back fence, and started running with everything I had.
“Hey!” I heard one of them shout, and then, “Did you see that?”
I didn’t wait around for an answer; just kicked up dirt and gravel behind me as I sprinted, then scrambled over a gutted SUV, which put me almost at the top of the fence. I hoisted myself up and over in three pulls.
The voices were too far away to be anywhere near me—almost as if they’d given up halfway through the lot—but I still let go almost from the top of the fence, hitting the grass and tumbling backward onto my butt, my arms flailing out to catch my fall. My elbow lit up in pain, but I ignored it, turning to get myself back up on my feet and plowing through the tall grass and weeds until I came out at the back of the Laundromat.
My shoes slapped the asphalt hard as I raced to Chris’s car, which was running, with him behind the wheel, waiting for me.
“Go,” I said, breathless, as I dove in and shut the door.
He slammed the car into gear and backed out, his tires screeching. Typical Chris, driving without asking a single question.
Once we were on the highway and I’d caught my breath, he slowed down.
“Well?”
“Cleaned,” I said, still trying to catch my breath.
He nodded. “Not surprising. I tried to get them to at least release the property to me, but they said there wasn’t any. Wouldn’t have even if there was. Just like I told you.”
“Dude, I never doubted you. I just needed you to distract them while I went in. But I know you well enough to know that you would never agree to that, even if you knew I was going to bring back something.”
“I thought you said there was nothing.”
“I said it was clean. But there was this.” I pulled what I’d found beneath the seat out of my waistband and held it up.
He eyed it skeptically. “An empty notepad.”
“Correct.”
“Is there something on the other pages?” he asked.
“Nope. Just this one.”
He looked at the notepad harder, glancing back and forth between the road and the pad. “There’s nothing there.”
“Wrong,” I said. I tipped it so the light could catch it just right. “There are indentations.”
He pulled to the side of the highway, hit his hazard lights, and took the notepad from me. He studied it, turning it this way and that. He shook his head and handed it back to me.
“It’s nonsense. So many pages going through that it looks like a jumble. This isn’t a clue to anything, Nikki.”
“You’ve said that to me before,” I said. “And you were wrong before.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“You have any other choice?”
He gave an eye roll and turned off his hazards, then pulled onto the highway. “Whatever you say. It’s your wheels that you’re spinning. Not mine.” He drove for a moment, and then said, “It was a painting, wasn’t it? The clue that you found before?”
I paused in surprise. “Among other things. And I bought it. At an auction. You were with me. We almost got run over.”
“I think I remember that,” he said softly.
The air between us grew thick, and he seemed to be a million miles away as he navigated us along the highway. I tried to ignore my heartbeat, which sped up as I willed him to remember more. Remember everything. Remember how it felt to be there together, how it felt to be tangled on the ground, watching the van speed away. Not just recall the events that happened, but the way we felt when they were happening.
I clutched the notepad in my lap, wondering if maybe this time he was right. Maybe this time it really wasn’t a clue.
But, then again, he didn’t see the notepad the same way I saw the notepad. Pages upon pages of writing bled through in indentations, yes. But where he saw jumbled indentations, I saw each letter and number scratching itself out faintly in the correct hue, creating a blur of mixed colors. Orange As and purple threes and the lunch-meat pink and lemon chiffon of Es and Hs and the oxford blue of the word Friday. The mottled yellow-green word Pear and the velvety burgundy word Magic. Nothing that came together in anything that made sense.
Except two words—one midnight with star pops of light, the other sunshine yellow.
Celestial. Day.
But as I looked closer, I realized it was not Celestial; it was something shorter. Celeste.
Celeste Day.
I didn’t know what Celeste Day was, or what it had to do with Jones, or Luna, or the white-blond-haired man driving the truck.
But I sure as hell intended to find out.