Chapter Eight
“Cain, back off,” a girl’s voice orders.
The guy takes a step back.
The girl has black curly hair, her face is flawless, and her long nails are sculpted. She sways as she strolls over to us on expensive-looking heels. “I can’t leave you alone for a second,” she says.
Cain turns his head toward her. “She’s snooping around. Probably a spy.”
“Really?” There’s frustration in her voice. “She’s just a girl. I need to limit your game time. You’re mixing up make-believe with reality. Now go cool off in your room.”
He unlocks the door and disappears into the apartment.
Brown eyes under perfectly winged eyeliner and false eyelashes land on me. “You do drink tea, don’t you?”
I nod, too freaked out to speak.
“Good. Come in.” She pushes open the door Cain left ajar. When I don’t follow her, she says, “He won’t hurt you, I promise.”
There is no way I’m going inside that apartment with an angry model dude in there. “I’m fine out here,” I say. “I was just looking for Shona Jackson.”
She comes back, rests her hand on the fancy crystal knob, and leans against the door. “Well, you found her. What do you want?”
Now that I’m here, I’m at a loss for words, knowing that what I have to say will come out sounding as if I took a trip to Neverland and was high on fairy dust. Busy running a practice speech in my head, I forget she’s waiting for a response.
Shona’s hand goes from resting on the doorknob to her waist. “Well?” She sounds annoyed. “I don’t have all day.”
“Do you always invite complete strangers in for tea?” I’m stalling.
“No.” She raises one precisely bladed eyebrow. “But you look like you could use some? It’s calming.”
“What I came to say is going to sound far out there,” I warn. “I just found out about it myself. But you see, there’s this list—”
“I know about it,” she cuts me off. “So the old man’s dead, huh?”
It’s as if someone knocks into me. I stumble back. “You know about the list?”
“Yeah, Cain caught the old man snooping around. Just like you.” She looks over my shoulder. “You should come inside. The woman in 15A is very nosy. Her days are filled with watching game shows and spying on me.” She opens the door wider and steps aside to let me in.
I hesitate, not knowing if it’s a good idea to enter without Marek. She’s a stranger, after all, and her scary boyfriend seems unstable. “My friend’s outside waiting.”
She hesitates and just stares at me. Probably trying to assess if I’m lying about having someone with me. “Okay,” she finally says. “I’ll notify the doorman and let him know we’re expecting company.”
“Yeah, about that.” There’s a quiet click behind me, and I glance over my shoulder at 15A’s door and then back to Shona.
Shona motions me in, and I step over the threshold. The apartment’s huge and decorated with jewel-colored walls and oddly shaped furniture. Rows of windows make up one wall with a great view across the park.
A thought catches up with me. How does she know Mr. Conte is dead?
“What’s your friend’s name?” Shona asks, and my thought fades into the background. She stands in front of a fancy intercom system, punching in numbers.
My eyes wander over the place, trying to locate Cain. I shift uneasily on my feet. I don’t like not knowing his whereabouts. “I don’t think the doorman will let him in.”
A smile pulls across her full lips. “Interesting. What did he do to get himself restricted from the building?”
“He made a distraction so I could sneak in. The doorman is pretty pissed at him.”
Her eyebrow rises again. “I see. My father owns the building. The attendant will do whatever I say.” She pushes a button on the intercom and leans closer to it. “Marshall?”
A few seconds later, a man’s voice comes through the box. “Yes, Miss.”
“The boy, the one who took you away from your post, let him through.”
“All right, Miss,” he says. “Is there anything else?”
“No. That’s all. Thank you.” She turns and faces me. “Let your friend know he can come up.”
I text Marek, then join Shona in the living room. A door on the left is open. Inside the room, Cain sits straight as a pin on a big cushioned chair, his hands resting on his knees and eyes closed.
“Is he okay?” I ask and drop down on the couch beside her.
She glances at the open door. “Oh, him? He’s meditating. He can get hotheaded at times. Just needs a time out.”
I cross my legs. “Is he your guardian?”
“Boyfriend. I’m eighteen. He’s only a year older than me.”
Hopefully, he doesn’t take his anger out on her.
As if she knows what I’m thinking, she adds, “He’s never touched me. He listens to me. I can get him to calm down. We’ve been together since sophomore year of high school.” Her lips turn down, and she sighs. “He used to be so sweet. He’s changed a lot. Ever since…” She trails off, seemingly checking herself. “Listen to me. Complaining. I should be happy he’s completely devoted to me.”
Devoted? More like her lapdog.
Her eyes give her away. She’s not at all happy about that.
I glance around, feeling a little uncomfortable, and my gaze stops on a painting above the fireplace. It’s of a woman with red hair pulled up loosely. By the technique and the woman’s dress and hair, it has to be from the Renaissance era. Her face is familiar to me. I must’ve seen the artwork before.
“Do you like art?” Shona asks. “That one isn’t an original. It’s a Michelangelo duplicate. From a fresco he painted.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
A knock sounds from the entry. Shona springs to her feet and dashes across the plush area rug. The air adjusts slightly in the room when she opens the door. Marek leans casually to one side with his arm braced against the doorframe, supporting his weight. His stance lengthens his toned muscles. His dark hair is messy, and beads of sweat glisten on his forehead.
Shona gives him a once-over and looks over at me. “Nice,” she mouths.
I ignore her comment. “What happened to you?” I ask. “Did you run a marathon or something?”
“That Marshall isn’t a forgiving man,” Marek says, breathless. “He wouldn’t let me ride the elevators. Made me take all fourteen flights of stairs.”
A laugh blurts from Shona’s mouth. “Guess he got even with you.”
“What’s he doing here?” Cain’s voice is deep and filled with anger. His eerily vacant eyes are set on Marek. The muscles in his jaws tighten.
“You’re supposed to be in your room, cooling off,” Shona directs at Cain. “Now go.”
Cain doesn’t say a word. He just obeys her order. Just like that. No back talk or argument. She commands him, and he goes. He hangs his head and shuffles to his room.
“Please, have a seat,” she says, keeping her eyes on Cain’s retreat.
I sit beside Marek on the couch and lean closer. “Isn’t that weird? He does whatever she says.”
“Yeah, the dude is whipped,” Marek whispers back.
Shona spins around on her very high heels to face us. “So, Adam Conte. Who’s he to you?”
“He’s my grandfather,” Marek says.
Her eyes go to me. “And who are you to him?”
“I’m on that list.” I adjust in my seat. There’s something familiar with Shona. It’s as though we’ve met before, but I know we haven’t. It’s unnerving and comforting at the same time.
A sympathetic smile presses her cheeks. “I don’t have any answers. Cain caught him watching me, and I had to pry him off the poor man. He held him while I searched Adam’s bag for answers. I found the list and my name. Adam said an entity, can’t remember the name of it, hired him to watch over the people on the list. To alert a team who’d protect us if we were in danger. He never said what kind of danger. I assumed my father arranged it because of the trust fund my mom left me. It must be the same for you.”
Her voice cracks a little over “mom.” She uses the informal when referring to her and the formal when mentioning her father, and I can’t help but wonder why she does.
“We don’t have money.” I gesture to the room. “Well, nothing like this, anyway. Wait. You knew he was dead. How?”
“He said if he died, someone might contact me. A replacement, I think.”
Marek pushes back against the cushions. “My grandfather said he gave you something. Do you have it?”
Her face is a question mark. “Gave me something? No—” A thought cuts off her words. “Wait. He did send me a postcard. I thought it was strange that he knew I collect them. We only met that one time. Let me get it.”
While she’s gone to get the postcard, Marek and I sit in silence. Is he as hopeful as I am that there will be clues on it? Placing his elbows on his knees, he rests his chin on folded hands. His dark hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck. Probably caused by sweating during his hike up the stairs.
He glances at me, busting me staring at him.
I flick my head in the other direction, pretending to watch for Shona’s return. Marek smiles. He so knows I was checking him out. I need to get myself together. Stop letting a guy distract me.
Shona returns and hands the postcard to Marek. He reads the back and turns it over. “Van Gogh’s The Starry Night,” he says, removing the decoder ring from his right index finger and looking at me, then Shona. “Maybe the clue is your address.”
“What clue?” Shona studies us.
I look at Marek and raise an eyebrow, seeking his approval to tell her. He nods, but I decide to give her as little information as possible. Because we don’t even really know what his grandfather was up to.
“We think Mr. Conte left them for Marek,” I say. “Something to do with the list. We’re not sure. Just trying to figure it out.”
“Do you have some paper and a pen?” Marek asks.
She nods. “Yes. Right beside you in that drawer.”
Marek opens the tiny drawer in the fancy end table and pulls out a pad of paper and an expensive-looking pen. He works with the numbers of Shona’s address, writing them down. Every combination he can think of, he tries. “It’s just a jumbled mess. Nothing works.”
“Can I see?” I reach my hand out, and he passes the postcard to me. “He says ‘Happy Birthday’ in the closing.”
“I know,” Shona says, pushing a frown on her lips. “My birthday was months away when I received that.”
A bubble of excitement rises in my stomach. “Maybe it’s the numbers—”
“Of her birthday,” Marek finishes for me. “What is it?”
“The first of May,” Shona says.
Marek spins the date and year she tells him into the decoder ring and writes down the corresponding letters. He looks up with disappointment on his face. “That’s not it.”
“Then why would he write that if it wasn’t her birthday?” I say, flipping the card over. “It has to be the clue.”
Shona rolls the material of her skirt between slender fingers. It must be a nervous tick or something. “Maybe he just got my day mixed up with someone else’s.”
I check the time on my phone. “We’ve got to go soon. I have to get home before Jane does.”
Marek nods. “Yeah, maybe my grandfather has the birthdays of everyone on that list in his basement somewhere. What’s your birthday?”
“November twenty-seventh.”
He spins the numbers with the year into the ring, and it’s not mine, either. The letters together were incoherent. “Okay. Let’s go before it’s too late.” His gaze goes to Shona. “Thanks for the help. Can I keep this?” He flaps the card in the air.
“Sure,” she says and shows us to the door. “Listen, I’m sorry for your loss. He seemed like a nice man.”
A smile tilts Marek’s mouth. “Thanks.”
She shuts the door.
“So what are we going to do?” I ask once we’re in the elevator.
He leans against the back wall. “You go home, and I’ll search my grandfather’s things. If he has the birthdays for those on the list, I’ll run them through the decoder ring.”
“So you’ll call me if you find anything?”
“Of course.”
Marek sleeps the entire train ride to Philadelphia. I want to talk, but he looks peaceful with his head back and mouth slightly open. I keep busy with my phone, checking social media and reading an ebook.
The train pulls into the station, and I tap Marek on the arm. “We’re here.”
I text Dalton to pick me up, and Marek waits with me.
“Dalton is always late,” I say. “Your train is leaving soon. I’ll be fine. You should go.”
His eyes go to the departures on the screen hanging from the ceiling. “You sure? If I miss it, the next one isn’t for a few hours.”
No. I’m not sure. I don’t want him to leave, but even so, I answer, “I’m sure.”
“Well,” he says with a smile that makes my heart speed up. “I’ll text if I find anything.”
“Okay.”
It takes several beats of my racing heart for Marek to say, “All right, then, bye.”
“Bye.”
It doesn’t escape me that I’m giving him one-word answers. I just don’t know what to say. He walks away with confidence, his back straight and a little swagger to his gait. I can’t pull my eyes from him. I watch him the entire way to the corridor leading to his train. Before he turns the corner, Marek looks back at me, and this time I don’t glance away, I hold his stare. His lips pull into that smile of his that could melt an iceberg.
My heart squeezes, and I smile back.
And then he’s gone.