Pretty Wanted (3 page)

Aidan halted us. “Willa. Listen.”

“For what? I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly.” He pointed to the ceiling, where most of the lights were out, then to a giant clock on the wall. It was 7:37
P
.
M
.

In front of the computer, we’d somehow lost track. All of the doors were locked now. The library was closed for the day. Unless we wanted to risk setting off what was sure to be an elaborate alarm system, we were going to be here until it opened again.

Welcome to the Hotel Dewey Decimal.

I looked at Aidan. “Guess we know where we’ll be spending the night.”

• • •

When I thought about it, it wasn’t so bad, really. I’d always been a fan of books, and now we were surrounded by them. It saved us the trouble of having to find and break into a new place to sleep. Not to mention that it was kind of sexy to be trapped in a deserted building with Aidan. For days on the bus, we hadn’t really had any time to fool around, and the close proximity to him had been a constant low-grade torture, like a slow-burning fever. Now we were finally alone.

He clearly felt the same way as he took my hand and led me into the darkened periodicals room. He sat down on an upholstered bench and pulled me onto his lap.

“C’mon, Colorado.” He reached up to cup my face, drawing my mouth to his.

I didn’t think I could ever get tired of making out with him—the plush pull of his lips, the woodsy smell of his skin, the warmth of his hands traveling over me, even this new scratchy stubble. There were private, interior parts of him I’d never know, but these parts I could touch.

There was a looming question, I knew, of when and how we would take it further, but for right now he hadn’t put any pressure on me and we were living in the moment. We were both good at that, it seemed. And this moment was especially irresistible.

I said a silent thank-you to all the writers of the world for giving us cover.

I lay down on top of him, so that our bodies were perfectly aligned, ran my hands under his shirt to feel his smooth skin.

I definitely didn’t want to hear the footsteps out in the hallway. But there they were.

Aidan heard, too. “What was that?” he asked.

We listened as I hovered above him in non-kissing stillness. Definitely footsteps. Getting louder, too. I got up and broke away, tiptoed closer to the doorway, but shielded myself against the wall as I peeked out. Outside in the corridor, the beam of a flashlight bounced around.

Security was here, doing a check. Of course.

We should have known that they don’t just close up a place like this. There were rare books in here.

I crept back toward Aidan as quietly as I could, gesturing with my arms to move. We needed to hide, and pronto.

We ducked behind the periodicals desk, a solid block of wood, and quickly arranged ourselves on the floor in fetal position. My face was pressed to the carpet and I felt its scratchy fibers imprinting themselves on my cheek as we waited.

The light swept into the room, preceding the guard who was only an arm’s length behind. We could hear him whistling as he flashed and looked, the piercing gold beam moving here and there, finding the darkest corners.

Please. Don’t let him see us.
I no longer even attempted to pray to anyone or anything specific. With all the crap I’d pulled over the past couple of months, I knew I didn’t deserve any godly intervention from any supernatural force. It was more for my own well-being that I clenched my teeth and mentally repeated the words until they became a soothing mantra. If I was going down, at least I could do so in a somewhat chillastic manner.

The sounds drew nearer. He was totally going to see us. The light was already leaking through the crack between the bottom of the desk and the floor. It was seconds before it would be on us, exposing us here in burning brightness.

There would be questions, handcuffs maybe. Our long-winded explanations. And then we’d be sent back to Arizona. Back to the cinder-block rat house they’d locked me up in before.

I couldn’t even look at Aidan. I depended on him to not be afraid and I knew any glimpse of fear on his face would send me over the edge. Instead, I held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut, feeling blood fill my body, expanding every capillary. This was it.

Just then, a car screeched outside. A horn honked, belatedly but long and angry. Car doors slammed. Two people yelled at each other. A near accident, it sounded like, because both voices were full of blame. The guard went to look out the window. And then, before we even knew what happened, he was gone, taking his flashlight with him.

Somehow, by the grace of crappy drivers, we were alone again.

But the make-out mood was kinda ruined.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

THREE

IN THE MORNING
, we woke up to the sound of doors upstairs. We dashed toward the stacks and hid there, crouching between metal shelves filled (appropriately enough) with legal books, waiting until the library had officially been open for an hour and we could blend in with the other patrons. As we stared silently at the gold foil–lettered volumes with their white call-number stickers, I wondered if there was anything in there I needed to know. Anything that could help me make my case when it was time to make it. Probably not. In the eyes of the law, I was pretty much a deadbeat. The law didn’t care whether you were looking for your mother—or whether you were doing the wrong thing in order to do the right thing.

We’d mapped her apartment building, which was almost a straight shot west, but it was miles away, too far for us to walk.

“Let’s get a cab,” Aidan said.

“It might be expensive,” I said.

“It’s more efficient. Time equals money, you know? That’s what my dad always says. The sooner we do this, the better.”

I thought it over. If we really got stuck we could always call our friend Tre again and get him to wire us more cash, but I was hoping not to have to do that. I knew Tre’s feelings about being involved with our illegal activities were conflicted at best, and I didn’t want to do anything more to compromise him.

Aidan was right, though. We had a job to do right now and we couldn’t afford to stall.

“All right,” I said, and Aidan stepped out into the street, raising his arm.

Within minutes, a yellow taxi pulled over and we hopped in.

“Where to?” the driver called out without turning around to look at us. Obliviousness or cynicism? Both were good in this situation. Both meant he wouldn’t recognize us.

“611 Westgate Avenue,” I said.

The cab hurtled forward and merged onto the freeway.

“Can I have that book?” I asked Aidan. In his backpack was a notebook where I’d been keeping track of all the things we’d “borrowed” along the way, an IOU list so I could eventually send payment of some kind. I wanted to jot down the library before I forgot.

When I was done, I handed it back to him. Outside my window, I could see we were leaving the central part of the city and I began to feel nervous. Where was this cab taking us? What if we were headed to the boonies? What if I didn’t like what I found out about her? Then what?

You knew what you were getting into, Willa. You just have to take what comes.
Not that this internal dialogue made me feel any better.

There were lots of truths I’d learned recently that I hadn’t exactly relished. Like the fact that Leslie was my sister (technically half sister, since we had different fathers), or the fact that she and our real mom were entangled with some unsavory folks. Or the fact that the money we’d lived on my whole life was most likely dirty. But I’d survived, hadn’t I? I was still here. Wiser and maybe a tad more jaded, but still here.

“There’s the Arch,” Aidan said, pointing out the window behind us. We could see the uppermost bend of it from the backseat. I traced it with my finger. It seemed like a good sign, somehow, like it was guiding us where we needed to be. Like the North Star or a little blue GPS dot.

When we turned to face front again, the scenery on our right was changing to a huge open park. Overhead, we saw a billboard for the World Bird Sanctuary, with a cheerful illustration of an owl—it was the kind of place Leslie and I would have visited if we’d been here on vacation. She was always into the nature-type spots.

Then the cab wheeled off onto a wider boulevard. We passed a number of neat houses with red and green mansard roofs, all with well-kept lawns, and I exhaled, my spirits lifting again. I saw signs for Washington University, and we were moving closer to what looked like a busy downtown area, with people everywhere.

Finally, the cab pulled up in front of a three-story U-shaped building with a white stucco front and a circular front drive. The style was vaguely French, from an era when people seemed to care much more about detail.

“Valet parking,” Aidan said, approving. “Classy.”

We paid for the cab and then approached the sliding-glass front doors.

“Now what?” Aidan asked. “Should we Sly Fox our way in?”

I shook my head. “No. We go in like normal people.”

I wasn’t above Sly Foxing when we had to but we were here for legitimate reasons. Besides, it wasn’t a high-security type of place, probably because it was in the kind of neighborhood where thieves or break-ins didn’t seem to be a major concern.

Except, of course, the night she was killed.
They could have used more guards then.
I gulped down my unease.

The building was nice, though. Really nice. I could see why she would have wanted to live here. The swishing doors revealed a lobby of sorts, fronted by matching potted plants and a wall of mailboxes. Signs pointed to the gym, pool and sauna area, the courtyard garden, as well as an in-house dry cleaner. There was a front desk, but the concierge behind it was busy talking to what looked like a couple of tenants. Easy enough.

My mother’s unit was 3B. The elevator opened to the third floor where the hall was laid with shiny hardwood floors and a narrow strip of fresh Persian carpeting. I’d lived here once, too, I realized. Not that I would remember anything—it was just the first few months of my life. But it was strange to think about, that I could add this to the list of places Leslie and I had called home. Leslie still remembered it, I was sure. How could she forget the place where she found our mom . . .?

I shuddered, quickly brushing the thought away again.

We would start with some neighbors. We found 3C and knocked. A tired-looking woman in workout clothes and a ponytail came to the door, a gray cat trailing inquisitively behind her.

I smiled, trying to put on my friendliest face. “Hi. We’re looking for someone—well, we want to find out about someone that used to live here a long time ago. Her name was Brianna Siebert. Do you think you can help us?”

The woman paused a moment and then shook her head. “Name doesn’t ring a bell, but I haven’t been here that long.”

“Do you know anyone who might have lived in this building fifteen years ago?” Aidan asked.

“Actually, there is one lady, there at the end of the hall.” She pointed to 3H. “Mrs. O’Leary. She’s been here for a while. You could try her.”

We thanked her and moved on. This time, Aidan knocked. No one answered at first but we could hear the faint drone of a TV inside.

Aidan hit the door again, a bit louder.

“Coming,” we heard a voice call, and then footsteps in a lopsided rhythm. Someone with a limp, or hip problems, maybe.

The door opened to a woman with dyed red hair that capped a heavy patina of makeup and false eyelashes. She was probably in her seventies but she was clearly fighting against it.

“Can I help you?”

Aidan tipped his head at her. “Yes, ma’am. We’re wondering if you might have known someone who used to live in 3B. Her name was Brianna Siebert.”

I glanced sidelong at him, admiring his sudden show of manners. The woman was clearly responding well to them, too, because she smiled.

“Brianna? Hmm. No, I don’t think I remember anyone of that name. There was a family that used to live in that unit, with a few young boys. I don’t remember a Brianna.”

“When did you first move here?” I asked.

“Right after my husband died, 1999.”

That wouldn’t work. “She would have lived here in 1997. Anyone else here that would have been around that long?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. People come and go, you know. Was this a friend of yours or something?”

She was my mother.
I felt the words like a bone in my throat.
She was killed.
“Yes,” I said. “A friend.”

She smiled, looking genuinely sympathetic. “Sorry I can’t be of more help, dear. I’d say you should try 3B but that unit has been empty for the past month. The last tenants moved away.”

“Should we try people on the other floors?” Aidan asked after she’d shut the door.

It was freaking me out to be in this building, so close to where the murder took place. It was impossible not to be acutely aware of that haunting history. I paused in front of 3B, staring at the little brass number, as if standing there could tell me something, but of course it couldn’t. Not unless I was a TV psychic.

We were wasting our time here.

“No. Let’s move on. We can always come back if we need to. Can I see that map?”

He pulled it out of his bag and handed it to me. I’d marked Blueberry Hill on there. It was only a couple of blocks from the apartment building. She’d had an easy commute. She must have been a practical type of person.

As we stepped back outside, I tried to look around and see what she must have seen every day on her way to work, tried to process it through her eyes. Bars with neon signs, a bookstore, a butcher shop with a green awning, a hamburger joint. It was a funky neighborhood. Had it looked like this then? What had she liked about it? What did she want to change? What had she daydreamed about? Had she taken me with her, ever, to work? Or to stroll around the neighborhood? Did I check out the little dogs on the street, like the two dachshunds in matching Christmas sweaters crossing in front of us?