I took the stairs two at a time. The box and laptop were where I’d left them. After I shoved Dad’s laptop into my bag, I pulled the tape from the top of the box and folded back the sides. I lifted everything out and set it on another box. On top was a photo album, which I stuffed into my bag, feeling prickles of excitement all over. More photos! Underneath was a stack of letters rubber--banded together, typed addresses on the envelopes. I shoved them in the bag too.
Below that lay coiled a silver necklace—-the same necklace, I realized with a tingling chill, that Mom was wearing in the photo. Hanging on the chain was a silver box with polished gems on the sides and a hinged top. I felt like I might float to the ceiling. I examined the clasp and rather than try to figure it out, since I’d never worn any jewelry, I put it in my jeans pocket. I wanted to open the little box and look inside, but I had to hurry. Later.
There wasn’t much room left in my bag, but all that was left in the box were longer, brownish--green file folders, the hanging kind. The top one was labeled BELLANDINI.
As I reached for it, I heard the front door of the office open.
Chapter 11
AS I SAT waiting in my pickup, I kept thinking about all the things I might have said when Petty got in with me. “Third time’s the charm,” or “If you wanted to go out with me, you just had to ask,” or “Fancy meeting you here!” and cringing at my utter lameness. I’d only had two girlfriends in my life, one in high school and one during my Brown Mackie days, so I wasn’t exactly a player. I wouldn’t allow myself to linger on the thought that kept rearing its pathetic head: all these chance meetings had to mean something. Right. Like we were destined to be together. Petty was beautiful, but she was also odd to an astonishing degree.
I lit up a Camel, ready to chuck it out the window the moment she appeared in the doorway. The clock on the dash told me I needed to be back to work in eighteen minutes. My boss Candace was a stickler for timed grocery runs, which was stupid because you never knew how long it would take. She claimed she’d clocked every possible route and knew exactly how long each one should take. She talked about this accomplishment as if it were exceptionally noteworthy, like climbing K2 or memorizing the phone book.
While I watched Dooley’s office door, I tried to figure out a casual, conversational way to bring up the gig opening for Autopsyturvy. But two things occurred to me—-no matter how I brought it up, it sounded like bragging. And secondly, it would mean exactly nothing to Petty. She’d have no idea how big this was. Then I allowed myself to imagine inviting her to the concert so she could see it for herself. That would be miserable for her—-in a crowd with strangers, loud music. But this didn’t stop me from picturing her standing in the front row, an expression of rapture on her face at my drumming brilliance.
Just then, Keith Dooley ambled down the sidewalk, in no hurry to get back to work after lunch at the Cozy Corner. Which struck me as weird. Why hadn’t Petty come out when she realized Dooley wasn’t there?
MR. DOOLEY WHISTLED tunelessly between his teeth as he walked leisurely across the office floor. As quietly as I could, I stacked the file folders back in the box, closed it up and replaced the tape.
I remembered how creaky the stairs were, but I placed my feet on the outer edges of them where they were less likely to make noise. They weren’t sound--free, but it was better. It didn’t hurt that Mr. Dooley kept his radio going all the time. Down I went, little by little, until I got to the ground floor. Now I had to get out the front door without him seeing me. I got on my back and reverse--army--crawled toward the door, my bag on my stomach.
When I got there, I took my time getting to my feet. I crouched behind the three--foot--high counter until his phone rang.
“Dooley,” he said.
I put the bag strap over my head, filled my lungs with air, exhaled and slowly depressed the thumb button on the door handle in increments, pulling the door toward me in slow motion— Which rang the bell over the door, something I’d somehow forgotten about in just four minutes.
I heard Mr. Dooley get to his feet.
“Come on in,” he called.
I slipped out the door and walked toward the yellow pickup truck.
PETTY LOOKED UP and down the street once after exiting Dooley’s office and then got in the truck.
She had a soft briefcase--type bag with her, and it was bulging.
“What’s that?” I said.
“A bag,” Petty said.
I glanced over my shoulder to back out of the space, then looked forward as the door to Dooley’s office opened once again and Dooley himself appeared with his phone pressed to his ear. He twisted his head left then right, his mouth moving the whole time. I turned to ask Petty where she wanted to go just as she ducked her head, as if searching for something she’d dropped below the seat.
“Um, Petty?” I said.
Without really moving her lips, Petty said, “Go.”
“Go?” I echoed stupidly. What did she think I was doing? But then I saw Dooley walking toward us, a grimace on his face, and suddenly I knew.
“What were you doing in Dooley’s office?” I reached for the bag.
She covered her face with her hand and said, “Go, Dekker, please.”
“Not until you tell me—-”
Suddenly, Petty removed a handgun from inside her zippered hoodie and shoved the muzzle into my hip.