I followed her up the stairs and into Chloe’s bathroom. Roxanne opened the window and a warm breeze blew in, then she switched on a clock radio by the sink.
I looked out the window, out over the cornfield, the long, uniform rows rolling up over the hills. A cluster of huge old oaks like at home stood by the dirt road. The sun was behind a thin layer of silver--white cloud, and birds called to one another over the corn.
The song ended on the radio and the DJ said, “We’re getting severe weather warnings from the National Weather Ser-vice, so when you’re out and about today, keep an eye on the sky and we’ll do the same. Stay tuned to KQLA for weather updates.”
“Take off your shirt,” Roxanne said, opening up the box and pulling bottles and tubes and gloves and instructions out of it.
“Why?”
“You’ll need to get in the shower after we’re done to rinse out the dye, and you won’t be able to pull the shirt over your head without getting bleach on it.”
“That’s all right,” I said.
“No, really. It’ll be a mess. Take your shirt off. I’ve got an old robe you can wear. Doesn’t matter if we get bleach on that.”
She stood staring at me expectantly and I went cold all over. But I knew this was the kind of thing girlfriends did all the time. I’d seen it on TV. So I pulled my shirt over my head and handed it to Roxanne. Her eyes bulged.
“Holy shit,” she said.
“What?”
“Are you a body builder? You’re so ripped. Wow.”
“I work out,” I said.
“That’s not working out,” Roxanne said. “That’s Israeli Special Forces Navy SEAL type training. Wow.” Then she saw the zipper scar on my left arm. She touched it and I tried not to flinch away. “What happened here?”
“When I was seven years old I fell in a window well and split my arm open from my wrist to my elbow. Dad sewed it up with catgut.”
I pulled my arm away and she pointed to the bump on my left shoulder. “How about this one?”
“Scar tissue,” I said, and scratched it.
She didn’t say anything, but helped me into the ratty old bathrobe then read the dye directions.
“According the National Weather Ser-vice,” said the DJ on the radio, “a thunderstorm cell is picking up power over the central part of the state. We’re watching out for you at KQLA.”
After Roxanne brushed my hair, she put on plastic gloves and opened a bottle, squeezing a tube into it before shaking the mixture up. Then she squeezed the goo onto my head and the smell was overwhelming. I held the towel to my face but it didn’t help.
“Dekker says you never learned how to drive.”
“No,” I said.
“How come?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s because Dad didn’t want me to escape, but we were in a serious car accident when I was about thirteen. We both walked away without a scratch, but the truck was completely destroyed. He decided in addition to everything else, cars were just too dangerous for me to ride in, much less drive.”
Roxanne looked up, her eyes alight. “If you were going to stay a -couple of days, I’d totally take you out on the country roads and teach you to drive—-that’s the only way to do it.”
She tied my hair up in a little clear plastic hood and clipped it, then peeled off the gooey gloves and stuffed them in the dye box. “Let’s put the goo on Dekker and then we can all go downstairs while it processes,” she said.
“You go ahead,” I said. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
I cursed myself for letting them talk me into the whole hair--dyeing thing. I ran down the stairs, clutching my bra knife through the robe, and looked out the front windows, scanning the road for police cars or a red Ram pickup.
Chapter 16
“MAYBE WE SHOULD dig into the loot you stole from Dooley’s office while we’re waiting,” Curt said. “Might answer some questions.”
Did I want to share my stuff with these -people? They’d opened their home to me, their lives, and the truth was I didn’t want to have to wait to look at the stuff, however briefly. I went upstairs and brought down the letters and the photo album. I left the envelope and the laptop in my suitcase.
“Let’s go in the dining room so we can spread some stuff out,” Curt said.
“There’s also this,” I said, pulling the silver chain from the neck of the robe and holding out the little silver box on it.
Curt walked right up to me and took the silver box in his hand. He was so close I could smell him. I felt dizzy and breathless with him this near. Even my own dad had never invaded my personal space the way Curt and Roxanne did. They thought nothing of it.
“So beautiful,” Roxanne said, her arms around her dad’s neck from behind him. He turned the box over and then closed his fist around it, looking into my eyes with his bright blue ones.
“Your mom’s, you suppose?” he said.
I nodded.
“What’s in it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “We’ve been kind of busy.”
“Let’s find out,” he said.
I nodded, holding my breath. What if there was nothing in there? I knew I’d be disappointed.
He opened the lid and turned the box upside down. A tiny zigzag of folded paper tumbled into his palm.