I look to Mom for an answer.
“Just a family heirloom,” she says after a delay. Then she clucks her tongue. “And you know what? How silly of me. I forgot I took it home the other night. Sorry to alarm you, Officer.”
His brow creases.
“You know,” Mom says, rubbing her arm, “this arm is actually starting to really bother me. I think I’ll have my daughter drive me to the hospital now.”
“Oh, sure, just a few more—”
She climbs to her feet, wincing in pain, and practically pushes the officer and his photo-taking partner out of the shop.
The minute they’re gone—really gone, as in “Mom watched from the window to make sure they drove away” gone—she makes a limping run for the attic to confirm my news.
“Like I’d miss a book in there,” I call up as she bangs around boxes upstairs. “Mom, be careful—your arm.”
She doesn’t even dignify that with a response.
I fully expected her to be enraged, but when she comes downstairs, her face is streaked with tears, and her eyes, which are normally a bright, vibrant gray, now look like two big voids.
“Oh, Mom.” I pull her to my chest, and she lets out a sob that rattles her body. Warning bells go off in my head. Mom went off the deep end the last time the Bible went missing, and it wasn’t even gone that long before she found it right where she left it, in a shoe box in her closet. I don’t want to think about what might happen if we never get it back. I imagine padded rooms. Needle jabs by mean nurses. There might even be drooling involved.
I brush hair that clings to her wet cheeks away from her face.
“I think I know where it is,” I say.
“Y-you do?” Mom asks, hope filling her cloudy eyes.
Okay, so that’s a lie. But one thing is clear as I take in the fragile state of my mother: I have to find this book. And I do at least have one clue to go on: Leather Jacket Guy. He knows something, if he didn’t actually take the book himself. All I have to do is find him.
“I’m going to get the Bible back, Mom. I promise.”
9
So, slight problem with that plan: I have absolutely no clue where to start.
There are over three million people in Los Angeles. The Staples Center seats twenty thousand; Dodger Stadium holds fifty-six thousand. Finding someone in L.A., especially if they don’t want to be found, is like finding a needle in a haystack. Or, as Mom would say, like bailing out a battleship with a bucket.
But I’ve promised Mom, and I’m almost certain that, if I weren’t planning to sneak out just as soon as she falls asleep, she’d be in support of my plan. In support of anything that means finding the Bible.
I set Mom up with a live stream of Fringe, Season Four—so confusing it’s sure to lull her to sleep.
“You have everything you need? A refill on the tea, maybe?” I hike my thumb toward the kitchen.
“I’m not an invalid, Indie.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You need to rest.” I take her half-empty cup to the kitchen.
“Just, maybe one more thing?” she calls to my back. And the way she says it—guiltily—lets me know she wants her cigarettes.
“Seriously?” I answer. But I’m already going to the freezer.
“Thanks, doll! I’ll quit just as soon as I’m feeling better.”
“Yeah, yeah.” A blast of cold air hits my face as I open the freezer. I grab a pack of cigarettes from the carton and pad back to the living room. “Virginia Slims? What happened to the Marlboros?”
Mom’s brows draw together. “Marlboros? What are you talking about?”
I remember the Marlboro butts in the shop’s attic, and my spine tingles.
“What, honey?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Two cups of tea and three cigarettes later, and Mom’s sawing logs.
So now I’m sitting in the front seat of the Sunfire, the engine vibrating beneath me, gripping the steering wheel as I stare at our house in the headlights.
Hours pass. Or maybe minutes.
I could trawl the area around the shop and look for Leather Jacket Guy, talk to some people, maybe see if anyone saw him or which direction he went. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. It’s a pretty solid plan, the only real plan I can see. So why can’t I move?
It definitely isn’t because I’m scared. Nope. Not possible. I’m not afraid of the dark, and it isn’t like hundreds of hoboes will jump on the hood of my car if I dare slip below fifty on Melrose at night—probably. I can handle this by myself.
But just for fun, I run through the options of friends I can enlist for help.
Bianca?
I bark a laugh. That’s a good joke. “Hey, Bianca, can you please leave this fun party to help me find my mom’s witchcraft Bible?” Yeah. Not likely.
There’s Devon. …
I remember his helpfulness tonight and groan, sinking my fingers deep into my hair. Nope, Devon is out too. None of my friends can help me. Not unless the emergency is of the fashion or hair variety.