Please, God, let there be no one inside.
There wasn’t. I flipped on the light and eased the door closed. Frightened gold fireworks painted the ceiling, but then gave way to rolling oranges and yellows. I couldn’t feel my feet. It was so silent I could almost hear my own blood rushing.
I dropped the bags in the center of his desk and then stood there for a second, glancing around, hoping something would jump out at me. Fuzzy tangerine—my dad’s name, maybe. Or lavender—my mom’s. Glittery purple—the color of Hollywood Dreams—that I’d come to associate with the Hollis name without even realizing it. Even ice-blue Luna would be a welcome sight. Just something to let me know I wasn’t crazy. That I was on the right track.
Nothing. Not a single loose paper on the pristine desk; only a bookshelf full of books. Random colors popped out at me, like flashbulbs and balloons and floating bubbles, but most of them with the beige edges of boring business. Was it weird for a director’s desk to be such a void?
Frantically, I began opening drawers and scanning shelves. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
God. No. I could not come away with nothing. Not again.
I dropped down, flipped to my back, and checked the undersides of the desk and chair. Nope.
I stood, cursing, and was just about to give up, when a black-and-white word streaked across my consciousness. Journal. Tucked in with all the books and binders on the shelves, a thin red notebook with the word Journal printed down the spine.
I pulled it out.
Pay dirt. Where there were journals, there were secrets, right? At least that was always how it was in the movies.
Curious, I opened it, thumbing through the pages. It was more diary, or even activity log, than journal. Weird. Nothing personal. Just line after line of recorded activities. And there was something off about it that I couldn’t quite place.
8:10 A.M. AWAKE
8:22 A.M. SHOWER, DOOR CLOSED
9:10 A.M. BREAKFAST, CEREAL, DRY, COFFEE, CREAM, SUGAR, DIDN’T FINISH
9:30 A.M. STUDYING, OPEN TEXTBOOK, GEOGRAPHY
9:56 A.M. CIGARETTE BREAK 1, COMPLETE TO FILTER, NO BRAND CHANGE, DISCARDED BUTT SAVED, RETRIEVED, AND LOGGED
Damn, the blond man kept a boring-as-shit schedule.
But maybe knowing the kind of schedule he kept would be handy. Maybe there would be clues in later entries to tell me who he was. Maybe knowing his schedule would help me know exactly when his house would be empty. If I could ever find his house, that was. Either way, leaving with a boring journal that might or might not be useful was better than leaving with nothing.
I pulled up my apron, tucked the journal into my waistband, and scurried out of Pear Magic, leaving the Fat Sal’s bags on the blond man’s desk.
I liked the idea of him feeling watched. Of getting back to his office and wondering who was after him.
AS SOON AS I got out of the Pear Magic lot, I pulled off the bandanna and shook my hair out. At the first stoplight, I untied and shimmied out of my apron. I tossed them both into the backseat and stuck the journal in the glove box.
I didn’t know what I had—if I had anything at all—but I felt like I had made maybe the tiniest bit of progress. Who knew—maybe I would find something in the journal that would open Dad’s locked box. It was such a long shot it was basically impossible, but if I didn’t stay optimistic, I would never get anywhere, right? I called Chris’s phone twice more, to no answer, and when I buzzed past his gym, I could see why. His car was there, so he was likely inside, working out. I swung into the lot and parked.
Chris was doing sit-ups on a mat in the corner, sweating so hard his head was leaving a wet, circular blotch on the mat. I walked past the front desk like I owned the place, grabbed a light medicine ball off a shelf, and waited for him to pull himself upright. When he did, I tossed the ball.
“Shit!” He caught the ball half an inch before it hit his face, and held it in the curve of his stomach. “What the hell?”
“I can see your reflexes are still in working order,” I said. “A little sluggish, but . . .” I shrugged sarcastically.
“And what if they weren’t?”
“You’d have a broken nose right now, I guess.”
“Real sensitive, Nikki.” He tossed the ball back at me and lowered himself back to the mat. “You know”—he sat up and went back down again—“you are always”—up, down—“everywhere I don’t”—up, down—“want you to be.”
This time when he sat up, I threw the ball again. He caught it much quicker. “Your throw’s a little sluggish, but . . .” He shrugged and lobbed it to me, then went back to his sit-ups. “To what . . . do I owe the . . . extreme pleasure . . . of having you in my gym?” He sat up and let his arms rest on his knees, his hands dangling between his legs. “On a day when I thought I made it pretty clear I didn’t want to be bothered.”
I shifted the ball to my hip, holding it there with my forearm. “So now I’m a bother?” I acted like he was being ridiculous, but the truth was his words stung a little. Since when did he want to avoid me? Usually I was the one trying to avoid him.
He tipped his head to wipe his temple and cheek on his shoulder. “No, you’re not a bother,” he said. “You’re just always demanding something. And before you ask, no. I don’t remember anybody with the name on that license plate.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you about the name,” I said. But only because I completely forgot about it, I didn’t add.
“Good.”
“But since you brought it up . . . ,” I said.
He rolled his eyes and went back to his sit-ups. “What do you want, Nikki?”
I tossed the ball. He caught it and threw it back to me immediately. “What’s her name?”
He grunted, ignoring me.
“Oh, come on. What’s the big deal about you telling me?”
He stopped again. “The big deal is I tell you the name and next thing I know I’m having to rush to her house to either apologize to her or bail your ass out of trouble. Or, most likely, both.”
“Funny,” I said. “I thought I was bailing your ass out of trouble this time. You know, unless you don’t consider getting run over to be trouble.” I dropped the ball onto the mat and propped one foot on it. “I promise I won’t—”
“Dear God, you are relentless. Fine. Her name is Rebecca Moreno. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t remember why. And it’s making me crazy to constantly have all these things almost making sense, but not making sense. I just need a day to think, Nikki. I need a day for this to be my problem. Not ours. Mine.”
“Fine,” I said. “It’s your problem.” Part of me wanted to be offended that he was shutting me out so completely, but then again, how many problems was I hiding from him at any given moment?
“Thank you.” He did another three sit-ups.
“Now, to the reason I’m here,” I said.
He laughed. “I knew it.”
“No, this will be fun. I promise.”
“Fun?” He stood, grabbed a towel from a nearby table, and wiped his face and neck. “When have your plans ever been fun?”
I ignored him. “Have you ever been to igNight?”
He thought, then squinted through the sweat. “The hookah place?”
I nodded. “Hookah club is what they call it.”
He pitched the used towel across the room; it landed in a laundry basket, on top of a pile of other dirty towels. “Why on earth would I want to go to a hookah club? Or any kind of club, for that matter.”
“Because you’re not eighty,” I said, kicking his shoe. “Even if you constantly insist on acting like you are.” I hunched over and made a grumpy face.
“I don’t really see you as a big dancer, Nikki,” he said.
“I could be.” He was right; I wasn’t. Dancing felt too uncontrolled and vulnerable, and I felt like a fool when I tried. Mom used to dance. All the time. She was constantly turning up the radio, then picking me up and whirling me around the kitchen. I loved it. Maybe that was why I hated dancing so much now. It was just another thing that died with Mom.
God, that was pathetic.