Except maybe sometimes it doesn’t.
“You’re yellow,” I said in a small voice.
He flicked a glance at his hands, then concentrated his stare at me again, confused. “What?”
I took a deep breath. “You’re yellow. Like, sunshine-bright yellow. That means you’re trustworthy. You believe in saving the world. You’re yellow. But you’re also a little bit gray. Or you were. That has been kind of going away for a while now. Gray means you were hiding something. But I’m pretty sure that something had to do with Leon and Javi and that mess with Leon’s sister.”
His lips parted. The air between us felt full and heavy. He had told me in a moment of vulnerability about the gang war that resulted in his sister’s death and his brother’s incarceration. Maybe he’d forgotten telling me. Maybe he’d hoped I would forget.
“This restaurant is swanky as fuck, so it’s off-white swirling with lots of pastels. Like an opal.” He looked around, his mouth still open. “Not the actual restaurant itself,” I said. “The air. It’s pearl air. And you leave yellow on the tablecloth and sometimes when you’re really mad at me, I can see rusty starbursts try to break through the yellow on your forehead, but they can’t, because you’re that yellow.”
“I don’t—” he started, but his voice was soft, husky, and I didn’t let him finish.
“I see colors.” I gave an impatient head shake. “I mean, everyone sees colors, but I see them in places where other people don’t.” The waiter came with our food, and I sat back, pressed my lips together until he left. As soon as he’d gone, I pointed to my lobster. “The word ‘lobster’ is like a speckled blue and black. Blue because it lives in the ocean, and everything related to the ocean comes at me in blue. Except for the actual ocean. It’s pink. I can’t explain it. Black speckles because lobsters aren’t too pretty. Um, ‘three’ is purple. The word ‘restaurant’ is the color of bread.” My confession was coming fast now, my heartbeat speeding up. I suddenly wanted him to know everything, all at once. “Rebecca Moreno’s license plate is bubble gum, pearl, blue, bronze, silver, foamy sea green. JSB946. It’s easy for me to remember because I remember the colors.”
“Oh my God,” he said, his voice almost a whisper now. “Your hunches.”
I nodded, tears filling my eyes. “Peyton had it too. That’s how I found all those clues. She was leaving them for me in colors. They weren’t hunches. They were just hard to explain without sounding crazy.”
He sat back, laying his napkin on the table next to his untouched plate. I could practically see his mind spinning. “And that’s why Peyton had your number in her phone.” I nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried. Peyton had my school file, and I left it in her car for you. But you didn’t read it like you were supposed to. And then there was the accident and you couldn’t remember anything, and it just felt like a bad time.” We locked eyes. “I’ve never told anyone except my dad and doctors. I’ve never trusted anyone to understand.”
“Peyton was your sister. That woman in the trailer told us. I do remember that. But . . . help me out here, Nikki. What aren’t you telling me?”
My lips felt dry. I licked them twice. I hated feeling vulnerable, and this had me feeling like I might as well be standing nude in the middle of the casino. At the same time, it felt exciting. To finally let someone in—something I’d battled my entire life.
“We’re not just here to find Luna’s getaway driver. I mean, we are. But the reason we came here is because my mom worked at the studio we’re going to tomorrow. She knew him. She worked for Vanessa. She had Bill’s baby. And . . . and my dad is lying to me. He says he never met any of them. But I’ve seen pictures. I’ve read articles. He knew them all, too. They were like a big, happy family. Celebrating some movie they were going to make together. And then it never happened. The movie went away. My mom ended up dead. And my dad was a suspect. And I’m pretty sure he . . . no. I know he lied to the cops.”
“The file you had me pull,” he said. “And you want to prove that he didn’t do it.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but no answer would come. I wasn’t sure, actually. Was I out here to prove that my dad didn’t do it? Or was I out to prove that he did?
18
I DIDN’T FINISH dinner. I was too revved up. Too emotional. Chris kept staring at me, like he couldn’t process what I had just told him. The waiter had arrived, asking if everything was okay with the food. Chris picked up his fork and began prodding at it guiltily, but I scooted away from the table and asked for a box.
“I’m not feeling well,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Nikki,” Chris called after me, but I didn’t turn back. I couldn’t. I didn’t do vulnerable, and while it didn’t feel as bad as I’d expected it to, it felt too intense to call it good, either. It mostly felt like my whole life was at risk of blowing up now. Which was funny when I thought about it—my life had a habit of blowing up on a regular basis, and I was somehow surprised about it every single time.
When I got back to my room, I saw that Dad had called. He left a message, wondering where I was. I couldn’t talk to him. I sent him a text.
I took a road trip with a friend. In Vegas. Be home tomorrow late.
He immediately texted back: Vegas??? We need to talk?
I sent a laughing emoji back at him, and then, thinking it over, followed that immediately with: Just for fun. No need to talk.
Translation: Please, for the love of God, do not make me talk. With all that had come out of my mouth this evening, I was afraid of what I might say if I was pressed to talk.
I felt guilty taking off my expensive clothes. I’d hardly worn them at all, and Chris didn’t have the kind of money to just go throwing it away like that. I hung my things in the closet, thinking I would leave them there. Maybe the housekeeper and I were the same size. Maybe she could sell them. It didn’t matter. I was much more tees and jeans than silk and shimmer. I unrolled a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt from my backpack and put them on, then climbed into bed and thumbed the TV on.
I was forty minutes into a movie that I couldn’t pay attention to when there was a knock at my door.
Chris.
I opened the door and he held out a Styrofoam box for me to take. My stomach growled. Now that my nerves had calmed, I actually was a little hungry.
“Thanks,” I said. “Sorry I left. I just . . .” I didn’t know how to finish. “Should we meet tomorrow at ten? Go over to Angry Elephant then?”
“Can I come in?” he asked.
I didn’t want him to. Actually, I wanted to rewind. To go back to dinner and cram all the words back into my mouth. Then he could come in. You can’t avoid him forever, Nikki. You have to ride in a car with him for half a day tomorrow. I stepped aside.
“You should put that in the fridge,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket. He opened the closet and hung it next to my clothes. I pretended I didn’t see him pause to touch the fabric of my shirt. It was cloth. Just cloth. But somehow the gesture felt intimate. “Can I sit?”
I nodded and stepped around him to put the box in the refrigerator. I turned off the TV and sat on the bed, pulling myself up so I was sitting cross-legged on the mattress. He sat in the easy chair next to the bed and leaned forward, his fingers pressed together between his knees, like he was getting ready to pray.
“You think your dad might be guilty,” he said. Quietly, gently.
I nodded.
“How long have you thought this?”
“A few months. Before Tesori Antico.”