“Let me give you a lift home,” Melody said, twirling her keychain around her finger.
“In your beautiful pea-green boat?”
A genuine smile lifted her face for the first time that night. “‘The Owl and the Pussycat.’ That was my favorite lullaby.”
“It’s a nursery rhyme.”
“And a song. My car’s not pea green.”
“Not fresh pea green, it’s split pea green.”
“Whatever, at least I have a car.”
“I have a car, I just don’t drive it.”
“Why?”
“It’s too valuable.”
“Show me?”
“Sure.”
“Got anything to drink at your house?”
“No. You cleaned me out, remember?”
“We’ll stop on the way. I’ll just stay for a couple, if that’s okay.”
“That’s okay.”
On the drive to Mar Vista, Melody was quiet, jittery, unsettled. She kept her hands tight on the wheel, and her eyes kept flicking from her rearview mirror to her side mirrors. Her posture was stiff, her breathing shallow, like she was fighting off an anxiety attack. Sam knew all the tells because he dealt with them every day. But he wouldn’t push her. She’d talk to him in her own time, or not at all. It was her choice.
She pulled up to a liquor store on Centinela, a few blocks from her apartment. “What can I get you?”
He unclipped his seatbelt. “I’ll come in with you, pick out a vintage bottle of sparkling water.”
Melody bought a case of beer and a bottle of chardonnay. Sam caved and picked up a bottle of small batch rye from Kentucky to go with his sparkling water. He would probably drink half the rye and none of the water. He didn’t have anything to celebrate, but he certainly had reasons to drink.
“Do you mind if we stop by my place for a minute? There’s something I want to show you.”
“Go ahead.”
Sam had been to her apartment once before, briefly. From what little he’d glimpsed from her kitchen, she’d done a fine job furnishing it and making it welcoming. A work in progress, she’d said, but wasn’t everything and everybody? He noticed a big bunch of rosemary in a vase by the kitchen sink and two empty bottles of Sierra Nevada. “What do you want to show me?”
She led him into her bedroom, something he hadn’t been expecting, but thankfully she just pointed to a bouquet of roses on her dresser. “Somebody crawled through my window and left these for me while I was at your house. It wasn’t Ryan.”
“Are you sure?”
“He said he didn’t.”
“You talked to him?”
“No, just texted. But now he’s not responding to me.”
“He’s pissed off, that’s why.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“You should be. You should also be worried about who did leave the roses. Did you call the cops?”
“And tell them what?”
“Gee, I don’t know. That you have a violent, angry boyfriend and possibly a stalker?”
She gave him a sharp look. “They can’t do anything.”
“Call them, Mel, I’ll wait with you. And pack a bag. You’re staying with me until this gets sorted out.”
“I can’t…”
“Yes, you can.”
She twisted her fingers together, picked at her pink nail polish nervously. “Tell me about the black Jeep.”
Sam felt something unformulated and dark uncoil inside him. “What about it?”
“Teddy, he lives here. He’s the caretaker—said he’s seen a black Jeep around. Parked in front of the building.”
He shrugged, going for indifference and not sure if he’d pulled it off. “I’ve seen one around my place, too. It was parked outside my house this morning, but cars park on residential streets. There’s nowhere else to park.” And then the black Jeep followed me while I was jogging and ran over a woman I talked to. Add Melody to the list of people he was keeping secrets from. Maybe it would be easier to keep a list of people he was honest with because there was nobody on that list right now, zero, a cinch to remember.
“You thought it might belong to Ryan. Maybe it does, I wouldn’t know if he has another car.”
“Let’s get you out of here, Mel. Pack your bag. We’ll go to my house and then we’ll deal with the cops.”
Sam left her to pack and sank into the living room sofa, so stiff and redolent with new furniture smell, he wondered if it had ever been sat on before. There were no dings in the wooden legs, no wear and tear on the fabric, no hollows from TV-watching butts denting the cushions. Actually, there were no signs of a real life in the room at all. It had all the bells and whistles of a home but was totally impersonal, like a display at a furniture store.
It made sense. She was just starting out from scratch, building a new life, a new space, and she didn’t have family heirlooms or tchotchkes to display because she’d never had a real family. And living on the streets didn’t afford the opportunity to gather meaningful possessions of your own.
A work in progress, the apartment and the woman.
He noticed an electric guitar on a stand, tucked in a dark corner. An authentic part of Melody or a flea market prop meant to make the space seem less anonymous? There was no amp, so he leaned toward the latter explanation.
He tensed when he saw a shadow pass by the front window, reached for a sidearm that wasn’t there. Paranoia, like guilt, was highly communicable and hard to shake, and he was suddenly being smothered by both of them. He had to move, had to leave. “Almost ready?”
“Yep.” She emerged from the bedroom with a small roll-aboard, wearing an oversized Los Angeles Lakers T-shirt, jeans, and a troubled expression. Her makeup had faded, and the black eye was clearly visible now.
“Do you play guitar?”
Her eyes darted to the corner. “No, I just thought it looked cool.”
“It does.”
“I found it at a pawn shop. I like to wonder about its history and what kind of music it played. It has a story, but I’ll never know what it is, which is why I like it.”
“You can make up a new story whenever you want.”
She smiled wistfully. “Exactly. Let’s get the hell out of here, Sam.”
They both jumped at the knock on the door.
“Who is it?” Sam shouted, all the anxiety transferring to his voice, making it sound confrontational and probably scary, at least if you were on the other side of the door.
“Mellie?”
Melody hurried to the door and opened it with a backward glance of reassurance. “It’s Teddy. Come in, Teddy, meet my friend Sam.”
He stepped inside, gaped at her black eye, then gave Sam a wary once-over. “What the hell, are you okay, girl?”
“I’m fine. Sam didn’t do this. He’s helping me. I’m going to stay with him until … I’m going to stay with him for a day or two.”
Teddy relaxed and nodded at Sam. “Nice to meet you, man.”
“You, too.” Teddy was dread-locked, wore a surf poncho, floral board shorts, and flip-flops. He was clearly baked out of his mind and moved like an overcooked noodle. Sam felt like he’d just stepped onto the set of a surfing flick.