Hero Complex (12 page)

When they finally arrived at the house, Devon stood on her front steps for an extra minute. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but she felt oddly joyless. It had been almost a month since she’d actually been home, yet somehow it felt like she hadn’t been here in over a year. During winter break, she had still been in a daze about Hutch, and then came New Year’s Eve. The stone steps to the green front door, the milky glass on either side of the door, the tiled roof … all of it felt darker, more opaque, heavier.

But she was projecting again.

Devon found the spare key in the fake rock behind the Japanese maple tree. She let herself inside and paused at the front door. When she was a kid, and her mom worked late, she was remarkably fine being alone in the house. Boogeymen, shadows, strange creaks in the night never fazed her. Silence was the problem, she decided.

She let the key clink down on the kitchen table and immediately turned on CNN and turned up the volume. Then she went through the house, flipping on lights. An old pair of sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt were wedged into the back shelf of her closet, which Devon deemed the perfect attire for her night. By
the time she had taken a hot shower and finished changing clothes, Devon felt less alone—right at the moment she heard her mom’s car pulling into the driveway. The door slammed.

“Hello?” Mom called in a high-pitched voice. “Dev? I got our pizza. Welcome home.”

Devon heard keys hitting the kitchen table, a pizza box thumping down, and the clatter of plates on the counter. Unable to suppress a grin, she ran. Her mother swept her into a hug and buried her nose in her hair with a muffled “I missed you.”

“Me, too. It’s been a month,” Devon said, pulling away. Her mom pushed her hair back from her face. Devon couldn’t help but notice that her eyes were pink from exhaustion; the lines in her face seemed a little deeper. Then again, being a nurse wasn’t exactly a relaxed, feel-good job.

“How’s the cheek?” Mom asked. “It looks like it healed nicely. No scars.” She waved at the table. “Sit down. I’m going to pass out if I don’t eat something. Okay?” She squeezed Devon’s shoulders.

“Okay, but Mom—”

“I know,” her mother interrupted softly, slumping into the chair. “You want to talk this out. I do, too.”

Good
. As they tore off pieces of the pizza and cracked open cold Diet Cokes, Devon started in, going from how she was still feeling weird about the New Year’s Eve party and the dimpled waiter, to the feeling that Dr. Hsu was pushing the Vericyl prescription on her, to her own back-and-forth about whether or not her paranoia was founded. And then there was the question of the scholarship …

Her mom pushed her plate away. She leaned across the wobbly kitchen table and put a hand over Devon’s. “I’m happy to talk to this Dr. Hsu if you would like,” she murmured. “I don’t know how I feel about her prescribing medications for you after only a few sessions, but if you’re feeling a little off from your usual self, maybe it’s something we should be considering.”

Devon hesitated. “I know. I was thinking the same. But on the
other hand, I’m not being paranoid; I’m being smart. This is so annoying. I feel like if I was a guy, I’d be taken more seriously, like all of you see me as some little girl being overly dramatic.” She quickly realized that she was, in fact, being overly dramatic. She took a deep breath. “I just want some answers, that’s all.”

Staring into her eyes, her mom squeezed Devon’s hands. “Well, I do care. Let’s get you some answers. No more taking the law into your own hands, like you did with Eric Hutchins, okay? You’re very smart and very capable, but you’re not a superhero. Everything doesn’t have to be your responsibility.” She closed the distance between them and kissed Devon on the forehead, then stood. “Now help me clear the plates. You look like you’re ready for some serious couch time.”

D
EVON FELL ASLEEP ON
the couch somewhere into their third episode of
Grey’s Anatomy
. She woke up a few hours later and dragged herself upstairs to her room, the old purple blanket wrapped around her shoulders. For the first time since she’d arrived, she felt at home and at peace.

At the end of the second-floor hallway, Devon saw that her mom’s bedroom door was closed, but the light was on inside. Her mom must have gone to sleep while reading with the light on again. But as she approached, she heard her mother whispering on the phone. Who could she be talking with in the middle of the night? Devon leaned closer and listened to her mother’s voice, quiet and urgent.

“That’s what I told her!” her mom hissed.

Devon put her ear to the door. The wooden floorboards in the hallway let out a muffled creak.

Her mom’s voice stopped suddenly.

Devon paused, holding her breath. After a long wait and silence, her mom’s bedroom light clicked off.

Screw it
. Devon couldn’t just stand here all night, thinking
paranoid thoughts. Her mom was probably on the phone with one of her patients. Devon tiptoed to her bedroom but made a point to sleep with the door open.

“D
EV
, I’
VE GOT TO
get moving. Do you need a ride anywhere?”

Her mom seemed distracted. They’d sipped their coffee in silence until now, and then her mom started making her to-do lists for the upcoming week. Devon figured she might as well pack up to meet Cleo back in the city.

“Yeah. To the BART. Thanks.”

She left her mom to clean the kitchen and bolted upstairs. Her mom’s bedroom door was closed. This might be Devon’s only shot. She quickly opened her mom’s door, praying that the hinges wouldn’t betray her. But there was no clue, just the bed, neatly made, a stack of folded clothes on top of the white dresser, and a short stack of books next to the bed. Her mom’s phone wasn’t in here, and the trash can was empty.

“Gotta run, Dev!” Mom called.

Devon was careful to answer from the hallway. “One sec!”

She grabbed her overstuffed backpack and paused, taking one more glance at her mom’s room before she closed the door. The top book on the stack on her bedside table stood out—only because it wasn’t brand new. It was a worn paperback, the pages now a faded green. It reminded Devon of the paperback racks at the Berkeley library, books that had been read and handled by countless students over decades of use.

Love Story
by Erich Segal. The jacket featured a cheesy, dated-looking picture of two actors embracing. They looked familiar, but Devon couldn’t quite place them. They were probably old and wrinkled now. The binding was creased, the cover bent open. Devon could just make out something scrawled inside. She lifted the cover with a finger. On the first page was a penciled phone number, faded and slightly smudged. A 415 area code. Local.

Without thinking, Devon yanked out her phone and took a quick photo. Could that belong to the person her mom was talking to last night? She’d have to try it later. And no, she was not being paranoid. She was being practical. Her mother lived alone. A caring daughter had every right to snoop.

Huntington House felt like stepping into a time capsule. Devon had heard rumors, of course, about the swanky club built at the height of Prohibition. Black-and-white photos lined the hallways: white men with cigars, black waiters, women with cigarette holders and oversized furs draped loosely over their shoulders. There was so much political incorrectness in each photo Devon was amazed that the San Francisco cultural elite didn’t protest. Then again, the current elite had probably sprung from this historic group. Grandpa might have been a racist, but he was still Grandpa …

Oz’s sister, Zara, stood behind a wide hostess podium at the restaurant entrance. She was impossible to miss; she was the female version of Oz—stocky and blonde, complete with dimples. He and Cleo were running late, of course.

Not wanting to make small talk, Devon fled to the restroom.

Flowery sofas, dimmed sconces, perfumed lotions and soaps next to the row of sinks … if only she’d had a grandpa who’d been rich.

A petite Asian woman sat on a small vanity stool in front of the mirror, smoothing down her short bob. A familiar woman. Devon froze for an instant. Before the woman could glimpse Devon in the mirror, she ducked into a nearby stall. With the door closed, she might go undetected, but Devon held her breath anyways.

The woman’s cell phone rang. She answered in a crisp, professional voice. “This is Jocelyn.”

Devon knew that name, and she knew that voice. Dr. Jocelyn Hsu. She was
here
. At Huntington House. But why? Did she come from old San Francisco money? Did she marry a wealthy doctor or decide to join this boys’ club on her own? Devon was pretty sure she hadn’t seen a wedding ring on Dr. Hsu’s hand. Plus, a student therapist didn’t seem like the usual clientele for Huntington House. Devon couldn’t help but smile to herself, even as her mind reeled. Seeing a Keaton faculty member out in the real world was a rarity—and a delicious one.

“Just coming out,” Dr. Hsu continued. “See you in a sec.”

The bathroom door closed with soft swish of air. Devon waited ten more seconds, then slipped out of her stall and followed.

Behind the podium, Devon could see Zara smiling and chattering to Dr. Hsu, clearly in hostess mode. Dr. Hsu wasn’t alone now. She was with C.C. Tran.

Devon watched from inside the lobby as Zara grabbed two menus from a shelf in the podium and turned toward the dining room. C.C. Tran, in another matching outfit of skirt, blazer, and heels, was here for lunch, just as Cleo had promised she would be. Except that Cleo failed to mention that C.C.’s lunch date was Dr. Hsu.

Zara led them to a table near the window with a view of the Financial District down the hill. She pulled out a chair. Devon had to leap out of C.C.’s line of sight to avoid being spotted. Her heart
thumped. She turned toward the heavy oak doors and heard a shout of familiar laughter.

Cleo burst in with Oz right behind her. Both were dressed appropriately for lunch at a stodgy club—at least more appropriately than she was—but too bad.

Devon grabbed Cleo’s arm. “Stop. You can’t go in. We have to leave.”

She caught the door before it closed fully and tugged at Cleo and Oz before they could argue. On the front steps, with the sun shining and a brisk San Francisco breeze, she took a moment to breathe. Once she felt like her feet were back on the ground in reality again, she turned to meet their baffled stares.

“Maya’s mother is having lunch in there with my freaking Keaton therapist,” she stated.

Cleo tilted her head, waiting for more. “Whoa, talk about worlds colliding,” Oz said.

“Thank you,
yes
, worlds colliding.” Devon gritted her teeth. “Exactly.”

Oz glanced at Cleo, who stepped forward. “Okay, hold up. Let’s think about this for a sec. C.C. Tran has a daughter who was a student at Keaton, and by the looks of things, may even return. Dr. Hsu is the new school psychologist. Maybe they’re talking about Maya?” She smiled and nudged Devon’s arm. “I mean, Devon … this might not be about
you
, you know?”

Devon blinked at her friend.
My God
. Cleo was totally right. Worse, so was Dr. Hsu. Worst of all, Devon’s paranoia was starting to scare her.

“Lemme see if Zara can help us at all,” Oz said in the silence. He ducked inside the main doors.

For the first time since this weekend began, Cleo and Devon were alone.

Cleo smiled at Devon, the right side of her mouth threatening to burst into a full-on grin.

“This is not how you want to spend the weekend, is it?” Devon muttered.

“Guilty!” Cleo shrieked. She grabbed Devon’s shoulders. “It’s so good. He’s like,
Wow, wow, like, where have you been all my life?
And Dev, it’s not just sex. We’ve been having fun and laughing and real conversations. Holy shit. I’ve never really been in love before, but I don’t know—” She broke off when Oz returned.

He flashed Devon a polite smile, the same sort of smile his sister had given Dr. Hsu. “There’s a side entrance. Zara’s going to let us in there. Come on.” Oz held Cleo’s hand and led them down the front steps, around the mansion to a smaller entrance flanked by garbage cans.

Zara was holding the door open when they approached. She didn’t look happy; she looked annoyed—older-sister annoyed. She ushered them into the storage section of the club’s kitchen. “This is kind of as much as I can help with,” she whispered at Oz. “You can see them eating in the dining room through that doorway.” Zara pointed toward a crowd of busboys and waiters. “See that guy with the reddish hair? He’s their waiter. I’ll try to flag him down, see if there’s anything interesting he overhears …”

Devon had stopped listening. Her eyes widened. As the reddish-haired waiter carried his tray through the swinging door, a busboy passed in the other direction. One of the chefs at the stovetop yelled something in Spanish, and the busboy laughed—flashing dimples.

Devon’s mouth went dry. She gripped Cleo’s arm. The busboy was Eli, her waiter from New Year’s Eve. “It’s him,” Devon said, her breath coming in irregular bursts. “Dimples.”

Zara hesitated, scowling. “Are you okay? Oz, what are you doing to me, bringing these people—”

Cleo looked over her shoulder, then quickly back at Devon. Her face went white. “What do you want to do? Get out of here? Call the cops?”

Devon could only nod, her eyes pinned to Eli as he placed the
last lemon wedges in his water glasses. As if feeling her gaze on him, he turned. A moment of blank confusion in his eyes quickly shifted to recognition. He flashed a brittle smile at Zara, and then picked up his tray and calmly walked into the dining room.

Cleo leaned toward Zara. “Does that guy really work here?”

“Eli? Yeah, sometimes.” She whirled to her brother. “Oz, what is this about?”

“I have to get out of here,” Devon said. She pushed past Cleo and out the side kitchen door. She reached the top of the stairs in time to see Eli running out the club’s opulent front door—down the hill on California Street. Devon took a few steps after him but decided against it. He was too fast, and she was too scared. She turned back to Huntington House. Cleo was chasing after her, with Oz and Zara trailing behind.