Pretty Sly (4 page)

Clearly, she wasn’t totally honest with me about lots of things.

“So what are we looking for?” Aidan asked, squeezing himself between boxes.

I scanned the room. “Money, I think. Just don’t ask me where.”

I made my way down an aisle of boxes. Well, at least it all looked fairly normal, this secret enclave of my mother’s. Enough junk to justify paying for the place, but not enough to qualify for a reality show about hoarding, thankfully.

Tre held up a key. “May I?”

“Be my guest,” I said, and watched as he slit open the tape on a box and began rifling through the contents.

Aidan went to work on another pile of boxes. I made my way toward the back of the unit, trying to scope everything out before I formally started my search. I felt like I should be able to home in on what I was looking for, like a heat-sensing satellite, but that was probably
ridiculous. I had no such powers. And whatever it was could be anywhere.

In the farthest right corner, there were a few grungy kitchen chairs I recognized from our last house in Colorado, and a large wooden trunk. Behind that, leaned up against the wall, were dozens of large flat rectangles, wrapped in black plastic.

Her paintings! So they hadn’t been stolen after all? She must have moved them here herself.

I quickly ripped off the plastic and started flipping through the stack, feeling nostalgia wash over me like a warm summer rain. Each image was familiar, even though I’d probably never seen them all together like this.

My mom had faithfully captured every place we’d ever lived—and we’d covered quite a lot of the West Coast, moving twelve times in the last fifteen years.

Her style was abstract, yet she was always able to catch something important and essential about each landscape she painted. There were the huge open plains threaded with orange and blue that could only be the Sonoran Desert of Paradise Valley; a series of forests, inspired by our time in Washington State; a vast manmade lake I remembered visiting one summer in New Mexico.

Maybe she’d lied about her amazing art career and hadn’t actually ever sold anything, but there was no denying the fact that she really was an artist. You
couldn’t just fake images like these. No matter what else you were trying to fake.

I felt a twinge in my chest. Sadness that my mom had hidden so much from me. Had she thought I wouldn’t understand, whatever it was? Regret, too, that I’d let her down, maybe when she needed me the most.

“Find anything, Willa?” Tre called out to me.

“Not yet,” I said. “I mean, not what we’re looking for.”

I chewed on my bottom lip and kept studying the paintings as if they were maps, in search of more information. As far as I could tell, all of the pieces that had been stored in the closet at home were here, and it was safe to say she’d moved them here herself.

Unless someone else had access to this place. Someone who could be watching me right now.

Shadows flickered in my peripheral vision. I turned around and kept going in a full three-sixty.

Nothing. I was getting carried away again.

I took a deep breath and tried to exhale my way through the sense of unease as I went back to the paintings.

There was a half-finished piece I remembered watching her work on back in her studio at the house. Then two others that also seemed to be works in progress. The very last painting in the stack was a large canvas, probably sixty inches square, much bigger than the rest of them. I pulled it away from the wall and held it up by its wooden stretcher frame to examine it.

Oddly, I didn’t recognize the image. As far as I knew,
I’d never seen this painting on her easel. Of course, she’d done most of her work when I was at school, but she usually shared it with me at some point, especially when she was excited.

I noticed, too, that it was unsigned. And the paint just seemed to run off the bottom edge, as though the canvas had been moved in a hurry. I pushed my finger against the surface, and the paint smudged ever so slightly. Maybe this had been the last thing she’d done before she’d left.

“There’s nothing in those boxes back there except a bunch of books and magazines,” Aidan called, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. Then, in a few long strides, he was beside me, looking at the art. “What’s this?”

“A painting. Can you take a photo of it?”

“Sure. But why?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I wasn’t able to articulate what I was thinking. “Can you just do it?”

He got out his phone and snapped the picture from a few angles.

As he turned the canvas over to slide it back onto the stack, my eye caught on a flash of white.

“Wait!” I yelled. “Don’t put that away yet.”

Tucked into a corner of the wooden frame was an envelope. On which, I could see as I pulled it out, my name was written in blue ink.

It was heavy in my hand and I ripped it open quickly, running my finger under the envelope’s crease. I reached
in and pulled out a rubber-banded fold of hundred-dollar bills.

“Cashish.” Aidan whistled. “Must be ten grand, at least.”

He was right—it was a substantial amount; I could tell by the weight. I held it in my palm for a minute. I felt funny counting it right there, so I put the wad back into the envelope and slipped it into my bag.

Don’t ask me why, but we tried to put everything back the way we found it. Maybe we were all just a little unnerved by the stillness of the place, the loneliness of it. All I knew was that I wanted it to be right when my mom came back.

The more I thought about it, the more I felt she couldn’t have been kidnapped. She’d had the time to leave the money and the key for me, and there was no way she would’ve known to do that. But the fact that the painting was unfinished told me she must have left quickly, maybe more quickly than she expected to.

And the money in the safe? This money had to have come from that. So maybe she took that, too. But why was the house wrecked? What was that guy looking for?

I replayed the events of the past few days in my head. She’d come home late the other night, late enough to be morning, acting odd. She’d told me that she loved me, that she’d always wanted the best for me. She’d hugged me tight. Had she known, then, that she was leaving? She must have.

Well, I couldn’t just let her go like that.

We closed the metal door and locked it up again.

“So, Willa, where are you headed now? Need a ride or anything?” Tre asked as we walked back down the aisle to the parking lot.

“Actually, I was just going to go home.”

“But you can’t stay there, can you?” Aidan said. “I mean, after everything that happened today?”

He was right. At the moment, my house seemed just as spooky as the storage facility. “My mom told me to go stay at Cherise’s for the time being, but we’re not exactly on speaking terms right now. I’m not about to show up at her door in my pajamas.”

I thought wistfully of my former best friend. Nothing sounded better than hanging out in her room, listening to records as she shared her latest DJ finds.

“I could sneak you into my guesthouse,” Aidan said. “I mean, if you wanted . . .”

Spending the night? At Aidan’s? The offer was beyond tempting. “I need to go to school tomorrow. Could you drop me off in the morning?”

Aidan looked away. “Eh, I’m not really supposed to be on campus. Not after what happened.” He meant, not after he’d been kicked out. “But I could get my dad’s driver, maybe . . .”

“You can stay at my house if you want,” Tre offered. “I’m going to school tomorrow, so I can take you. We have an extra room, and my parents won’t mind. My
dad’s away now, anyway, for a game in Houston.” Tre’s dad was the coach for the Phoenix Suns.

I closed my eyes, exhausted suddenly by the options, by the plans, by all that had happened and all that still lay ahead. “Yeah, okay,” I said, grateful for the offer. “That would be nice, Tre. Really nice.”

“Cool,” Aidan said, and I could tell he was a little hurt.

We’d been through a lot together in the last twenty-four hours. Too much, maybe. I couldn’t deal with more feelings now—mine or anyone else’s.

He stepped backward a few paces before waving to us. “Well, good night, guys. Let me know what happens, Willa.”

“Okay,” I said, uncertain. I didn’t want to let him go. I wanted to kiss him good night but he’d already moved away and Tre was standing between us. “Thanks for your help.”

We split ways at the end of the aisle and Aidan walked toward his car. Tre was parked on the other side of the complex, and as we neared his Audi, I could hear Aidan’s door shut in the distance. Then, the sound of him reversing loudly, skidding a bit, to get back out to the road.

“Sorry if I overstepped myself there,” Tre said.

“Not at all,” I said.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, settling into the passenger seat.
I wasn’t sure how much to tell Tre, or how much he already knew. This Aidan stuff wasn’t the kind of thing Tre and I usually talked about. It was new territory for me, period. “Thanks for sending him to meet me at the animal shelter this morning.”

“Thought you’d appreciate that.” He smiled at me sidelong. So I had my answer. He definitely knew something was up.

I felt my face get hot. “I did. But I guess none of us really knew what we were getting into today.”

“Somehow, I think that’s kind of a Willa Fox thing. You’re a walking adventure.” Tre braked at a stop sign.

“Or maybe a walking disaster,” I said, shrugging. “That’s what it’s starting to feel like, anyway. Can we stop at my house to pick up my school stuff?”

School. I’d already missed a day for the trial, a day for suspension, and a day for community service. I was thoroughly dreading my return to Valley Prep. There was a disciplinary-board hearing for my criminal transgressions to look forward to, not to mention the general hostility of the Glitterati et al, who were expert in making life hell for their enemies.

“So you’re really going back, huh?” He gave me a look that said,
Good luck, kid.

“Yeah,” I said. “For tomorrow, at least. But I don’t know how long I’ll stick around.”

“Why, you think they’ll kick you out?”

“They could,” I said. They probably would. “But even
if they don’t, I might leave, anyway. I need to find my mom.”

Tre frowned. “Willa, that would just be stupid. You’d be breaking your probation if you left town, you know.”

There he was again, acting like my conscience. Tre had been through his own legal troubles—he was arrested for stealing cars and joyriding in Detroit, then shipped off to boot camp. After that, his mom sent him here to live with his dad in Paradise Valley, where he vowed to turn over a new leaf. Other than living vicariously through me and my exploits, he’d toed the line and stayed out of trouble.

He was setting a good example. I just wasn’t following it.

“I know,” I said. “But what am I supposed to do? If she’s in trouble, I can’t just stay here and read transcendentalists and do geometry proofs like nothing’s happening.”

He pulled up in front of my house. “I don’t know her, but I’m pretty sure your mom would want you to do what you’re supposed to do.”

I cringed. I knew he didn’t mean it, but the way he was talking about my mom, it was like she was dead, and it was wigging me out.

“Well, she doesn’t want me to call the cops, either, so I’m out of options.”

He nodded, looking thoughtful. “You have to do what you have to do. Just think about it, is all I’m saying.
Think about the big picture.”

I hopped out of the car and ran toward the front step, trying to ignore the wave of anxiety when I opened up the door for the third time that day. What would I find now? Nothing. It was still a wreck but it was undisturbed from the way Aidan and I had left it.

In my room, I gathered together a few outfits, some makeup, a couple pairs of shoes, and my toiletries, and stuffed them into a bag. I also grabbed my backpack with my schoolbooks. It was a joke—I knew I probably wasn’t going to be able to do much work, but I felt like I should at least go through the motions.

On the way back to the car, I stopped in the laundry room. Impulsively, I grabbed my mother’s blue wind-breaker to take with me. Maybe it was childish, but I didn’t know how long I’d be away and I just wanted one more piece of her that I could hold on to.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

FOUR

MY NEW ROOMMATE,
decked out in a Madlib T-shirt and striped pajama bottoms, knocked on the door. “Willz, I’m going to sleep. You cool here?”

I’d changed into my own sleep gear and was sitting cross-legged on the crisp-sheeted bed. Still, I knew there was no way I’d be able to doze off—not for a while, anyway. Not unless someone sedated me with some hospital-grade medication.

“Nice pj’s.” I looked up at him and smiled, appreciative of his rock-starness. Tre had managed to put me up in his fancy house like it was no big thing—he always had a way of coming through like that, and modestly. “Do you think I could use your laptop?”

“Hang on,” he said, and went down the hall to his room. In his absence, I stared up at the vaulted ceiling. The guest suite, which had its own bathroom with whirlpool tub and spa shower, had been freshly done up
by the Walkers’ maid Angela, down to the pillow plumpings. From my window I could see the negative-edge pool surrounded by exotic plants and a swim-up bar, lit impeccably by dramatic pink and blue lights. Beyond that was a detached workout facility with indoor basketball courts and a gym. Tre’s dad had obviously done well for himself, first as a pro baller and now as a coach. This place was nicer than some luxury hotels.

Not that Tre had it that easy. He grew up in Detroit with his mother for fifteen years before he even knew who his father was. After he was sent to boot camp, his dad and stepmom took him in but they still had years of making up to do. At least Tre had a relationship with his dad now. That made him lucky—in my mind, at least.