Clandestine

fifty five

-diane-

I keep the knife at my side even though I'm sure that my house is empty. Besides, maybe I should bring it home with me. I don't know where Marcia Quintana plans to attack me.

I go up to my father's office. If he has any weapons, they would be there.We don't have a creepy basement filled with gun safes surrounded in cobwebs. We don't have a basement at all. Any weapons would be in his office or in his bedroom. I'm not sure if I'm ready to go to his bedroom yet.

I walk into his office and stumble.

It's empty.

There's no neat piles of paper. No random pencils and pens scattered across the surface of the desk.

It's empty. There's a computer.

And a chair.

Someone has stolen everything in his office. Luckily I went in here before and grabbed the few things that I needed. Well, the few things that I thought I needed. What if there were other important things that I missed or never found? I'm glad I got the letter that he wrote to me.

I look into the filing cabinets pushed against the walls. All of it is empty.

The bookshelves are still there, the books all in tact.

Was it Marcia Quintana? What would she want with all his things? Is that where she got all that information about me? From my father's office?

Was it one of my father's so called friends, who was really just a jealous thief? Maybe they took everything, hoping that they would find something about his gambling strategies.

What about his bedroom? Did that person go through that too? It's sad to think of my father's privacy stripped bare now that he's dead.

I walk out of his office down the hall to his bedroom. I don't know if anyone's been in there. I don't know if I would even be able to tell the difference if someone had stolen something. I have barely ever been in here, especially not recently. It's all blurry memories of light blue walls and a dark comforter. Nothing else is retained.

I push the door open. The same light blue walls that I remember adorn the walls. I can recall the time my father told the story of those walls. My mother wanted them so badly, but my father thought it was a ridiculous color for their bedroom. One day when my father was gone, my mother painted the walls that color. That was just a few months before I was born, a few months before she died.

The walls eventually grew on my father. Even if they hadn't, he wouldn't have had the heart to paint over them.

The bedroom is neat. A brown comforter slung over a queen bed. Another bookshelf. Large windows covered in brown curtains. Dark wooden bedside tables and dressers. Nothing special.

I wonder if any of my father's 'friends' would recognize this bedroom as something that might belong to the man they thought they knew. Based on his parties, they probably think that his room is full of the same flashing lights and wild displays of money. Instead, it's simple. The people would probably be so disappointed.

I begin to go through the drawers of his dresser. It's the only thing that I can think of for hiding a weapon in here. But there's no handgun shoved between his socks. Nothing but clothes.

I move on to the closet. I push aside hangers and move shoes. Nothing. I find a pair of what must be my mother's sandals, bright blue straps with a glittering heel. They look painfully unworn. I wonder if she ever had the chance to use them.

I leave my father's room as undisturbed as I can make it. It was silly to think that my father would have weapons in his house. He wasn't a fearful man.

I walk back to my bedroom and pull a bag out of my closet. I told Andrew that I needed some things. I better put together a bag of something to convince him that this wasn't a waste of his time.

I throw in some more clothes and a few books. I grab a few picture frames and throw them in the bag for good measure. I'm not sure if Andrew and Kristy will let me stay in their house until I'm eighteen, but I certainly wouldn't complain if they did.

I drag the bag downstairs and glance at the clock. I still have an hour until Andrew returns I consider calling him and asking if he could pick me up now. But that would involve being a bother.

Besides, it's been a while since I met with Julia face to face. Maybe if we work together, we might be able to come up with some kind of plan.

I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and dial Julia's number.

"Hello." Her voice is a whisper.

"What are you doing? Why are whispering?"

"Just tell me what you need."

"How quickly can you meet me at my house?"

She's quiet. "How long do I have to meet with you?"

"An hour. Starting now."