Hero Complex Page 10

  “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.

  “He’s gone,” Devon yelled.

  “And now it’s time for you to be gone, too,” Zara snapped back.

  Devon’s eyes flashed to Cleo. She wasn’t sure if the emotion she read was pity or fear or concern, but it didn’t really matter.

  CHAPTER 13

  A few hours and several bus rides later, Devon arrived at 16th Street in the Mission District. Alone. Cleo and Oz had bailed on her shortly after Zara had, and Devon had let them go. Why involve them, anyway? This was her problem …

  She knew that what she was doing was inherently stupid, but it was her only option. She couldn’t face an afternoon of trying to convince Oz that Eli was her attacker. Sure, Cleo might back her story, but then what? Would he go back to his sister? She clearly wanted no part of this … whatever this was. Investigation? Delusion? She wanted to keep her cushy hostess job without her little brother showing up and jeopardizing it. And Devon couldn’t blame her.

  Once the bus had pulled away, Devon reached for her phone and brought up the address Bodhi had given her. Isaac Green lived only a few blocks away. She still didn’t know his role in all this. If Eli had been spooked by Devon, maybe he would have alerted Isaac? She knew it was a reach, but this was her only chance to suss him out.

  She found the buzzer outside of the Dolores Street address. It had a row of dirty white buttons with names taped across the top of each: apartments A, B, C, and D. I. Green was scrawled in blue ballpoint above apartment A.

  Devon pressed the buzzer before she could change her mind.

  Now she was committed. If he didn’t respond in thirty seconds, she would leave. Ten, eleven, twelve—buzzzz! The door unlocked.

  You asked for this, she told herself. You’re the one that wanted answers.

  She wished she had some pepper spray in her bag nonetheless.

  Devon made her way up the narrow wooden staircase to apartment A. The building was another one of those old Victorian houses like Huntington House, but this one had fallen on hard times, given the neighborhood, and been split into multiple apartments. Devon wondered how the house originally looked before the chipped white paint outside and yellowing wallpaper. The wooden banister wobbled under her hands. She heard a door open in the hallway above. Last chance to change your mind.

  She pressed on, arriving at the second-floor landing.

  Isaac Green was standing at the door. She recognized his curly brown hair from the ID tag Bodhi and Raven had pulled from the catering company. Except now he had the beginnings of a mustache on his upper lip. He looked barely older than she was, barefoot and wearing jeans and a green T-shirt.

  He raised his eyebrows at her, waiting for her to talk first.

  “Hi, um, you’re not expecting me. But you’re Isaac, right?” Devon stayed near the top of the stairs. Best not to immediately walk into the lion’s den.

  “Yeah, that’s me.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “And you are?”

  “Sorry, I’m Nora.” Giving him her real name was a bad idea, right? Or did she just screw everything up?

  Too late now. “I was wondering if you could help me with a few questions about the catering company you work for. It’s about New Year’s Eve.”

  Devon could swear she noticed a hint of fear flash in Isaac’s eyes, but he composed himself quickly. “You might as well come in.” He took a few steps back and turned, beckoning her to follow.

  She smiled politely and forced her feet into his apartment.

  Since he didn’t seem to recognize her and didn’t immediately try to kill her, Devon reasoned they were off to a good start. He smelled like that minty organic health soap that could be used to wash everything from your floor to your underarm hair. Economical and earthy: she could work with that.

  The bay windows in his living room were framed in dark flaking wood. Two mismatched pillows were placed on one side of the low futon in a feeble attempt at decorating. Was this what life after Keaton and Stanford had in store for her?

  No. Best to focus on the real crisis, in the real present.

  “You want some water or something?” he asked.

  “I’m fine, thanks. I really don’t want to take up your time.”

  Isaac
extended a hand to the futon, and she sat on the edge of it. She could feel the hard bar under the flimsy cover. He pulled the two pillows off the futon and sat cross-legged on the floor across from her. “You said something about New Year’s?”

  She noticed his army-green T-shirt had a spray-painted figure of a little girl reaching after a balloon. Banksy. She only knew that because Cleo’s father had bought her one of the originals of that image; it had probably cost a lot more than Isaac’s shirt. “Yeah, New Year’s. This might sound strange, but did you work that night? On a yacht in the harbor?”

  “Yes. I mean, yeah. Pretty sure I did. I’d have to look at my calendar.” His eyes flitted to the window behind Devon.

  “ ’Cause something happened to a friend of mine that night, and we’ve been looking into everyone who was there. And the thing is … your ID doesn’t match the person carrying it.” And bt-dubs, did you try to kill me? Okay, she wouldn’t push that far—yet. But the reaction she’d wanted, fear, was nowhere to be seen.

  Isaac laughed easily and shook his head. “I knew that was going to come back and bite me in the ass,” he muttered. He crossed the living room into the narrow kitchen, where beige linoleum curled up at the seams. She could hear the fridge opening and the snap of a metal cap being pried off a bottle. He leaned back into the living room, holding out a thick, round bottle of murky liquid. “Kombucha?”

  “No, that’s fine. Really.” If this was what post-college life was like, she’d have to stay in college as long as possible.

  He took a long sip and plopped back down on his floor pillows. “This guy gave me five thousand bucks to let him use my ID card that night. Said no one would ever know, and it wouldn’t come back to me in any way.”

  “Five thousand bucks!” she cried.

  He nodded, his eyebrows arched. “I know, crazy money, right?”

  “And you took it?”

  He waved around his apartment. “Wouldn’t you? Five thousand dollars with no strings. Plus you get your New Year’s Eve back from working for a bunch of rich assholes. Seemed like a good deal. I considered it the Christmas bonus I never got.” He took a sip of his drink. “I should have known it was too good to be true …”

  “There’s nothing good about it,” Devon muttered.

  He glared at her. “What? Am I in trouble or something for it? Did someone rat me out to the managers?”

  “What do you think?” Devon leaned back, thinking of how Dr. Hsu would draw out the answers from her in their sessions.

  “He told me the only condition was I couldn’t tell anyone about it.”

  “But you told me.”

  “It’s been, like, a month, right? What’s the guy gonna do? Hunt me down for telling the truth? I don’t even know his name. Anyway, he seemed mellow.”

  Mellow. Devon scanned the bookshelves. Life of Pi. Shantaram. A Thailand guide for backpackers. Eating Animals and The Lord of the Rings. Isaac was probably telling the truth. He was an innocent, naïve, not-so-bright hippie incapable of imagining the worst about a stranger with a wad of cash. “Is there anything else you remember about him? Like, how did he contact you? What he maybe looked like?”

  Isaac took another sip of his kombucha, considering her question. “I guess it was the day before New Year’s Eve. So what’s that? New Year’s Eve Eve?” He smiled, but Devon couldn’t find any humor in it. “I got an email asking if I was willing to swap working New Year’s Eve with another waiter. A straight-up swap for another night? No, I wasn’t going to miss out on holiday pay, you know? And with that crowd, tips were gonna buy my groceries for a month. So I said no dice. But the email came back, and they offered five thousand dollars. That I couldn’t turn down.”

  Devon leaned forward. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘they’?”

  “I don’t know. They, him, her. I’m not sure that the email came from the same guy that picked up my ID, that’s all. He didn’t say much, just that he’d bring my ID back later. And when I woke up the next morning, it was under the doormat, plus I was a lot richer. No harm, no foul. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “Are you really that stupid?” Devon cried. “What did you think someone was doing with your ID? Like, didn’t any alarms go off?” Isaac’s oblivious face twisted in a grimace. “Hey, easy, sister. I let you in, didn’t I? Who’s to say you aren’t some psycho?”

  Devon swallowed. Point taken.

  “Anyway, I figured it could have been some start-up kid wanting to get close to investors, an actor wanting to sidle up to some producer, I don’t know.” He grinned at her, a sudden twinkle in his eye.

  “It could have been Banksy starting some neo-modern commentary on wealth and excess.”

  She groaned and stood. “I can tell you it wasn’t fucking Banksy.”

  “Jeez, fine. Just a theory. And you’re the one that came to me, remember?” Isaac lumbered to his feet and headed back to the kitchen. “Have a nice life, Nora. Sorry if my windfall offends you.”

  She paused at the front door, wincing at the fake name. “Sorry, you’re right. Look, maybe you have the email the person sent you? Without going into major details, the waiter who took your place hurt someone on the yacht that night. I’m just trying to figure out who sent him there.”

  Isaac stood across the room, looking at Devon. She looked out the window, not willing to give up her story.

  “Hurt someone? Or hurt you?” he asked softly.

  Devon’s throat tightened. She didn’t answer. She would not cry in front of this buffoon, no matter how badly and unintentionally he’d screwed up her psyche.

  “Lemme see if I can find the email. Hold on.” He disappeared into his bedroom and came back with a laptop, then sat back on the floor and scrolled through emails. “There. I’ll make you a hard copy.”

  The printer below the window near Devon churned to life. A single piece of paper rolled out. Devon looked to Isaac before grabbing it.

  He nodded toward the printer. “It’s yours.”

  “Thanks,” she managed once she was certain she could talk in a normal voice. She offered a smile. “I’m sorry about snapping at you before.”

  Isaac’s eyes flashed back to the screen, a convenient barrier. “No, I was being harsh. I had no idea something bad actually happened. I’m not, like, connected with this thing, am I?” Fear flickered in his voice as he pretended to focus on his laptop. “Like, they’re not going to know I told you about them, right?”

  “Nope.” Devon picked up the printed paper. An email to IGMan93@gmail.com from contact@saber.com. Bodhi and Raven would be able to do something with this. “Because I was never here. I’m not Nora. Thanks for the email.”

  Isaac managed a sickly smile but still wouldn’t look up from the bluish glow of the screen. “You’re welcome, I think. The least I could do. Seriously, I had no idea. You going to be okay? You’re, what, a freshman at SF State or something? If it helps, I could probably recognize the guy if I saw him again. Like, if I had to pick him out of a lineup. I’m not going to have to pick anyone out of a lineup, am I?”

  “I don’t think so, but it’s nice to know. Take care.” Devon closed the door to Isaac Green’s apartment behind her before mentally adding, And stay safe.

  CHAPTER 14

  It was dark out now, and colder. In the early evening fog, Devon zipped her hoodie up to her chin. The city always tricked her into thinking it would be warmer than it was. She didn’t know whether she wanted to call Cleo or go back to her mom’s. At least her mom would give her some space, which she wanted more than anything. She could jump on the BART across the bay to Berkeley and be home in time for takeout dinner.

  Devon headed toward 16th Street—to a coffee shop on the corner, Mission Coffee, with bright blue umbrellas over outdoor two-person tables. Her eyes flitted over a man scrolling through his cell phone. She noticed a small red mark high on his cheek, near his right eye. A burn? A birthmark? He was older, but kind of handsome; he had a nice jaw and wide lips.

  As De
von passed, he looked up. His eyes quickly went back to his phone, as if he was embarrassed. Had he been checking her out? His basic black windbreaker and khaki pants looked too preppy for this neighborhood, Devon thought. Maybe he’d been a teacher at Keaton? Whatever.

  She headed down the escalator into the BART station and bought a ticket just as a train pulled into the station with a piercing screech of metal on metal. Sprinting, Devon hopped through the doors just in time.

  If I close my eyes, I’ll fall asleep, she said to herself. She stared at her reflection in the opposite window instead. Sleep was preferable.

  By the time she emerged in Berkeley, the streetlights were on, and the purple sunset was fading into the night sky. Devon tried calling her mom for a ride but only got her voicemail. She headed toward the taxi line. Maybe it was the gust of cold wind coming off the water, or just a prickling on the back of her neck, but Devon turned to look behind her.

  Khaki Birthmark Guy had just emerged from the station, too. He pulled out his phone and turned his back on her, walking in the opposite direction.

  Devon’s heart beat faster. This was a coincidence. People took the train back and forth between Berkeley and the city every day; it was entirely possible that she and this out-of-place man had a similar route. But as much as she wanted to force herself to believe that, Devon was more convinced than ever that there were connections. That she was not being paranoid.

  The man paused at the end of the block.

  Devon hurried into the taxi line while she figured out what to do next. People filed in behind her. She pulled her dark blue hood over her head. She was surrounded by dozens of onlookers; nothing bad could happen to her here. She glanced behind her again.

  This time she felt the color drain from her face.

  Khaki Guy was in line now, too.

  As the next taxi pulled up, Devon raced from her spot and cut off an older woman about to get in the car. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “Emergency!”

  The woman stared, slack-jawed, as the cab peeled away from the curb.