Chapter 16
LINC
A hockey fan gets on the elevator from one of the businesses on a lower level and we take a selfie. I’m thankful Juliana got off early—no need for her to know more about me than she already does.
I hurry through the parking garage and am pulling out when the sky cracks open with heavy rain.
While waiting for the light to change, a high-pitched buzzing makes my blood run cold.
An insect flies around inside the car, small and dark and definitely stingy.
Unless I stop short in traffic, there’s nothing I can do.
The thing darts right and left and then repeatedly batters the windshield, desperate but dumb.
On the other side, the wipers slide back and forth, dizzying in the downpour, as the bug, stunned now, flies drunken loops around the interior of my vehicle.
I want to remain in Noah’s Ark and the bee wants out.
I slide the rear window down slightly, hoping the fresh air will coax it to freedom, but the downpour must scare it. Now, it hastens to the driver’s side window.
Sweat beads at my hairline. Suffice it to say, my bee allergy and enclosed spaces don’t mix well.
“Okay, nice little bug. Go on outside,” I whisper, as I lower my window, inviting in the torrential downpour and fogging the windows.
The fast, fat drops smear across the windshield as the bee takes an interest in my forehead.
I gently swat at it, but don’t want to antagonize it.
Now in rush hour traffic, I turn the corner a little too fast as if the bee were chasing me.
A wave of water rises and sprays … not only a walk signal pole but … a woman.
A woman with gray eyes. Blonde hair. And … a glare.
Oh, this is bad.
It couldn’t have been a normal person.
Or someone who enjoys getting splashed by filthy gutter water.
Instead, Juliana stands just outside a crowded bus shelter with no umbrella, completely soaked because of me, as if the rain weren’t enough.
The bee does an aerial gymnastics routine as it whirls and loops, frantic. I simultaneously struggle to control the windows, the wiper blades, and the turn signal while wondering what to do regarding the woman I just sprayed with water.
I could keep driving. But as she hollers whatever delicate obscenities she can muster out of that pretty little mouth, our gazes meet.
A flicker of recognition passes across her face, followed by a scowl.
I’m caught.
Without thinking, I stop by the curb and roll down the window. “Get in!”
She stalks over to me, arms gesturing like she regularly occupies this corner and consults the pigeons about mutual funds. “Why would you—?”
“It was an accident.”
“Yeah, right. You’re a bully, you know that!”
“Just get in.”
“I’m waiting for the bus!”
“You’ll drown before it gets here.”
“It’s fine! I’m fine.” But even as she says it, a car speeds past and sends another spray of street water right at her. This time, she jumps back, but her pants and shoes are splattered.
That’s it. I throw the car in park and get out, opening an umbrella. By the time I reach her, I’m also soaked, but I hold the umbrella over both of us.
“Let me give you a ride home. It’s the least I can do.”
Tucked under this little black canopy, I can smell cherry blossoms covered in morning dew. See the plea in her eyes for whatever curse is upon her to be lifted. She studies my face for a long moment as though weighing her options—or contemplating whether she can get away with stealing my car.
“Get in.” Clearing my throat, I add, “Please.”
I tell myself that if she catches a cold after being out here sopping wet, her absence from work will be on me.
Finally, she sighs. “I’ll get your upholstery soaked.”
Ignoring her objections, I open the passenger door for her, keeping the umbrella steady.
She slides onto the leather seat and looks up at me. “If I go missing, people will look for me.”
I bark a laugh and get behind the wheel. Assured the bee is gone, I seal the windows. Then explain that a stinging insect was inside the vehicle.
She slumps in the seat. “Likely story. You just wanted to see if you could get me with that rooster tail of water.”
“Now, why would I do that?”
She shrugs, then, as if uncomfortable with the truth that I’m not the monster she’s made me out to be, she adds, “The bee was probably allergic to you.”
“I don’t think my EpiPen would work on it.”
“Well, thank you for offering to give me a ride.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
She’s quiet for a beat, then haltingly says, “I’m sorry about the anaphylaxis comment in the elevator.”
“No apology necessary.”
“Are you always this nice outside the office?” Juliana asks as I wait for a break in traffic.
“Depends on where I am. On who you ask.”
“What would your friend … what’s his name? The one who held us hostage to go boating? Bear Claw? Bear Skin? Bear Hug?”
I chuckle. “Bīri??. Unsolicited advice: stay away from him unless you want your heart broken.”
“I didn’t know I was in the running as a candidate for anything involving my heart.”
I jerk my head in her direction. “You didn’t notice the way he looked at you?”
She wipes a drip of water from her hair out of her eyes. “Who said I’m the kind to fall in love?”
“You did,” I say, pulling back into traffic.
As if narrating the live-action adaptation of a comic, she says, “By day, he stalks around the office like he has a vendetta against the very floor beneath him. By night, he leaps buildings in a single bound and rescues old ladies from being victims of petty theft …”
“And apologizes for splashing his assistant with nasty road water.”
“If I didn’t see the bee fly out of the window when you rolled it down, I’d be convinced you did it on purpose.” She sighs.
I grunt. So she did believe me and was just giving me a hard time. But why? “Where am I going?”
She gives me her address in Logan Square, and we settle into uncomfortable silence as if neither one of us can figure out a good segue from the romance, heart, and love conversation.
No sooner do I think of a topic that isn’t the weather, we’re pulling up in front of a converted brick building that would be advertised by realtors as an “artist’s loft. ”
“Thanks for the ride,” she says, unbuckling her seatbelt. “I owe you one.”
“No, you don’t.”
She doesn’t argue.
I watch her hurry up the front steps, fumbling with her keys in the rain. She doesn’t look back, but I sit there for a moment anyway, watching her building like a lurker … or a doting boyfriend to make sure she gets in safely.
Rubbing my hand down my face, I have to wonder, what is wrong with me?
Late that night, my phone buzzes with a message through the Meridian app. I’m inclined to ignore it since it could be my father, demanding I work on the weekend, but I can’t resist the possibility that it could be the assistant who loves to hate me.
J. Lindley: Regarding that conversation we had this week, we need to talk. ASAP.
I stare at the message, remembering my cowboy move—that selfie I sent her. Probably crossed about fifteen HR lines with that one. I need to keep this professional. But my thoughts are slow to come around to what she refers to. There are a number of things we discussed.
Most likely, it doesn’t have anything to do with a romantic getaway to Cabo. Better chances are it has something to do with the discrepancies I told her to stay away from.
I’m only here for the summer and would be better off not getting involved in corporate espionage—or whatever crimes are potentially being committed at Meridian. Anyway, who knows, it could be a genuine fluke. All the same, I reply.
L. Sullivan: What did you find?
Instead of a regular message, I get a selfie of her with her hand on her chin like the “thinking emoji.” Not quite quick enough to read between the lines, my phone pings again with a link to an article about recent art forgeries hitting the auction circuit.
I read through it quickly, my concern growing with each paragraph.
This is bigger than just authentication issues.
My mind races through possibilities and then it lands on one so obnoxious, I can’t ignore it. I think we’d be better off having an off-the-clock conversation. Is that what she was suggesting, anyway? Interesting.
I spend the next hour following my hunch, making calls, reaching out to contacts in the art world, and digging into the names mentioned in Juliana’s research.
What I find isn’t about forgeries—it’s something else entirely.
A wildly unexpected lead on the painting Echo & Answer that my mother believed pointed to the lost letters …
and it just so happens I have an invitation to a party hosted by its potential owner.
Maybe. It’s a bit of a lark, but what else am I doing tonight other than being bore-ring?
I’m staring at the information on my laptop when I make a decision that’s probably foolish. Then again, Juliana is a romantic. She said it herself. Maybe she wouldn’t find the search for the lost letters strange.
I grab my keys and head back out into the rain.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing outside Juliana’s building, find her name on the mailbox for 4B, and then when someone exits, I take the opportunity to go upstairs to her unit. The rain has slowed to a drizzle from the earlier downpour as I knock on the door.
When it opens, a cloud of glitter puffs into the air between us. I cough and wave my hand as Juliana’s eyes widen. Her hair is damp and in a messy bun. She wears a cozy robe and looks absolutely adorable. And absolutely furious.
“What’s with the glitter?” I try to brush it off, but this seems like only something that could be removed with a stiff-bristle brush or a wind tunnel.
“What are you doing here?” she demands. “I thought someone was breaking in. I was in the shower, and—” She stops, looking at me for the first time. “You’re not wearing glasses.”
“Contacts. Look, I read your message and I know this seems—”
“Sketchy? Yeah, it does.” But her anger fades, replaced by curiosity. “Did you take a whimsy and find yourself here?”
“A whatsy?”
She waves her hand. “Never mind. If you know, you know. If you don’t, you don’t.” She wraps her robe tighter around herself. “It’s after nine p.m., Linc. What could possibly be so urgent that—?”
“I need you to go somewhere with me. I got a lead.”
“What kind of lead?”
I hesitate. I’m not sure how much I’m ready to reveal. “The kind that requires two people.”
Her eyebrows pinch together as if conflicted, torn between caution and curiosity.
“Please?” I ask.
A pretty smile blooms on her face. “Well, when you put it that way …”
Apparently, that’s the magic word.
She moves to let me and marches toward an antique armoire and asks, “What should I wear?”
“Something cute,” I blurt.
Her head whips around. “Where exactly are we going?”
“Let’s just put it this way, I’d rather slog through a swamp filled with alligators.”
“No doubt, you’d throw me to them to save yourself.”
“Never.” And wouldn’t you know? I mean it.