The Lock Box, page 5
For some reason, though, his approach never scared her. While kids on either side frantically grabbed books and slammed lockers to scurry away, she’d always taken her time, waiting for him to toss out a wisecrack.
“What are you waiting for, Maguire? An engraved invitation?”
“Just letting rush hour die down a little. Miss Sarja said she’d save me a seat in English, so I figure I’m good.”
Although the Mule’s ruddy cheeks and forehead would redden and his brow would furrow, one corner of his mouth always turned up, betraying the smile he was holding back. And that was even before Locke had ended up in his class, back when all she knew about him were whispered stories of what the crazy old Marine must have done to end up teaching juvenile delinquents to use power tools and blowtorches. That’s what metal shop was, after all: last refuge of the hopeless. Troublemakers, burnouts—they all ended up in shop with the Mule.
That was certainly how she’d landed there.
The Prius’s front wheels hit the driveway with a loud crunch, and the gas engine kicked in, grumbling about the long, slow climb. When Locke crested the hill and saw the Mule’s handiwork, she smiled. Upon returning from Vietnam, he’d built the single-story craftsman himself, setting the cobblestone foundation, then framing and paneling the dark-wood exterior. She thought it looked like the perfect summer camp cabin, the kind of cozy place she used to dream about at night in the trailer.
And she’d had plenty of time for that. Her mother’s bartending shifts had started midafternoon and ended well after midnight, so the trailer was always empty when Locke returned from school. From age seven onward, she’d spent six nights a week fending for herself. Cooking, cleaning. Homework—if she did it—plus whatever list of chores her mom had left out. Putting herself to bed alone in the dark, hoping not to be stuck awake when her mom stumbled in at three, reeking of whatever she’d drunk on the way home.
Until the night it wasn’t her mom who woke her. Sixteen-year-old Locke had answered banging on the trailer door and found two CHP officers. Once they realized she was alone, they urged her to call someone to meet her at the station. She refused—there was no one to call. Besides, she figured she could handle it. ID’ing the car was simple enough. The cops spared her from seeing the body, but she wasn’t afraid. Didn’t cry.
The next morning, Locke rolled into school in the same clothes as the day before on almost no sleep. She was already in the Mule’s class by then, for breaking Bobby McCallum’s jaw after he’d hassled one of the special-needs kids at lunch. McCallum was Val Verde’s starting right tackle, so while the six-foot tub-o’-lard was forced to sip his liquid lunch during one day of detention, Locke got sentenced to two semesters of metal shop. Not that she minded. She found that she liked using the machinery, working with her hands. Compared to the other shop kids, she paid attention, and the Mule returned the favor, whether it was standing by her shoulder as she used the drill press or allowing her to use the welding rig that was supposed to be off-limits.
That was why the Mule’s reaction the morning after her mother’s death caught Locke off guard. It wasn’t like she’d expected a pity party or anything, but a kind word would’ve been nice. Even some joking around would have helped. But all through first period, the Mule seemed sullen. Angry, almost. When the bell rang and everyone shuffled to leave, he called, “Not you, Maguire. You stay.”
She slumped back down onto her stool, confused as to why he’d picked that day of all days to treat her like shit.
He marched to her table, checking over his shoulder for the last person to leave the classroom. Once the door shut, he faced her, arms crossed. “I heard what happened last night. And I have to say, I’m incredibly disappointed.”
Disappointed?
The Mule’s clipped tone sliced right through her. Although she searched frantically for some comeback, some wiseass fire in her belly that would make her stand up to him, she couldn’t find any. Her eyes dropped to the floor. More than anything, she wanted to crawl under the table, dig a hole, and bury herself in it.
“Why you didn’t call me,” the Mule continued. “Why you thought you had to go through that … alone.”
She glanced up to see him quickly wipe at his eye.
“If you didn’t think you could reach out to me at a moment like that …” The Mule swallowed hard and shook his head. “I have clearly failed at communicating the way this relationship is supposed to work. But we’re gonna fix that. You wait for me outside after the last bell.”
With that, he spun an about-face and made for his desk. Locke sat dumbfounded until he called, “Don’t you have history? March.”
After school, the Mule had driven her here for the very first time. He didn’t say a word until they reached the top of the driveway and he silenced the engine. “No more of that trailer for you—no one should be alone like that. I got an extra room, you can stay here.”
So many emotions had filled her head, she didn’t think to point out that the Mule had been living alone until that moment too. That realization didn’t hit her until over a year later, when she was tossing her duffel into the pickup so the Mule could drive her to the airport for her trip to basic. She’d glanced back at him and the house. “You gonna be okay here by yourself?”
The Mule grunted. “Young lady, you seem to forget I outlived the North Vietnamese’s best efforts to kill me. I don’t think some quiet and California sunshine is gonna do the job.” Then his eyes had narrowed. “You worry about you. Thinking of life back here’s not gonna help where you’re going.”
Locke now pulled the Prius to the same spot where the Mule had always parked his truck, a pad of well-worn gravel directly in front of the craftsman. Despite being baked by bright sunlight, the house looked as cozy and welcoming as ever. A covered porch ran the length of the front, and she loved to sit in the shade and feel the breeze blow by. Particularly today, the idea of falling into one of the rocking chairs out there and sipping at a beer sounded heavenly.
Catty-corner from the house stood an aluminum toolshed she’d helped the Mule put up. It helped frame the front yard, a long, flat strip of land covered in knee-high golden grass. The field stood empty, which was no real surprise—Evan was likely inside, and, as Locke had learned, when Constance went anywhere, she walked.
Despite living next door to Constance Rojas for over a decade, Locke hadn’t interacted with her neighbor much until the past year. A heavyset woman with deep dimples and a long salt-and-pepper braid, Constance had spent thirty-two years as a middle school librarian in El Segundo before taking early retirement to move out to the countryside. But her one-bedroom ranch left little doubt as to her former profession. There were no paintings in the house, no pictures; literally every inch of wall was lined with shelves. Each set had its own genre, alphabetized by author, except the biographies.
Locke didn’t read books, but that wasn’t the issue between them. Constance had moved in while Locke was stationed overseas. But when Locke finally got discharged and returned to the craftsman, Constance had been the one to greet her.
The one who’d delivered the news about the Mule.
Constance must have known Locke was coming somehow, must have been on the lookout for her, because Locke hadn’t even made it to the front door before Constance’s voice called to her from behind.
“He’s gone.”
From the top of the front steps, Locke turned to see who was speaking. And to correct the round little woman. The Mule’s truck was sitting on the gravel pad. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—have gone anywhere without it.
Before she could argue, Constance had shoved the Mule’s letter into Locke’s hand. She opened the envelope and read it right there.
The word cancer forced her to sit down on the steps.
She couldn’t read past that word.
Constance had put her hand on Locke’s shoulder. Said consolations. Locke hadn’t registered any of it. For the next three days, she’d wandered around the house in a fog. Every hour or two, she’d return to the handwritten pages, making it a little further each time. But inevitably the tears would come, and she’d drop the papers to the floor and stalk away from them again. Praying they might disappear.
Hoping she might round a corner and find the Mule standing there, like it was all a mistake.
Even after the tears stopped, Locke couldn’t bear to look at or speak to Constance for a long time. Down at the mailboxes, over at the grocery store, if she spotted Constance coming, she’d turn the other way and flee. Simply seeing her made Locke’s throat constrict and her eyes well up.
Constance seemed to get the message. For a while—a couple of years, at least—she stayed away, and Locke was quietly grateful for that.
Until Evan arrived.
Once he’d come home from the hospital, Constance started showing up again. Wanting to see him, hold him. Then, as he got older, offering to babysit.
While Locke tolerated Constance’s unannounced visits, she deliberately avoided accepting any help. Pride was part of that—Locke had always promised herself she wouldn’t end up like her mom. Alone, raising a kid. Yet, here she was, and she absolutely fucking hated the idea of the Library Lady judging her. Especially living next door—Locke didn’t need dirty looks or raised eyebrows. She’d rather drop Evan at daycare than deal with that.
But it also ran deeper. The Mule had been special. One of a kind. Locke wasn’t looking to replace him. If Constance thought they’d be BFFs just ’cause she lived next door and had worked at a school once, well, she was going to be disappointed.
So, even when it was hard—even when gathering Evan’s toys and preparing his snacks made her twenty minutes late, and he still whined that she’d forgotten the most important race car or announced he no longer liked red apples—Locke ensured he was covered. If she had a job to get to, she delivered him to daycare and prearranged the pickup time. Hell, one weekend she’d even brought him along, letting him play video games on her phone and spin in an office chair while she opened a Sentry S6370 at a high-end accounting office in Century City.
Until about six months ago.
A whoop from a siren had woken Locke. Thankfully, Evan had slept through it.
She’d tiptoed outside and seen flashers through the trees. Blue-suited paramedics already had a pressure cuff on Constance’s arm and a tube up her nose by the time Locke got next door. Despite the oxygen, her neighbor was gasping for breath like she’d just run a marathon.
Seeing Constance that way was almost too much for Locke to take. All she could think of was Kori—forty years younger and half Constance’s size, she’d been hooked up the same way at the very end. Before they carted her off to the hospital.
Before …
Constance’s EMT strode over and started talking. When he said the word edema, something clicked.
This wasn’t Kori. This was … different.
Or, at least, she’d make it be.
From that night on, once Constance recovered, Locke accepted all the help she was willing to give. Locke found reasons to run small errands or to do projects outside while Constance played with Evan. Meanwhile, knowing Constance didn’t have a cell, she trained Evan to use the old flip phone she left in the kitchen for emergencies. Having the two of them watch over each other worked out well.
A bigger test came when Locke got called to open a box down in Santa Ana, a twelve-hour day when you included the commute. She’d kept her phone pressed against her thigh the entire drive and all through the job. But no calls came. When she got home, she’d found Evan tucked into bed listening to Constance read him a story, something Locke had meant to do more often.
They’d repeated the process over and over after that. Often enough, Evan had started calling Constance “Miss C.”
When the lockdowns were announced, Locke worried their system would fall apart. Older people were supposedly the most at risk, and those with lung problems had it the worst. Locke figured there was no way Constance would want to watch a preschooler when she could be sitting safe and sound inside her little library.
But the very next morning, Locke heard a knock and found her neighbor at the door. Constance had come wearing a hand-sewn mask with Dr. Seuss’s Cat in the Hat on it. She’d even brought extras.
In the days since then, their system had evolved. Locke masked and gloved up to do all the shopping and errands for both of them so that Constance wouldn’t have to go any farther than the end of the street. She also bought one of those plastic pill sorters, filling the different slots with the medicines Constance needed and confirming that she’d actually taken them. Constance walked to and from her house, bringing Evan with her sometimes, but Locke made up the craftsman’s second bedroom so she could stay over whenever it was more convenient. And, with the groceries Locke bought, Constance cooked.
Man, could she cook.
Locke’s idea of gourmet was Progresso canned soup instead of Campbell’s. Constance made chicken enchiladas that kept you warm all day. A pozole blanco with shredded pork that melted in your mouth without you even chewing. Cheese flautas.
Locke had probably gained ten pounds, but Evan was happy. So was Constance. And Locke slept better at night as a result.
As she stepped out from the Prius, her stomach rumbled. The mailbox flag was down—usually the mailman raised it, which meant Constance had likely grabbed the mail on one of her trips between houses. Hopefully, that meant she was inside cooking.
Locke inhaled deeply through her nose, searching for some sign of what delicacy might be waiting. The only odors that greeted her were fresh air and overgrown grass, but she had no complaints about that.
She started for the house, flip-flops clapping against the wooden steps.
Since she’d inherited the house, the only detail she’d had the heart to change was the front door. Oversized, the door contained a stained-glass inset an artist had made for her as an extra thank-you for a box well opened. The square pane was translucent, with a dramatic swirl of yellows and greens blown into it. The artist said he’d been inspired by the circular face of the safe she’d opened, a digital lock with glowing amber numbers, but the colors matched the scenery around the house perfectly. Locke liked that the idea behind the glass was so personal, so secret—it seemed appropriate. Even more, she appreciated how every time she came or went, light caught the inset in a different way. Details jumped out that she’d never noticed before.
Today, as she keyed the door, light from inside the house left the yellow looking like lemons and the green like limes. The citrus swirl left a tang on Locke’s tongue, even as her mouth was already watering at the thought of flautas.
“I’m home,” Locke called while still turning the knob.
No answer came.
When the door swung open, Locke’s hand flew to her mouth.
Five-year-old Evan sat on the floor in the middle of the family room, playing.
But not with Constance.
Seated across from him, cross-legged in loafers and suit pants, was Slick, the pretend lawyer.
CHAPTER
6
“MS. LOCKE.” SLICK wore the same forced smile he’d displayed earlier. “We were starting to worry. You didn’t make nearly as good time on this leg of the drive.”
Her mouth opened, not so much to speak as simply from shock.
“Momma!” Evan set down the Matchbox car he’d been maneuvering around a plastic track and jumped to his feet. He rushed to her and wrapped his arms around her leg. “I’m so glad you’re home!”
Although she stroked the boy’s hair, Locke didn’t dare look down. She didn’t want him seeing her expression. She could certainly defend herself—scars from Camp Taji and Chesterfield Square confirmed that. But this … this was different.
Locke’s eyes scanned the edges of the room for other threats, and for Constance. She didn’t find either one.
“What … what time did you get here?” Locke tried to make the question sound nonchalant for Evan, but she genuinely wondered how much time the fake lawyer had spent inside her home.
Slick leaned forward and retrieved the toy car. He still wasn’t wearing a mask, but at least he’d kept a little distance. “Long enough for Evan to show me his room and introduce me to … what is this car’s name?”
“Mr. Zoom.”
“Yes, Mr. Zoom. Can you come show me how fast he is?”
Locke felt Evan’s grip around her leg loosen.
“Actually,” she said, scratching his scalp to get his attention, “before you play anymore, I need your help.”
She squatted down to his level. “I’m thirsty. And I notice our guest doesn’t have a drink either. Would you be a good host and make us some iced tea in the kitchen?”
“How many cubes, Momma?” The way he said it, it sounded like coobs.
“Lots of cubes.” Whenever she was this close, Locke couldn’t help but notice the flecks in Evan’s otherwise dark eyes. That and his lashes—naturally long and perfectly curled, the kind most women would pay good money for. Remembering where he’d gotten them always caused a little tug in her throat. “Give both of us lots of cubes.”
Evan’s face turned serious, and he gave her a crisp salute before dashing toward the back of the house and disappearing around a corner.
Once he was out of sight, Locke straightened to her full height and locked her eyes back on Slick. Her teeth clenched as her voice dropped to a growl. “I don’t know how—”
“How is not important,” he said. “You have something of mine.”
“I’m not dumb enough to bring it here.” Her insides squirmed at the lie as she kicked herself for bringing the box home. “I left it in my storage unit.”
He shook his head dismissively. “The box is in your bag, Ms. Locke. We both know that.”
