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Authors: Ella Barrick
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taking it, like “It’s too hot now for me to need that sweater.” Danielle thought it meant he still had hopes that we’d get back together. I wasn’t sure what I thought it meant, if anything.
“What did you leave at Rafe’s place?” I asked, my mind on sweaters and books.
She hesitated, then, obviously deciding there was no way I could retrieve the object if I didn’t know what I was looking for, said, “My thumb drive. We were going over video of our cha-cha when my chief of staff called and needed a document. I got on Rafe’s computer and e-mailed it to him, but then I forgot to take my thumb drive out of his computer.”
Sounded innocent enough. “So why not ask the police to find it and return it to you?”
She looked at me as if I’d suggested she rent a horse and trot naked around Dupont Circle. “There are extremely sensitive political documents on it. I can’t afford to have some nosy cop flipping through them and maybe passing my campaign strategy to my Democratic opponent or details of my fund-raising to the media.”
It all sounded logical as she laid it out, but I couldn’t help thinking she was hiding something. Of course, “hiding something” is synonymous with “politician,” so maybe it was just her natural furtiveness sounding warning pings in my head. I slipped one foot out of my strappy lizard sandal and trailed a toe in the cool water. The duck glided over with little quacking murmurs to see if it was edible.
“I’ll owe you,” Sherry said in a voice barely louder than the duck’s quack.
I suddenly remembered that I’d written Rafe some fairly hot love letters early in our relationship. Surely he’d burned or shredded them when we broke up. I’d torn his letters into confetti and ground them in the sink’s garbage disposal. I bit my lower lip. If he hadn’t, I didn’t want his father or—worse—Detective Lissy and company reading my letters. Maybe I could kill two birds with one stone.
“I’ll try to take a look today,” I told Sherry Indrebo.
The door to Rafe’s condo swung open easily, revealing the familiar taupe-painted walls, the glass and steel ceiling light fixture, and the closed closet door of the entryway. I’d come here straight from meeting with Sherry, stopping by my house only briefly to pick up the key and my car. No police officer had been waiting to arrest me and I took that as a good sign, although I didn’t stick around to press my luck. If Sherry was right about the police being on the verge of an arrest, I figured it might be smart to play least in sight for a while.
The living room–dining room space opened directly off the entryway and I moved forward, looking to see if anything had changed in the four months since I’d been here. Didn’t look like it. Rafe’s condo was decorated in what I thought of as traditional male: more money spent on electronics than furniture. A navy sofa and matching armchair faced a large-screen television and DVD player like postulants before an altar. Wires snaked from the set to a Wii, speakers, and a laptop computer resting on a glass-topped coffee table. A ballroom dance magazine and a Spanish-language periodical had slid onto the rug.
Crossing to the laptop, I saw Sherry’s thumb drive sticking out from a port. When I tugged on the drive to remove it, the monitor blinked to life, bringing up a photo of me and Rafe doing the Argentine tango. Tears sprang to my eyes. He hadn’t changed his computer wallpaper since we broke up. I wondered what my sister would make of that. He probably just didn’t get around to it, I told myself briskly, wiping away the tears with the back of my hand. I slid the drive into my pocket. My gaze fell on the mug next to the computer, and lipstick stains on the rim jumped out at me. I suddenly felt a lot less weepy.
Ignoring the kitchen, I hurried to the bedroom, conscious that the police might be arriving at any moment to search the place. Did they search the
“What did you leave at Rafe’s place?” I asked, my mind on sweaters and books.
She hesitated, then, obviously deciding there was no way I could retrieve the object if I didn’t know what I was looking for, said, “My thumb drive. We were going over video of our cha-cha when my chief of staff called and needed a document. I got on Rafe’s computer and e-mailed it to him, but then I forgot to take my thumb drive out of his computer.”
Sounded innocent enough. “So why not ask the police to find it and return it to you?”
She looked at me as if I’d suggested she rent a horse and trot naked around Dupont Circle. “There are extremely sensitive political documents on it. I can’t afford to have some nosy cop flipping through them and maybe passing my campaign strategy to my Democratic opponent or details of my fund-raising to the media.”
It all sounded logical as she laid it out, but I couldn’t help thinking she was hiding something. Of course, “hiding something” is synonymous with “politician,” so maybe it was just her natural furtiveness sounding warning pings in my head. I slipped one foot out of my strappy lizard sandal and trailed a toe in the cool water. The duck glided over with little quacking murmurs to see if it was edible.
“I’ll owe you,” Sherry said in a voice barely louder than the duck’s quack.
I suddenly remembered that I’d written Rafe some fairly hot love letters early in our relationship. Surely he’d burned or shredded them when we broke up. I’d torn his letters into confetti and ground them in the sink’s garbage disposal. I bit my lower lip. If he hadn’t, I didn’t want his father or—worse—Detective Lissy and company reading my letters. Maybe I could kill two birds with one stone.
“I’ll try to take a look today,” I told Sherry Indrebo.
The door to Rafe’s condo swung open easily, revealing the familiar taupe-painted walls, the glass and steel ceiling light fixture, and the closed closet door of the entryway. I’d come here straight from meeting with Sherry, stopping by my house only briefly to pick up the key and my car. No police officer had been waiting to arrest me and I took that as a good sign, although I didn’t stick around to press my luck. If Sherry was right about the police being on the verge of an arrest, I figured it might be smart to play least in sight for a while.
The living room–dining room space opened directly off the entryway and I moved forward, looking to see if anything had changed in the four months since I’d been here. Didn’t look like it. Rafe’s condo was decorated in what I thought of as traditional male: more money spent on electronics than furniture. A navy sofa and matching armchair faced a large-screen television and DVD player like postulants before an altar. Wires snaked from the set to a Wii, speakers, and a laptop computer resting on a glass-topped coffee table. A ballroom dance magazine and a Spanish-language periodical had slid onto the rug.
Crossing to the laptop, I saw Sherry’s thumb drive sticking out from a port. When I tugged on the drive to remove it, the monitor blinked to life, bringing up a photo of me and Rafe doing the Argentine tango. Tears sprang to my eyes. He hadn’t changed his computer wallpaper since we broke up. I wondered what my sister would make of that. He probably just didn’t get around to it, I told myself briskly, wiping away the tears with the back of my hand. I slid the drive into my pocket. My gaze fell on the mug next to the computer, and lipstick stains on the rim jumped out at me. I suddenly felt a lot less weepy.
Ignoring the kitchen, I hurried to the bedroom, conscious that the police might be arriving at any moment to search the place. Did they search the
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