“You don’t remember anyone coming into the shop? Even earlier? Someone acting strange?” He tips his head forward, urging her to speak.
“No.” She grips the mug tighter. “No one unusual. Well, except for the boy who helped lift the bookcase. The one Indigo was telling you about.”
Or partially telling him about. I left out the bit where he knew Mom was hurt. The last thing I need right now is to get Mom worked up with conspiracy theories. I’ve got big plans to fill the officer in on the rest of the story when Mom’s out of earshot.
“I thank you for your patience, ma’am,” Chief Wiggum says, “but just a few more questions. You say there’s nothing missing that you’re aware of ? Nothing of value that someone would want to steal?”
Mom sighs.
“I’m sorry to ask so many times, it’s just that … well, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but we’ve seen a lot of cases like this in the last few weeks. Blackouts. Memory loss. It’d really help us out if you could think hard on this one.”
Lots of blackouts? I dart my gaze to Mom, and sure enough, she’s rubbing her chin. Great.
“What’s this about blackouts?” She sets down her mug and leans forward.
Wiggum clears his throat. “Look, I really shouldn’t have said anything. If you could just let me know if anything is missing.”
Mom looks around the shop. “Everything looks just like it normally does. Well, except for the booksh—” She straightens, her skin turning pale.
“What, Mom?”
“The book,” she whispers.
“What’s that, ma’am?” Wiggum asks, pen hovering over notepad.
“Indie?” Mom says, pleading with her eyes.
She can’t be serious. Just who does she think would break into her shop to steal a crusty old book? But I can’t exactly say that, not after what she just went through.
“I’ll check,” I say, reluctantly climbing to my feet.
This sucks. This really, really sucks.
The attic access is at the rear of the shop. It’s a tiny, unfinished space with exposed insulation for walls and a low ceiling. And I hate it. It’s dark and creepy and I don’t care if my fear is immature. Mom knows about my aversion to the attic and makes a point of not asking me to go up, but when it comes to the book, she can be pretty unreasonable.
I jump up, grab the chain that hangs from the ceiling, and pull the stairs to the ground.
“Hurry, Indie,” Mom calls.
“I’m hurrying.” I grip the sides of the ladderlike stairs and look up into the black-hole opening.
Okay, just do it. Just get it over with.
I climb the rungs with slow, purposeful steps until I’m surrounded by black and the only thing I can see is the circle of light from the floor beneath me. The scent of dust and cardboard envelops me, and my heart thrums so fast I can’t distinguish one beat from the next. This is the worst part—walking in utter darkness to the light that hangs from the ceiling in the center of the room.
Sucking in a breath, I run across the attic, claw around in the air for the chain, and pull. I gasp as the low-wattage lightbulb flicks on, despite the fact that everything looks as it normally does—boxes, boxes, and more boxes, lined high against every wall. Aside from them and some cobwebs, the only other thing up here is an antique table that Mom bought at a yard sale but is too small to do anything useful except hold her ashtray. Which, I note, has about half a dozen cigarette butts smushed inside.
I tut under my breath. I should have known better than to think Mom would really quit this time. I walk over and pick one up. Marlboros? Weird. Mom’s been smoking Virginia Slims ever since I can remember. I drop the cigarette back into the ashtray.
“Is it there?” Mom’s worried voice carries up the stairs.
“I’m looking,” I answer, and it makes me feel a bit better, somehow, to speak loudly up here. Like I’m claiming the room. Like the shadows aren’t hiding ax murderers.
I push aside boxes until I see the access panel in the faded wood floorboards. Dropping to my knees in front of it, I edge my nails under the wood and lift. When the plank comes free, I toss it aside with a clatter and peer inside.
Nothing.
“What?” I frantically swipe my hands along the inner walls of the space, even though I can clearly see the shoe-box-sized hole is empty. How can the book be gone?
“Indigo, are you all right?” Mom calls.
I sweep my forearm across my brow. Upsetting Mom is the last thing I want to do right now—the last thing I ever want to do—but really, what other option do I have? I go to the stairs.
“Are you sure you didn’t misplace it?” I call down.
“Yes, I’m sure. It’s not there?” There’s panic in her voice. “Check again. It has to be there.”
My legs shake as I descend the rungs.
“Indie, didn’t you hear me? I said to check again, please, it’s really important that—”
“It’s not there, Mom.” My tone has an air of finality.
“What’s missing?” The officer poises his pen over his notepad.
I look to Mom for an answer.
“Just a family heirloom,” she says after a delay. Then she clucks her tongue. “And you know what? How silly of me. I forgot I took it home the other night. Sorry to alarm you, Officer.”
His brow creases.
“You know,” Mom says, rubbing her arm, “this arm is actually starting to really bother me. I think I’ll have my daughter drive me to the hospital now.”
“Oh, sure, just a few more—”
She climbs to her feet, wincing in pain, and practically pushes the officer and his photo-taking partner out of the shop.
The minute they’re gone—really gone, as in “Mom watched from the window to make sure they drove away” gone—she makes a limping run for the attic to confirm my news.
“Like I’d miss a book in there,” I call up as she bangs around boxes upstairs. “Mom, be careful—your arm.”
She doesn’t even dignify that with a response.
I fully expected her to be enraged, but when she comes downstairs, her face is streaked with tears, and her eyes, which are normally a bright, vibrant gray, now look like two big voids.
“Oh, Mom.” I pull her to my chest, and she lets out a sob that rattles her body. Warning bells go off in my head. Mom went off the deep end the last time the Bible went missing, and it wasn’t even gone that long before she found it right where she left it, in a shoe box in her closet. I don’t want to think about what might happen if we never get it back. I imagine padded rooms. Needle jabs by mean nurses. There might even be drooling involved.
I brush hair that clings to her wet cheeks away from her face.
“I think I know where it is,” I say.
“Y-you do?” Mom asks, hope filling her cloudy eyes.
Okay, so that’s a lie. But one thing is clear as I take in the fragile state of my mother: I have to find this book. And I do at least have one clue to go on: Leather Jacket Guy. He knows something, if he didn’t actually take the book himself. All I have to do is find him.
“I’m going to get the Bible back, Mom. I promise.”
9
So, slight problem with that plan: I have absolutely no clue where to start.
There are over three million people in Los Angeles. The Staples Center seats twenty thousand; Dodger Stadium holds fifty-six thousand. Finding someone in L.A., especially if they don’t want to be found, is like finding a needle in a haystack. Or, as Mom would say, like bailing out a battleship with a bucket.
But I’ve promised Mom, and I’m almost certain that, if I weren’t planning to sneak out just as soon as she falls asleep, she’d be in support of my plan. In support of anything that means finding the Bible.
I set Mom up with a live stream of Fringe, Season Four—so confusing it’s sure to lull her to sleep.