I pull out my phone and begin dialing.
“Are you calling the police?” Phoebe asks.
“They should arrest me,” Elena says, holding out her hands like one of us has handcuffs. “This is all my fault.”
“Whoever robbed the place deserves to be arrested,” Deiss says. “But you’ll need to be here to give them all the details you can remember about him.”
“You know the police department’s number by heart?” Phoebe leans over my shoulder, peering down at my phone.
“I’m not calling the police,” I say, holding up my hand to indicate the need for silence. My heart races with the importance of what I’m about to do. I can’t mess it up by sounding unprofessional. Not now, when the stakes are so high.
“Who are you calling?” Phoebe asks, just as my finger is about to make contact with the call button.
“My boss,” I snap, waving her away. Panic has caused my voice to go up an octave. It’s the only thing that gives me away. Other than that, my mask has snapped firmly back into place. “I need to make sure I can return to my job.”
“Why wouldn’t you be able to return to your job?” Phoebe’s brow furrows in confusion.
Deiss is the only one I’ve told about my dream of quitting. Instinctively, my eyes go to him. But he’s already taken a step forward. His hand settles on mine, squeezing my fingers for a moment before easing the phone out of my hand.
“Let’s just take a beat.” Despite the casualness of his tone, there’s something about Deiss that makes it clear he’s not to be argued with. “We’ll call the police. Then, we can figure the rest out afterward.”
I meet his eyes for a moment, my jaw squaring with resolve. But to my surprise, my hand drops down to my side. Finally, I nod.
CHAPTER 13
I move silently through Deiss’s loft, trying to figure out how I’ve ended up here. I blame the jet lag. It has merged with the shock of everything that’s happened, leaving me blunted and dull. Everything feels fast and frantic after the slow days in South Africa. Even the Los Angeles air, dry and thick with exhaust fumes, is working against me, making it difficult to breathe.
The space is stuffy from ten days with closed windows and the air turned off. It’s not a bad place to end up, obviously—Phoebe and Simone and I have speculated more than once about how Deiss managed to afford a two-bedroom loft in one of the most expensive cities in the world. （It was a question we knew better than to ask, and one I alone now know the answer to.） It’s actually surprisingly clean.
The furniture is mismatched and well-worn but tasteful. Granted, Deiss clearly hasn’t read Chez Chic. The walls are as far from white as it gets; every area is a different color, although they all go together in a unique way. It’s like they’re from the same family, but one where some of its members were forgotten before they found themselves at a reunion filled with vaguely similar facial features.
“Did you do that yourself?” I gesture toward the mossy green color in the living area. If I’d seen it on a color wheel, I wouldn’t have even considered painting it onto a graphic background, much less on physical walls. I would’ve assumed it would resemble mold. But in person, it turns out to be soothing, like I’ve hiked through a forest and found myself in a shaded spot beside a burbling stream.
“I did.” Deiss puts down the remote, abandoning his effort to explain how to access streaming on his TV.
“I like it.” And I do. But the claim doesn’t sound authentic when I hear the words hit the air. I cringe at the sound of them because I am so very grateful for his generosity. It’s just a bit unsettling.
Matching vibes to colors is something I excel at. I’ve built an entire career out of it. Deiss is dark gray with something unexpected like a pop of cherry mixed in. Maybe a deep midnight blue with a streak of yellow. Finding out he’s opted for earthy hues makes me feel like I’ve missed something crucial about his personality.
“I like to paint,” Deiss says, reading my uncertainty. “Not in an artistic way. Just walls. I like the monotony of it, the way I end up zoning out, caught up in the satisfaction of watching the old color disappear stripe by stripe. I also like how exhausting it is, how tight my back is by the end and how my arms ache, and how I can’t wait to collapse after that last stroke and just take in this environment that’s entirely new.”
“You do it frequently?”
He nods.
“Do you do it when you’re stressed?”