A minute later, Brad reappears with an unopened package of bedsheets, which he tosses at Cameron. They’re purple and white striped, and Cameron would bet anything Elizabeth picked them out. Purple has always been her favorite color.
Brad is still hovering like a goddamn mosquito. “Need a hand setting up?”
“Nope.” Cameron flashes a tight smile. “Night.”
“Okay. Uh . . . night.” From the kitchen, Brad calls back, “Don’t let those baby vipers out.”
Cameron doesn’t answer.
Day 1,307 of My Captivity
HUMANS HAVE FEW REDEEMING QUALITIES, BUT THEIR fingerprints are miniature works of art.
I am well-read in fingerprints. I suppose you could say it is one fortunate side effect of dealing with humans all day long, their trembling boogers and damp armpits, their sticky palms reeking of floral lotion and Popsicle residue.
But when the doors lock for the night and the lights dim, they leave behind a stunning, intricate mural on the glass at the front of my tank.
Sometimes I spend quite some time staring at them, studying. Little oval masterpieces. I visually trace the grooves from the outside into the center, then back out to the edge again. Each one unique. I remember all of them.
Fingerprints are like keys, with their specific shape.
I remember all keys, too.
Muckle Teeth
Mrs. Sullivan?”
Tova opens her trunk, preparing to start her shift, when a short man waving a manila envelope comes jogging across the Sowell Bay Aquarium’s parking lot, weaving around the typical handful of cars belonging to the evening fishermen and the day’s last joggers. Recognizable Sowell Bay vehicles, most of them. Somehow, Tova hadn’t even noticed the unfamiliar gray sedan from which this fellow just burst forth.
“Tova Sullivan?” he hollers again, approaching.
She slams the hatchback shut. “May I help you?”
“Glad I finally found you!” he says, panting. As he catches his breath, he flashes a smile too large for his face, with oversized white teeth. They remind Tova of the bleached barnacles that cling to seaweed-strewn boulders down at the sound’s edge.
He continues, “You’re not an easy lady to track down, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your address had my GPS going in circles, and your home phone just rings, no voice mail. Thought I was going to need a private investigator.”
Warmth creeps up Tova’s neck at the suggestion that she might’ve allowed her answering machine to remain full, exacerbated by the fact that the accusation is basically true. But her voice is even when she says, “An investigator?”
“It happens more often than you’d think.” He shakes his head, then extends his hand. “Bruce LaRue. I’m an attorney for the estate of Lars Lindgren.”
“How do you do.”
“First of all, please let me say, I’m sorry for your loss.” His tone doesn’t sound particularly sorry.
“We were not close,” Tova explains. Again.
“Right . . . I won’t take up too much of your time, then, but I needed to get this to you.” He thrusts the envelope at Tova. “Your brother had some personal assets, as you probably know.”
“Mr. LaRue, I have no knowledge of what my brother did or did not have.” She slides a finger under the seal on the envelope and peeks inside. It’s a document, a list of some sort, on Charter Village letterhead.
“Well, now you know. We’ll need to get together at some point to sort out the monetary assets, but for now, that’s a list of his belongings. Just a few personal items.”
“I see.” Tova tucks the envelope under her arm.
“You can give them a call and let them know when you’ll swing by to pick everything up.”
“Swing by? Charter Village is all the way up in Bellingham. That’s an hour away.”
LaRue shrugs. “Look, go get the stuff, or don’t. They’ll get rid of it after some time if no one shows up.”
If no one shows up. To Tova’s knowledge, Lars never remarried after he and Denise split, but she’s always supposed he must’ve had a sweetheart or two. A close friend, at least. Isn’t that part of the reason people move to those homes? For the social scene? But this LaRue fellow seems to be implying that no one had shown up for Lars. Had ever shown up for him, maybe. Had he died in the company of some bored nurse? An aide counting the hours until shift’s end?
“I will go,” she says quietly.
“Great. Then my work here is done, for now. I’ll be in touch.” LaRue flashes his grin again. “Any questions?”