Page 84 of The Challenger

“Did he say anything about Chavez and the betting?”

“All we know is he placed the bets, but we’re not sure if the intention was anything more than to get your attention.” He clears his throat. “As I said, he’s a little unstable. Keeps talking about how the browns are the downfall of society. We think it stems from your mother’s involvement with the Rajneesh cult. I’m not sure how familiar you are with them, but the leader was Indian and so were several key members.”

A few years ago, Netflix released a series that documented the rise and fall of the Rajneesh cult in Oregon. I watched it five times, scanning through all the faces to see if any of them looked like me. What a crazy group. Dangerous, in the end.

Watson and I go back and forth on a few more items and when we’re done, I struggle to place how I’m feeling. Not delighted, in any event. The denouement lands without fanfare. It just is. I join June and Chavez back in the cabana and he immediately squeezes the life out of me in a bear hug.

“I heard,” he mumbles into my ear. “Thank fucking God.”

“And it’s a good thing they did catch him,” June chimes in. “For Christ’s sake, luv! You could have been in real danger.”

I confessed everything to my besties this week and it wasn’t pretty. Vandana had a meltdown that I kept this secret from her. June slapped me across the face when she arrived for lunch today, albeit in a gentle way. But she was pissed.

“You see?” Chavez says. “I’m not the only one thinking you are crazy for keeping this to yourself.”

Logically, I understand how crazy it was not to deal with this back in December, but I wasn’t the same person then.

After sharing what the police told me, Chavez hops on his phone to Google Shaniko, Oregon, a deadbeat blip on Highway 97, population thirty-six. It might as well have been Antarctica when I consider how futile my search was for my mother years ago. Ava and Jerry lived together like dysfunctional hermits for eighteen years in his double wide that is being searched for evidence as we speak. Watson told me Jerry came quietly, perhaps anticipating the moment.

“And Jerry isnotyour father?” June reiterates.

“I guess not,” I say.

“Then why the fuck? If you're not his child…"

“We’ll never know,” Chavez says, “because the next step is to slap a restraining order on his sorry ass.”

I press a hand onto his shoulder—a gesture to settle down. But it is the million-dollar question I would like an answer to as well.

“Is he going to jail?” June inquires. “I don’t know all the legal backend to a case like this.”

Chavez has become a near expert on the topic in record time and provides a short overview. The legal arena around stalking is like all law—labyrinthian and subjective. The offense can be a misdemeanor or a felony, depending on myriad factors. If Jerry is convicted, jail time varies from one year to five, but defense lawyers have multiple ways to disprove any claims, which is why Chavez wants a restraining order. Violation of a RO is a bona fide crime and can fast-track a jail sentence.

“What a bloody bizarre puzzle,” June muses, lighting up a Marlboro. Smoking means her stress level is running high, but you’d never guess it because it looks like she stepped out of the spa—her alabaster skin glows, set off by her favorite aquamarine Givenchy blouse. “How does this affect what is going on with you?” she asks Chavez.

We data dumped the betting scandal details while prepping lunch to bring her up to speed. With Jerry’s arrest, I hope we can tidy this up and get Chavez back on the court for April. March is definitely out.

“Nothing is guaranteed,” Chavez admits. “But it’s pretty obvious I’m clean. I’ll tell them that Jerry got arrested, and they can go after him.”

June blows out three perfect smoke rings. “It seems a bit grasping that a man living in a trailer in the middle of nowhere had sufficient funds to pull something like this off."

“Who knows?” I say, although I agree with her. “Maybe he gambled his life savings.”

“If you need material for your next mystery, doll, look no further,” June says. “Truth is stranger than fiction, right?”

“Don't encourage her,” Chavez warns. He knows the crumbs of information from today are enough to put me hot on the trail. Maybe I should have been a detective.

Hearing his protectiveness, June smiles. Today is our first proper visit since I returned from Europe and her first time meeting Chavez. She has given me her full approval via our tried and true shorthand signals. Mind you, Chavez has played right into her degenerate hands with his cargo capris dangerously loose on his hips. Never mind that he’s commando. Or how smoking hot he looks shirtless in his aviators. All that notwithstanding, they hit it off immediately, gabbing about finance and the markets. Every day he surprises me with how much he knows.

After churros and espresso, June hits the road to beat afternoon traffic back to Malibu. I’m suddenly exhausted, weary with relief if that can be a thing. Chavez wastes no time getting me into bed. It is his number one skill, aside from bashing a ball on the court. Snuggled together under the duvet, he brings my head to his chest.

“I like June,” he says, fiddling with one of my curls. “She’s down to earth.”

“Wait until she has a few drinks in her and you hand her a pool cue. You’ll see a very different side.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s a ball-buster pool shark. I’m warning you now, don’t put any money down.”

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