Page 82 of 2045 Clementine Lane: Catherine

“You can’t tell anyone else about this. I mean it, Aiden. Not the captain. Not Sade. Not your own goddamn mother. At least until it’s over.” He points one blunt finger at me. “I know you, asshole. You’re a fucking boy scout. The kid who always sits at the front of the classbut never gives the answer even though youalwaysknow it.”

Strangely, the decision to lie doesn’t sit well with me. I have no problem walking into the station and telling the captain everything, taking myself off the case, and accepting whatever consequences he deems necessary. They’d be slight. After all, I haven’t really evendoneanything. Yet. That’s the square peg. But to lie to everyone…It’s different.

“You have a vested interest in seeing this through.”

“How’s that?”

“Catherine Beauchamp is the only one of the girls not in the back of the file yet. She’s in the hot seat.”

“She didn’t do it.”

“Yeah.” When Mani turns to look at me this time, he looks like a man who just won a round with Mike Tyson. “But who’s gonna prove it?”

Chapter 18

Catherine

July 1, 2008

I don’t know whyI chose the beach house. Maybe, because it’s mine. Maybe, it’s because the house is safe, so far away from our everyday. There’s nobody we know nearby, almost no chance of bumping into anybody who could recognize either of us. Maybe, some part of me knew that Aiden would be more comfortable outside of his jurisdiction. And that the girls wouldn’t question me coming here alone.

Whatever my reasoning, I know it’s the right decision the moment I pull my car into the ridiculously narrow garage.

The house is on 9th Place, three short blocks from the golden sands of Manhattan Beach. It’s one of the older homes, built years before the new houses went up around it, stealing the million-dollar two feet of ocean view I probably used to have.

But it still looks great.

The house is the distinguished gentleman on the block compared to the glass monstrosities going up around him. The style is vaguely hacienda. There is a second-floor balcony that leads off my bedroom to hang over the alley. The railings are wrought iron. The balcony roof is adorned with red, clay tile. But the white, stuccofaçade of the rest of the house and the third-story, shaded rooftop deck add beachy vibes that suit the locale.

Sometimes, the girls and I come here together when we have time off. Other times, I’ll let one of them use it when they just need to get away for a few days. For the most part, this is where I come when I want to be alone, when socializing or the job or my roommates become too much.

So, it is telling that I want to share this with Aiden.

I wouldn’t call the beach house ‘Home’, necessarily. Clementine Lane is my home. But I still like knowing that I have somewhere to go when I don’t want to be surrounded by the choices I’ve made. This house is an escape—one that I fully anticipate using tonight.

There is a lick of anticipation low in my belly at the thought. It settles there, simmering, as I haul groceries and supplies out of my car and in through the back door to the kitchen. As I place everything on the counter, the anticipation starts to take on a sharp edge. It’s early, not even five. I knew I’d need time to settle in, time to adjust and calm myself before he arrived. But now…now two hours seems like an eternity, each minute meant to torture instead of tease.

Pushing my nervous impatience to the back of my mind, I plug myiPodinto the speaker on the kitchen counter and set it to shuffle as I begin to unpack. I’m generally not interested in technology, more likely to just let my laptop playYouTubevideos at random than source and download music. But Lyla bought us all newiPodsfor Christmas and, although the rest of us are practically useless, she re-loads new music onto them whenever we ask.

I unpack the fresh produce into the refrigerator, the wine into the near-empty wine rack beneath the bar, andthe non-perishables into the little pantry near the oven as ‘I Kissed a Girl’ by Katy Perry bounces through the house. When a newer hit called ‘Fall for You’ by Secondhand Serenade starts playing, I crank the volume on the speaker and hum along to the lyrics as I sweep through the house, making sure that everything is in order.

Everythinglooksfine, neat even. But that doesn’t stop me from straightening the throw pillows on the sofa or checking that there’s toilet paper in the two downstairs bathrooms. When I take out Lysol wipes, fully intending to start cleaning the already-sparkling kitchen counters, I stop.

For a few minutes, I just stand there in my kitchen, both hands on the counter, eyes focused on the hard, black surface. “What am I doing?” The question resounds in the space around me.

There is no reply.

Of course, there’s no reply.

MyiPodis joining the crusade against me too. Miley Cyrus, a literal teenage millionaire, is shouting about the seven things she hates about some guy who’s probably not even real. What is this kid, like sixteen? Does she know how much worse it gets?

Usually, hours before a date I’m not even thinking about it yet. Sure, maybe I’ve done some research or am unconsciously preparing for what I think the client will like, but it’s abstracted, removed from my life. Like a college presentation for an easy class. Just stand there and read off the slides.

But this…

This feels so different. This is like an oral final where they say there are no right or wrong answers, but you have to defend your stance and you’ll be graded anyway.

This feelsimportantbut undefinable.

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