Lost in the Light Read online

  Laughter burbled out of her mouth. Tears of hysteria, in the privacy of her haunted house, were better than blubbering in her car so Dori went with it.

  When she'd cried out the tequila and despair, she stared at the boxes piled in the butler's pantry. She washed her swollen eyes and dabbed her face dry with a paper towel. She might as well get some cleaning done. She yanked on some rubber gloves.

  Unpacking, dusting, wiping and vacuuming unearthed more dust and dirt. But her unending, obsessive quest for cleanliness was the only way to break up the wad of hysteria that threatened to take her down to her knees. With each stroke of the vacuum, she convinced herself that what she’d experienced was a ripple effect of her own real-life trauma. With each parry and thrust of the duster, she told herself she'd do yoga or even meditation to straighten out the tangled wires of her mind.

  By seven that morning, Dori had set up the bookcases in the living room. Her blend of antiques and Ikea stuff looked like doll furniture in the cavernous room with ceiling medallions and Tiffany glass windows.

  By nine-thirty, she finished what would've normally been an easy workout before she'd been shot. She limped into the showers at the gym, her side aching but her mind calm. Looking forward to a hot shower in a place where no dead people would show up, she opened her locker. Just as she set her towel and shower bag on the bench, her cell phone rang.

  Out of habit, Dori answered without looking at the display. "Detective-" She caught herself. "Dori Orihuela."

  "Dori, this is your mother."

  She nearly crushed the phone in her hand. "Oh, hi. Uh. How are you?"

  "Cleve and I would like to meet you," Brenda said in a voice that dripped with judgment.

  Her blood iced over as she thought about what Cleve might have told her mother.

  "Dori?"

  Sinking down to the bench, Dori realized she might as well face the inevitable. "So when do you want to meet?"

  Chapter Seven

  Even though she tried not to, Dori arrived early at Casa d'Oro. The restaurant was tucked into the far corner of the Sweetwater Mall. She watched the woman slapping masa between her hands and then tossing it onto the hot iron comal to blister and puff up with steam. Her face was blank with peace or most likely, boredom. Either way, Dori thought it must be nice to have a job where you weren't likely to get shot.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Hoping it was her mother calling to cancel their lunch plans, Dori glanced at the screen and then grinned. She opened Sela's text and read, "Why would you answer mom's call?"

  Sela's face then flashed on the screen. Dori answered, "I know. Next time I'll let her go to voice mail."

  "Dude, like when in doubt call me first," Sela said.

  The tension in Dori's stomach loosened. The longer Sela lived in New York, the stronger her California parlance. "I will."

  "It's not too late to flake out. You don't have to do lunch with mom."

  "I'm already here."

  "You're too principled for your own good," she said breathlessly. Dori could hear the sounds of the city and imagined her sister walking up from the subway to her Greenwich apartment.

  "How's your gig?"

  "Mariah Carey came in last night, or this morning. Anyway, she didn't tip but I was doing my Alicia Keys cover and so…"

  Dori relaxed against the wall, listening to her sister's excited chatter. For once, she appreciated Sela's self-absorption. It was a relief not to be asked how she was feeling, if she was having nightmares or what she'd do if she wasn't reinstated.

  "So enough about me," Sela said, slightly out of breath. "You'll call when Mom is finished with you?"

  "Won't you be sleeping?"

  "Yeah but I'll make an exception."

  "Turn off your phone. Get some rest."

  "Okay," Sela said, yawning. "You'll be all right. I know you will. You always land on your feet."

  Dori's eyes teared up. "Night night," she said, her voice husky from keeping her emotions in check.

  "Later." Sela ended the call. Dori slipped her phone back into her pocket, her throat burning. She wasn't quite sure why her sister had set her off. Sela had meant it as a compliment. But Dori felt like her sister had been talking about a stranger; someone they once knew a long time ago. Her chest felt hollowed out as her thoughts touched on the possibility that this time she might not land on her feet; she might continue free falling.

  Cold air swept in and curled around her legs. Dori turned. The moment she saw her mother's face set in tense lines, she knew she was done for. Cleve shook rain off the umbrella.

  "There you are," Brenda said. A tight grin flashed across her face as she came at Dori with her arms held open.

  When she released Dori from a minimal contact hug, she did a quick evaluation and pronounced, "You look terrible. Are you not sleeping?"

  Dori adopted a relaxed smile in an effort to seem natural and unconcerned. "Hi, Mom. Cleve."

  "Dori, good to see you," Cleve said, his eyes apologizing for what was about to happen.

  "You, too," Dori said evenly.

  Her mom sniffed and shuddered with revulsion. "This place always smells funny."

  "Let's sit by the window," Dori suggested.

  "There's nothing to see but a rainy parking lot," Brenda said wearily. "It's better than sitting next to the kitchen. Did you hear that your cousin Jenny was accepted into fashion school? I don't know what practical skill that girl will learn there."

  They sat down while her mom gossiped and critiqued and aired her grievances, only stopping to breathe when the waitress came for their orders and returned with the food. Dori and Cleve politely avoided eye contact.

  As Dori crumbled oregano into her posole, Brenda asked, "What about you? How is the house coming along?"

  "It's still standing," she said, immediately seeing Vince in her hallway. She blinked and pushed him out of her mind.

  "When can we see it?"

  Dori reached for a lime wedge. "Anytime."

  "I know you don't care for my opinion, but I don't think you should be living there in your condition."

  The lime wedge dropped into Dori's posole, splashing her hand with scalding broth. Here it comes, she told herself. "What condition is that?"

  "You're a single woman with a- Well, you know."

  Sweat bloomed under her shirt. Dori lifted her gaze from her posole and aimed straight into her mother's eyes. "A what?"

  Brenda leaned in close, even though the waitress had disappeared into the kitchen. "You got shot," she murmured as if it was as sinful as cooking meth in the basement.

  "I don't see how that affects me living in my house," Dori replied, her calm tone rankling her mother.

  "You're all alone."

  "I've lived alone for 15 years."

  Brenda straightened in her seat. "What are you saying?"

  "Nothing. Just that I've been on my own for a long time and I'm fine."

  "You don't look fine."

  "You already said that."

  "Everything else is good?" Cleve cut in, reminding them he was at the table.

  "Yeah. No problems."

  He smiled weakly. "Good."

  "So, does this mean you're finally giving up this police work?" Brenda asked.

  "Excuse me?" Dori asked.

  "Well, after what happened."

  "I'm not giving up anything."

  "Are you sure? It's not too late to do other things."

  If Cleve hadn't looked so miserable, Dori would've let her mother have it. But he'd apparently said nothing about the Lexapro or else Brenda would've pounced on that the moment she came through the door.

  Dori swallowed a caustic reply, and it shredded the back of her throat. She normally loved the plump corn tortillas. But she stuffed one in her mouth and tasted nothing but bitterness.

  They ate in wounded silence. Dori and her mother had never been particularly close. Even when she was a kid, Dori always had this sense her mother was afraid of her. She'd heard stori
es of her frighteningly strong mind as a toddler. Grampy and Grammy celebrated it, while her mother felt victimized by it.

  Still, now that they were adults, it would've been nice if they could at least be friends.

  Without warning, the sun came out from behind the clouds, washing the parking lot and the trees with a brilliant light that streamed in through the windows. It bisected half of the table, warming the right side of Dori's face. The light bounced off of her knife and seared straight into her eye. She covered it with her hand and slid it into the shaded half of the table.

  "If I were you, I'd rip the house down, subdivide it and then sell the lots," Brenda said. "You might as well make money while you can. Just in case."

  The spoon stayed poised in Dori's left hand, her right fist balled in her lap. Betrayal lodged thick in her chest, sending out tentacles that choked off her breath. She carefully placed the spoon next to the bowl. She could no longer force herself to eat. No one spoke, nor ate their food.

  The waitress returned, and Dori nearly threw her credit card at her so she could get away from them.

  "You don't have to do that," Brenda said. "It's our treat."

  Dori grinned and her cheeks hurt from the effort. "No, no. It's mine," she said thickly and then cleared her throat.

  The waitress took her card, and Dori clenched her jaw to keep herself steady.

  "Well, if you say so. Gosh Cleve, we should've ordered dessert."

  Dori caught the apologetic look in his eye as he said, "We're still trying to lose weight."

  Brenda turned to him. "What are you saying?"

  While her mother bickered, Dori turned to look out the window, no longer caring to hold up her end of the conversation. Trees were whipped around by the wind. A white plastic bag tumbled and sailed across the black top.

  She just wanted to go home as her mother filled up the silence with chatter. But then she remembered the dead guy roaming around the place.

  The waitress returned with her credit card, and Dori scribbled her signature.

  "When do you think Cleve and I might come by to tour your house?" Brenda asked as they stood up and put on their coats.

  "I'll be busy for the next few days."

  "Getting a manicure I hope."

  "Brenda," Cleve said, quietly. "That's enough."

  Her mother sat there open-mouthed with shock. Dori took the opportunity to get up and grab her jacket. "See you guys later."

  Cleve hurried around her mother and blocked Dori from leaving. He hesitantly held out his arms for a hug, and Dori did nothing to stop him. "You take care all right?" he whispered in her ear.

  "I will. Thank you."

  They made eye contact, and he nodded that he understood that she was thanking him for keeping her secret.

  "Where's my hug?" Brenda demanded but Dori pretended not to hear and left a tip for the tortilla lady.

  Chapter Eight

  Her dad used to joke that the only thing Dori had in common with her mother was that they didn't know how to have fun.

  Dad would wake them up on Saturday mornings with the announcement they were spending the day exploring. Her mom would pout, determined to clean the house and then scream and cry at them for not helping. She’d say things like: "Let’s just call our maid so the place won’t be a sty when we get back," or "Laundry doesn’t wash itself."

  But back then, when Dad still played with them, he would wait out Mom's testiness. Eventually under the influence of the open road and the car radio blasting out Hendrix, the lines in her mom forehead would ease. Dori would look through the gap between the two front seats and see her parents holding hands.

  Those were the good times. Christmas on the Prado at Balboa Park, riding the carousel at Seaport Village, exploring the tide pools at Cabrillo National Point and playing charades to the light of bonfires on Coronado were the backdrops when Dori had a family. Then Grampy died and left nothing to her parents, choosing to leave it all to Grammy. To be fair and with the perspective of an adult, Dori saw that Grammy had lorded over her parents; not bothering to keep her opinions about how they were raising their kids and managing their money to herself. Dad’s cruelty broke through the soil of disappointment and from that point on, Mom wilted under the stormy clouds of his anger. Dori and Sela went wild just to be noticed, while Robbie worked hard at being the good son.

  Home was a battleground on which Dori fought to be her own person. She and her sister became those wild Orihuela girls, the bane of every boy’s mother especially their own. But it hadn't been fun. Not in the true, free sense of the word.

  You're an embarrassment!Brenda would yell when she'd catch Dori sneaking in through the window at 2 a.m. Boys rape girls like you.

  Then one night, her mother's words almost came true. After a house party, Dori got into a senior boy’s car just for the thrill of seeing the other girls envy her. They took off, the car vibrating from the bass, and then he went crazy, pretending to crash into cars and veering into oncoming traffic. At first Dori kept her cool, determined to impress him until he reached over and grabbed her breast, squeezing like he’d yank it off.

  Her stomach still clenched at the memory of the nasty promises he’d made to her; the things he was gonna do when he pulled over where no one could see them. She was gonna like it, he’d said.

  She froze with terror, convinced that she was being punished for all her misdeeds. Her mother had been right. Dori desperately grasped onto the unlikely hope that Wonder Woman would land from out of the night sky to rescue her and she would never ever do something this stupid again.

  But a miracle of a different kind occurred. Light burst into the car, and cursing, he pulled over. While they waited for the officer to approach his window, he told her to keep her mouth shut if she wanted to go home without a black eye.

  It wasn’t Diana, Princess of the Amazons, who shined her flashlight into their faces. It was Officer Ellen Gutierrez who asked him to step out of the car. She’d arrested him for possession among other offenses, and then sat with Dori at the station until Grammy came to pick her up.

  "Is he your boyfriend?" Ellen had asked, pulling up a chair and sitting face-to-face with Dori.

  Dori shook her head, still shivering from the violent images his promises branded in her head.

  "Then why’d you get in the car with him?"

  She had shrugged and nearly had a heart attack when Ellen barked, "That’s not an answer!"

  Dori hadn’t trusted herself to speak. She dammed up her terror, determined to keep her cool façade intact.

  But Ellen had waited her out. She appeared like she could do anything in her winter blues with the heavy belt at her waist and thick black boots.

  Finally Dori replied, "I thought he was cute."

  To her surprise, Ellen had leaned back in her chair, a wistful grin on her face. "Honey, the worst ones usually are," she’d said, and that was when their friendship and Dori’s career had begun. She left her party friends and her see-through lace tank tops behind and became an officer Ellen was proud of.

  So why did anything that came out of her mother's mouth still hurt?

  Dori blinked and came back to the present where she stood with her elbows resting on the metal railing of the pier. The bay rippled between her and Downtown San Diego. The ferry pulled away from the pier, carrying a few tourists and hardcore bicyclists away from Coronado. She breathed in the smell of fish and a pipe that one of the fishermen had clenched between his teeth.

  She walked off with a whole afternoon stretching barren and pointless before her. She should be at the the range or calling contractors for bids. She should've been more like Ellen, who was now retired but still barking at teenaged cadets.

  "On your left!"

  Dori scooted over as a bicyclist whizzed by her, waving a friendly thank you and then continued down the bike path that went around the island.

  She stopped in her tracks. How long had it been since she’d done something as simple as ride a bike? Her mo
ther would never do something like that.

  Fifteen minutes later, on a pink beach cruiser with streamers on the handles, Dori pedaled down a street that looked as if it had been freeze-dried in the 1920s. The leafy trees let in spots of sunlight between the bungalows, stuccoed Spanish fantasies, Cape Cods and Tudors. She looked a little funny riding around with a flowered pink helmet on her head, but she was smiling with the simple pleasure of the wind against her face and the little basket that held her purse.

  She burst out of the shade, the sun blinding since she’d forgotten her sunglasses in the car. A yellow Victorian stood on the corner, its nose turned up at the cars that raced towards the Coronado Bridge. Immediately, the image of her house from the dream popped in her mind: the scrubbed windows, the roses planted around the bird bath and of course, Vince.

  When she got a break in the traffic, she hurried across the main thoroughfare and back into the quiet neighborhood. She drifted along, trying to outrun the memories of finding Vince lying in her hallway. Had it just been a dream or had she witnessed something that had happened in the past?

  She shook her head no. But if-

  No. Never. Impossible, her rational mind insisted, closing off further argument.

  But her instincts hinted otherwise. It wasn’t some random nightmare. The suffocating feeling she'd experienced in the front parlor wasn't her damaged psyche. Dori had seen a man’s last moments and there was something in that room.

  The weight of it, the impossibility of it in the light of day pressed down on her. She pumped her legs faster, the wind roaring in her ears, her eyes smarting and starting to tear. Dori needed to pull her head out of her ass and get back in the moment where she belonged. But her questions were like dust motes caught in a beam of light, lingering, floating, too many to count and pointless to wave away for they’d settle right back where they’d been.

  Her heel slid off the pedal. The bike veered straight for a parked car but she yanked it back in time. The questions refused to leave her alone, until Dori wound up on Orange Avenue, Coronado's main thoroughfare. She rode under swaying palm trees until she pulled up to Bay Books, which beckoned her inside with the promise of sanctuary.