Everywhere to Hide Read online

  Dedication

  To the class of 2020

  Epigraph

  “We live in an age of deception. Words and appearances mislead. Con artists prey on the unwary. The halls of power are choked with hypocrites, and the markets teem with frauds. Every stranger is a potential enemy, and one steps out the door at one’s peril. In this world of swindlers, one must rely on one’s wits to survive. How, then, to guard against the duplicity that seems to lurk behind every smiling face? Look to your kin, keep your possessions close, and trust no one.”

  —Translators’ Introduction, The Book of Swindles: Selections from a Late Ming Collection

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Author’s Note

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise for Siri Mitchell

  Other Books by Siri Mitchell

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  July

  Arlington, Virginia

  I was just ten steps away from the Blue Dog|RINO Coffee Shop where I worked when a hand closed tightly around my forearm. I flinched as my heart raced. Though I’d pulled my hair into a ponytail, a gust of wind grabbed the free ends, looped my hair around my neck, and then cinched it.

  The hand tightened, jerking me off course as a wind-driven cardboard box tumbled past. Then it let go. “Sorry. Didn’t want you to get hit.” The man to whom the voice belonged headed toward the Virginia Square metro station, bowing into the wind.

  I hated myself because I couldn’t bring myself to hate him. He could have no idea he’d left me there on the sidewalk trembling. That his grasp had resurrected memories I preferred stay dormant.

  As I leaned into the wind, I took a deep breath. Reminded myself that I was safe, that I’d left my ex-boyfriend on the other side of the river. That he had no hold on me. Not here. Not now.

  * * *

  Every hiss of the espresso maker that morning amplified my anxiety. Every jangle of the bell on the door made me jump. I was well into my eight-hour shift before my nerves calmed. And it was several hours after that when my ex finally receded from my thoughts.

  A hurricane was spinning somewhere out in the Atlantic. As always, the DC region was spared the worst of the storm. No hurricane-force winds, no rain. But fast-moving clouds, muggy humidity, and the gusts of tropical storm–strength winds reminded us of what we were missing. As our wind spun in concert with the hurricane, the door to the shop by turns wouldn’t shut. Or became almost impossible to open. When I took my break, I popped a couple of ibuprofens to relieve the pressure building in my head.

  My cell phone rang as I was heading back to the floor, and I pulled it out of my pocket. Not recognizing the area code, I let it roll to voicemail, but it added to the dread that had been pooling in my stomach since my encounter with the stranger.

  I shoved my phone back into my pocket, determined to ignore it.

  Corrine jabbed me with her elbow as I tried to pass her on my way to the register. “Hey! Your boyfriend’s here.”

  “What?” My head whipped out to the tables where she had gestured. My heart stopped for a moment. But then I saw the man had red hair, not blond. He was wearing a pair of basketball shorts and a T-shirt, both things my ex wouldn’t have been caught dead in. I forced my lips into a smile as I replied, “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  As we looked at him, though, the man raised a hand in our direction.

  Corrine laughed. “I think he’d like to audition. Oh!” She jabbed me again. “Look at him wink!” As always, her dark curls were spun up into a bun on top of her head. Her short-sleeve T-shirt revealed the “Nevertheless” tattoo on her inner left arm and the “Persist” tattoo on her right. The blue apron she wore was the twin of mine.

  But I didn’t have a boyfriend. Didn’t want one. Never again.

  I stepped away from her so our other coworker, Ty, could open the fridge beneath the counter. Corrine and me? We always found our rhythm as we worked together. Ty and me? We were forever bumping into each other.

  I tried to continue on my way, but Corrine wasn’t done with me. “Ooh—Whitney!” Her voice carried over the light jazz playing in the background.

  As I turned, she flapped her hand at me and then tilted her head toward the entrance as a man walked through the door. “Here comes Mustache Man. Can you leave him for me? Just for today?”

  It was the joke that every man who walked into the shop fell in love with me. I didn’t think it was very funny. But I was the newest barista and it was worth playing along, so I traded places with her and started pulling shots so she could take Mustache Man’s order. Why not? It was the little things that made shift work bearable.

  By the time things slowed down at the espresso maker, the guy by the window was gone. But Mustache Man lingered. He was a relatively recent regular customer. We never had to ask for a name for his drink because he always ordered a green tea. Iced. Once he got it, he’d sit at the bar by the mobile-order area, angled sideways so his back was to the wall. He’d sip that tea like he hoped it would last for the rest of the day.

  Now that he had his order and was sitting at the bar, Corrine traded places with me again. From there, she would be able to talk to him.

  I went on taking orders, juggling the long line of in-person customers with the never-ending queue of mobile orders. The printer was sprouting labels like politicians sprouted horns.

  Our coworker Amber came in about half an hour before I clocked out.

  I called to her. “Hey—Amber! Can you take over here so I can—”

  She turned her shoulders toward me, pointed to her name tag. Maddie.

  “Sorry. I caught you out of the corner of my eye and—” She had long, straight hair just like Amber did, and they both tended to wear bright colors.

  As I grabbed a cookie from the pastry case and bagged it for a customer, I glanced at my watch. After my shifts ended, I met up with high school students at the library for my other job: college-test coach. I had ten minutes to make it from the Blue Dog to Central Library. With summer vacation in high gear, Mondays were my busiest coaching day. I had back-to-back students from two to eight.

  When I wasn’t working at the coffee shop or the librar
y, I was studying for the bar exam I’d be taking at the end of the month. I’d already graduated from law school, across the river in DC, from one of the most prestigious programs in the country. But my degree wouldn’t mean anything if I didn’t pass the bar.

  In my favor, I’d been one of the top students in my class, and the exam was pass/fail. Although most of my peers were taking private courses to prepare, I couldn’t afford it. My solution was to check out books from the law-school library on a rotating basis and work through as many of them as I could. I was already on my second round.

  When I wasn’t working or studying?

  Sleep. In very short doses.

  Maddie and I tag-teamed the counter and the pastry case for a while. Then I moved down to the espresso machine and helped fill some of the mobile orders that were waiting.

  An iced latte.

  A brewed coffee.

  I recognized one of our regular mobile orders: a large soy mocha with just one pump of chocolate syrup. No whip.

  Honestly, why bother making it a mocha at all?

  I took a peek at my watch: 1:40.

  Five more minutes until my shift was over.

  I tore off a label that was coming out of the printer, stuck it to the side of a cup, and added it to the others waiting to be made.

  Maddie was dealing with a food order, so I went to the register and helped the next person in line. And then the next. By that time, my shift was long over. I called out my good-bye and stiff-armed the swinging door that led from the front area to the back room. Then I pocketed my magnetic name tag, drew the apron off over my head, and looped it over a hook on the wall. I opened my locker and grabbed my backpack, plunging my hand inside to search for my phone. I used it to clock out, and then accessed an app to unlock the scooter I’d have to take to the library.

  I let myself out into the hall, making sure the secure door shut behind me, and decided to leave through the back door; I didn’t want to get trapped into doing anything else out on the floor.

  The door was difficult to open. The tropical storm had transformed the alley into a wind tunnel, funneling the muggy air from one side of the block to the other. I raised a hand to pull my hair off my face and turned into the wind to keep it there, quickly turning my ponytail into a bun. As I stepped away from the door, I was surprised to see someone sprawled on the pavement in front of me.

  He was lying face up. A red puddle had formed a halo around his head.

  He wasn’t—was he—he wasn’t—was he dead?

  As I stood there trying to process what I was seeing, the wind sent a recycling crate skidding across the cracked pavement.

  I jumped.

  I glanced up the alley, then down. Nothing was there. Nothing but the wind. And a dead man staring up at the cloud-streaked sky.

  Behind me, I heard something scrabble across the low, flat roof.

  I pivoted and glanced up. Saw a form silhouetted against the sky. Shock gave way to panic as I realized he had a gun in his hand. As I realized that he had also seen me.

  I should have lunged toward the door.

  But a familiar numbness was spreading over me. The prickle on my scalp, the sudden dryness in my mouth. I was living my nightmares all over again.

  As I had done too often in the past, I reverted to form. I froze.

  Please. Please. Please.

  My thoughts latched onto that one word and refused to let it go.

  If I could just punch my code into the keypad, I could slip back inside and pull the door shut behind me.

  But I couldn’t do anything at all.

  My fingers wouldn’t work.

  Please. Please. Please.

  I willed them to function, but they had long ago learned that in a dangerous situation, the best thing to do was nothing. Any movement, any action on my part had always made things worse.

  And so I just stood there as my thoughts stuttered.

  Fragmented.

  And then a garbage truck came rumbling around the corner.

  Chapter 2

  The truck shuddered to a halt. The horn blasted. A head appeared from the window. “Hey! Can you tell that guy to move it?”

  I didn’t answer because I was trying to remember the code for the keypad at the door and because the person lying in the alley was dead. His head was leaking a puddle of blood.

  I tried to delete the image of the body by closing my eyes.

  It didn’t work.

  When I opened them, I realized I was kneeling in the alley beside the dead man.

  How had I gotten there?

  I put a hand to the pavement and pushed myself to standing. Took a tottering step toward the door. The man with the gun might still be up there on the roof. I had to get back inside.

  I put a finger to the keypad, but I still couldn’t remember the code.

  I can’t remember the code!

  I put a trembling hand to my forehead. Closed my eyes. Took a deep breath.

  Opened them.

  Come on, Whitney!

  3357.

  Relief collapsed my shoulders and forced the air from my lungs. But it was premature. My fingers still wouldn’t work.

  Come on, come on, come on!

  One of the garbage collectors had hopped down from the truck and gone up to the victim. “Hey! Hey, man, you can’t just—” He swore. “Miss! Miss? This guy is dead!”

  I turned around just in time to see him throw up.

  I tried to refocus on the keypad, but my heart was pumping so hard, so fast, that my vision was pulsating. I blinked hard.

  “Miss?”

  I didn’t want to turn around again because I’d have to look at the body. And I didn’t want to go to the corner and shout for help because what if it gave the shooter a better angle to kill me too? Most of all I didn’t want to just stand there, out in the open, trying to punch in the code.

  The garbage collector swore. “This is messed up! I’m calling the cops. Hey, you! Hey! Miss!” I heard him, but I didn’t turn around because I’d finally solved my problem. I was going to walk past the truck to the end of the alley and around to the front of the building to get back inside the shop. That way it wouldn’t matter if my fingers didn’t work.

  I don’t remember doing it, but I must have because suddenly I was tugging on the heavy glass door at the front of the shop. The wind pressed against it, trying to stop me, but I battled back. It abruptly gave up, as if in surrender, and I flung the door open, stepping from the tempest into a pool of still, cool air.

  “Whit?” Corrine called my name from behind the counter. “What are you doing here? I thought you left.”

  “I did. I—”

  “You okay?”

  A couple of the customers waiting for drinks turned toward me. One of them gasped.

  Someone came up behind me and put a hand to my shoulder.

  I whirled around, striking the arm away.

  “Hey!”

  I blinked. Recognized the cowry shell necklace of Ty. “S-s-sorry.”

  He put down the wet cloth he was holding. “Did you fall or something? You’ve got blood on your head.”

  “I do?” I put my fingertips to my forehead. When I brought them down, they were stained red.

  Ty wrapped an arm around me. “You okay?” He led me to an empty table. “Come over here. Sit down.”

  I sat.

  The people at the table next to me got up and moved away.

  I tried to focus. Tried to push words from my brain to my mouth, but nothing happened.

  “I’ll go get the first-aid kit.” Ty tried to leave but I wouldn’t let him.

  I grabbed hold of his T-shirt. “Not mine.”

  “What?”

  “Not mine. The blood. It’s not mine.” And then, finally, I found the words I wanted to say. “Call the police.”

  * * *

  It didn’t take them long to arrive.

  They fanned out into all of the stores on the block. As one of the officers escorted me
back to the alley, I saw they’d left police cars at either end; the squad lights flashed a silent warning. With a garbage truck, two police cars, an ambulance, and a whole crew of investigators, the alley was hosting more traffic than the major thoroughfare on the other side of the block.

  The garbage collectors were not pleased. They tried to argue that they were behind on their schedule and they hadn’t really seen anything anyway.

  The police didn’t care.

  We were the only leads they had.

  As one of the officers grappled with the crime tape, trying to wrestle it from the wind and thread it from the door handle of the shop next door and out to the dumpsters at the opposite side of the alley, another knelt beside the body.

  A man introduced himself. He leaned toward me, past one of the investigators, extending his hand. A gust of wind tossed me a whiff of his woodsy cologne. He squeezed my hand more than he shook it. “Hey. Leo Baroni. I’m a detective with the police department.”

  There was a hint of New Jersey in his accent. And in spite of the humidity, Detective Baroni was wearing a suit jacket. The inner elbows were creased, as if he’d been wearing it for a while.

  His black hair had decided to break free from the gel he’d run through it. It spilled back onto his forehead from both sides of his part.

  He gestured me over to the wall of the building where the wind couldn’t reach, then took a notepad and a pen from his jacket pocket and began to question me.

  “You said you came out of the door at 1:51?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s very precise.”

  “I’d just clocked out. And I didn’t want to be late for my—” My coaching appointment! My heart skipped a long beat and then tried to make up for it in double time. I pulled my phone from my backpack, thumbed it open, and pulled up my schedule. “Sorry. I just—I’m late for work.”

  “You just told me you were coming off your shift.”

  “At this job. I’m late for my other job. If you could just—” Hand shaking, I held up my phone as I tried to text my student. He’d be thrilled at not having to study with me. His parents? I’d have to deal with them later.

  “So you clocked out and . . . ?”

  “Just a second.” I sent the text. Slid my phone into my back pocket. “Sorry?”