03. DESTINATION: COVINA, CALIFORNIA [IN PROGRESS]

TACOMA, WASHINGTON

1945 HOURS

ROGERS RESIDENCE

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My breath caught in my throat as my grip on the phone tightened along with my heart. "Hello?" The voice on the other line repeated, sounding confused and mildly annoyed.

"Dad..." I whispered incredulously in a low voice, one that wouldn't be heard by the man on the phone. To be honest, I hadn't realized how much I missed him, even though he left when I was only eleven. I would get caught in distant memories that I couldn't tell were dreams or reality.

I had always craved a father figure in my life; I wanted to know that at least he would be there to guide me out of the mess I was currently in. I needed someone to tell about Mom. The thought of her made me cringe and I fought to keep my cool.

"Hello? How may I help you?"

Clearing my throat, my free hand groped the drawer until it managed to grip the edge of the counter. "I'm looking for- for my father?" I asked hesitantly. There was silence on the other end.

It lasted only a second.

"I'm sorry, but I think you might have the wrong number, miss."

My heart plummeted and my legs buckled, making me sink to the dusty floor and land on my knees. "You're kidding, right?" I choked out, eyes widening. I couldn't have gone through all of that shit just to be told the man on the other end of the line wasn't my father.

There was a sigh. "Miss, I'm sorry that I'm not the person you wanted to speak to. But I'm afraid you honestly have the wrong number. This is the California State Bank."

"California?" I echoed without thinking.

"Yes, miss."

Why would the junk drawer reveal a number that belonged not to Dad but to a bank down in the state of the rich and famous? I squirmed in my spot, shifting into a more comfortable sitting position as I pondered.

"Uhm... excuse me, Mister—"

"Albert Carroway."

"Albert. Have there been any deposits or transactions in the previous years by a man named Lucas Rogers?"

"I could look it up on our database if you so desire." Albert replied, to which I answered with a noncommittal grunt. As the line proceeded to play bad holding music, I drummed my fingers on my thigh and waited.

"Miss?" His voice returned and I straightened in my seat.

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid there haven't been any transactions created by a Mr. Lucas Rogers." I groaned softly and thumped my head against the side of the desk in frustration. Why was my father such a confusing man? Why couldn't he have been straight to the point and just told me where he was? "Excuse me?"

"Yeah, Al?" I mumbled half-heartedly as I picked at a piece of dirt on my blue jeans.

"Although, it seems that there happens to be a Lucas Rogers listed as a secondary contact for a man named Casper Bond. Perhaps you know him?"

Instantly I jerked to attention, getting onto my feet hastily and running a frantic hand through my hair. I started getting excited, a small nervous smile playing on the contours of my lips. Casper Bond. It couldn't be.

Could it?

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"Alright honey, which game do you want to play?"

"Spies! Spies!" I shouted in glee, jumping up and down in my excitement.

He chuckled, a hearty kind of laughter that sent warmth seeping through my bones. "Sure, sweetie. But you know what that means, right?"

"We get code names!"

"Right. I think that yours should be... Sherlock Holmes."

"He's a detective, daddy, not a spy!"

"Do you want to play or not, Gwen?" he teased, poking my nose as I scrunched it in distaste.

"Fine, fine. But you'll be Casper Bond!"

"Don't you mean James Bond, darling?"

"Same thing. I think Casper's a cooler name than James!"

"Alright, if that's what you prefer." His eyes twinkled, amused by my stubbornness. I crossed my arms in satisfaction and beamed at the man in front of me: my father.

➳

"I know him." I instantly blurted out, unable to help the relief seeping through my voice. It was my dad's code name when we younger. While I was the infamous Sherlock Holmes, he was the misnamed Casper Bond.

"I'm sorry but I need an address or phone number to verify your statement."

Inwardly I cringed and wracked my brain, trying to conjure up a number or address to give. But which one? Only one seemed to come to mind, so I went on a limb and guessed. "Uh, 256 Oak Drive, Los Angeles, California?" My voice squeaked at the end as my statement came out as a question instead. I'm surprised I even remembered my family's first address; hopefully it was correct. Involutarily, I crossed my fingers.

The sound of typing on the other side of the line informed me of Al checking the computer, verifying my hunch.

"What exactly are you looking for?"

"I'm not sure, Al." I admitted, scratching my head. "Does Casper have any money in his account or something?"

"Nothing seems to pop up in our database. All that seems to be in his account is a solitary storage unit. A vault."

My curiosity piqued as I lulled over this new information in my mind. "Do you know what's in the vault?"

"I'm afraid we don't have permission to access private units such as that. If you would like, you can schedule an appointment and see for yourself?"

"That would be great," I sighed, a tired smile on my lips.

"Is tomorrow morning at ten-thirty AM alright for you?"

Tomorrow morning? I started in my spot, pacing around the wooden floors as dust collected into the air from the impact of my footsteps. California was at least four hours away from where I was, and I didn't even have a car. Maybe I could just take the bus and walk all the way there? That would add even more hours...

"Miss?"

"Uhm, yeah Albert, that'd be great." said I, a little bit delayed. If I were to make the appointment, I'd have to leave as soon as I hung up on the phone.

"Just for verification, Miss, but what is your name and relation to Mr. Bond?"

The tired smile morphed into a sad one as I ran my hand through my hair once more. I bit my lip, a nervous tic that I didn't even notice I did most of the time. "Gwendolyn Rogers. Casper Bond is my father."

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As soon as I hung up on the call, I got to business, shoving the piece of paper into my pocket and sprinting to my room. The door slammed open as I burst through, immediately running towards the closet and digging out my spare backpack.

Sifting through boxes, I threw clothes into the bag haphazardly and switched items from Mom’s bag to mine, tossing in a few necessities, my cell, and the key.

I paused in my tracks before yanking the key out of the bag and tying the necklace around my neck instead. It felt more secure with me, and I had a piece of Mom to guide me. I stroked the edges of the silver, smudged with blood and dirt.

Closing my eyes, I pictured my mother's smile, just a hint of a curve of her lips, never too wide but always genuine. I clutched the key tighter in my fist before I took several deep breaths and reminded myself to go.

The roar of sirens in the distance jolted me out of my reverie. Gasping, I rushed to my window and saw the familiar red and blue lights flashing somewhere off to the distance as the sirens drastically grew louder and louder. My gaze switched to the bodies on my driveway, which was now caked with drying blood and debris.

Without a moment's hesitation I pulled the curtains back to its spot and hoisted my bag onto my shoulder. The key dangled and chimed against my collarbone as I took off sprinting down the stairs.

By the time the police had driven into my driveway, I was gone.

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My feet propelled me into the woods. Occasionally I glanced back to see if any cops were on my trail but the forest remained as quiet as when I entered. The only sounds were the chirps of cicadas hiding peacefully in the brush, the echo of leaves and twigs crunching under my sneakers, the blood rushing in my ears, and my own panting for breath.

Just behind my house and through the forest was a dirt path created for bikers and joggers. It led into the more social part of town, where Carlie lived. It took a while but I finally managed to navigate through the dense forestry and hop onto the path.

I never stopped running until I hit the pavement of the street Carlie lived on. Only then did I lean against a lamp post and try to regain my breath. I closed my eyes and gently thumped my head against the post, considering my options.

I could just go back to my house and talk to the cops, but that would mean them bringing me into custody and all of that. I could tell Carlie? But that would go against my mother's number one rule: don't make long-time connections. Either way, I didn't want to get her involved in this mess either.

The only other option in my mind was to go to the appointment at California State Bank. But I was mobile-challenged. Buses were too time-consuming and walking would take centuries.

And my idea was risky. I only ever hoped that Carlie wouldn't hate me forever.

I made my way down the sidewalk to the little, suburban home three houses down from the stop sign. It was quaint and cozy, yellow on the outside with the white picket fence, and the familiar white Mazda in the driveway. The very picture of the American Dream.

Picking up the pace, I hurried to Carlie's car and hid behind it, glancing discreetly at the open window across from the vehicle. I vaguely picked out Carlie and her family sitting by the dinner table, laughing heartily as they exchanged stories. It was hard for me to believe my life had been nearly that normal until less than an hour ago.

I smiled sadly, but my reflection in Carlie's car showed a grimace instead. Taking a deep breath, I squatted by the driver's door, taking off my backpack and unzipping it. I rummaged through the miscellaneous materials inside until I managed to locate what I was looking for.

Trust me, I didn't like what I was going to do. I wasn't a criminal, but under these circumstances this was the only chance I had. Fixing the bobby pin in my hand to an angle, I placed it gingerly into the lock and pressed my ear against the door, listening for the—

Click.

I never used my criminal-esque skills to my advantage, believe me. I remember throwing a tantrum when Mom started teaching me how to do basic pick-pocketing methods. It was wrong, and I felt guilty but I had to. After I finished hotwiring the car, I opened the door without so much as a squeak and hopped in.

"I'm sorry, Carlie." I whispered before putting the car into reverse and backing out of the driveway.

"Hey!" A loud, masculine voice screamed. Widening my eyes, I looked up as Carlie's father, turned an alarming shade of purple from his position at the front door. "What the hell are you doing, you bastard?"

The rest of the Nicolson family filed in to see the commotion. I quickly put my hood on and tried to hide my face, but I wasn't quick enough.

Carlie had managed to catch my expression of guilt and determination. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but quickly shut it. Instead, she gave a small smile and nodded slightly, not enough for her family to notice but for me to comprehend.

I smiled back, although I had bowed my head to hide my eyes under the hood, but I hope Carlie caught that. It would be her last memory of me. The thought made me somber, realizing that at that point I really didn't have any one anymore. No Mom, no Carlie.

Only my father.

With that thought, I revved the engine and sped off towards the highway as the sounds of Mr. Nicolson's angry yells faded into the night.

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-Isabelle