Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(6)

CHAPTER TWO


FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER I pull to the curb in front of my town house, and while I usually love my quaint little street, and my redbrick building hugged by two identical structures, it’s way too deserted and dark right now. In fact, it’s so far from the word quaint that it feels more like Nightmare on Elm Street. I’m regretting not having had the foresight to leave my porch light on. The idea of rushing to my door in the midst of the shadows isn’t pleasant, and I really wish I had a garage to hide my car in case the spiky-haired monster snagged my license plate number. Not that I’m sure he’d know how to find me with it, but he was watching me. He wanted that key. That means the poker chip and the note I’d found mean something to someone. What if the poker chip is really worth $50,000? Surely not, but come to think of it, I believe there was an acronym on it. For a casino or a hotel, maybe? I know nothing about poker and chips. Maybe I’m making this all up in my head. Maybe. Please let me be making this all up in my head.

The porch light to the town house next to mine flickers to life and Molly, my sixty-something-year-old neighbor, opens her door and quickly claims the rocking chair on her porch. Relief washes over me at the friendly audience I’ve acquired, and I pop open my door, grab the envelope under my seat, and climb out of the car. “Hi, Molly,” I call out, pleased to have my little mother hen on guard, or what I expect a mother hen would be like to a daughter.

“Hi, honey,” she calls out.

I open my rear door and grab the box of paperwork I’d brought with me from the unit, shoving everything, my purse included, inside it. With quick steps, I hurry across my small patch of barely there lawn and up my brick steps, which are divided from Molly’s by a black steel railing with roses in the design. On my porch, I set the box on the floor and glance across the short brick wall between me and Molly to oblige the downfall, at least tonight, of mother-hen supervision. Chattiness.

“How’d the date with Mr. Michaels go?” I ask, glancing toward my car and hoping there are no visitors.

She crinkles her nose. “Boring old man. All he talked about was crossword puzzles and when I wanted to bet on which one of us could finish the same puzzle first, he balked at the chance to make it fun. Where are all the good men of yesterday?”

“You really are a character, Molly,” I say, a bit of laughter bubbling from my lips despite my quick scan of the yard. “You’ll have to tell me more tomorrow. I’m exhausted tonight.”

“Oh, right. The auction was today, wasn’t it?” I nod, and she angles her chair more in my direction, crossing her legs while her black slacks ride a bit high on her ankles, proving fashion is not one of Molly’s favorite things, as it once was mine. “Was it fun?” she prods eagerly. “Did you win a bid? Is that what the box is from?”

“Yes, I won a bid but it wasn’t a good unit—the box is nothing but paperwork.” And a $50,000 poker chip, I think, not about to drag her into my potential trouble. “Which is why I don’t like to gamble.”

“I should have gone with you.”

“Then I’d have no savings left.”

“No risk, no reward, honey.” She motions me forward. “Go rest. We can chat later and plan your next auction.”

There will be no next auction, but again, I zip my lips on the topic. “’Night, Molly. I’ll drop by tomorrow.”

“You’d better. I’m dying to hear more about your day.”

While I’m dying to turn back time and forget this day. “I’ll stop by once I’m up and about tomorrow.”

“Perfect. I’ll make mac ’n’ cheese,” she continues. “I know how you love it.”

I smile, warmed by how this woman has made me the granddaughter she never had, and that I never was to anyone else who cared. “I do love it.” I lean over the brick and kiss my wild, gambling surrogate grandma good night. “Don’t have men at the house until all hours of the night.”

She giggles. “I could only hope.”

And she means it. She’s got a better sex life than I do, but that’s not hard since I don’t have a sex life at all these days. I unlock my door, flip on the entryway light, and grab the box. Finally inside, I lug the box up the twelve stairs leading to my living area and kitchen, then cross a short foyer to the next level of matching steps, which leads to my bedroom. My chest is heaving when I get to the top floor, and I now know why Molly uses her living room for her bedroom. I don’t know how she handles the first level of steps, let alone two, but then, sometimes the woman has more energy than I do

Settling everything on the bed, I grab my phone, but have no idea who to call. Oh what I wouldn’t do for a real father, not a sperm donor jerk who wanted a boy, to turn to right about now. And oh, how certain I am that my sperm donor, and his gambling habit, would have answers for me if I did call him. I don’t even want to think about what his solution to my potential problem might be. Besides, he wouldn’t take my call. That’s why I stopped trying to contact him years ago. I consider dialing Ella but decide against it. She’s bold and daring, a younger Molly, sure to charge at the situation when caution might be a better choice.

I set the phone down, kick off my shoes, and grab my MacBook to power it up. Opening the envelope, I remove the Ziploc bag with the poker chip. It reads “RDR, but nothing more. I Google it but find nothing that tells me whether this is real or fake.