Forgotten Island by Kristi Belcamino

Author:Kristi Belcamino
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kristi Belcamino

Chapter Seventeen

I Love It Here

I’d hardly stepped out of Danny’s building before I dialed James.

“Something new?”

“I’ve got the plate.” I knew I sounded smug.

Silence.

“How?” His voice was full of suspicion.

“Long story. Guy with drone recorded Sasha’s abduction. Got a copy of the video, too.”

James let out a low whistle. That’s right, underestimate me, now be impressed.

“You at the police station?”

“Uh, my place. I’m home for the night.”

A vivid memory of his overheated, spice-smelling manly apartment with him naked in the shower came roaring back to me. I swallowed.

“Gia?”

“Be there in ten.”

My Uber driver was there in two. He was a Somalian with a ready smile.

“Howdy,” I said as I hopped in.

“You live in Tenderloin?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” I stuttered. “I’m moving here. Hopefully next month.”

“Why?”

I looked out the window. There was a homeless guy I recognized walking by: a former boxer who owned an ancient golden lab named Max. He made sure Max was always fed, even before he ate. There was Chien Veit, my favorite place to grab Phở. On the corner, Larry, the manager of the Edgemont residential hotel, was out front sweeping the sidewalk. The next block over there was a monk in a long orange robe and bald head waiting for a bus. Across the street, a scruffy teenager with a Mohawk was playing his beat-up acoustic guitar and singing his heart out.

“Because,” I finally told the driver. “I love it here.”

I stood on the sidewalk in front of James’ building for about five minutes before I got up the nerve to ring the buzzer. After the door clicked open, I crammed myself into the tiny elevator and hit the button for the fifth floor. When I stepped out, I saw that, like old times, the front door was propped open for me. An easel was set up against the window in his main room, displaying a half-finished painting of a beautiful woman in sunglasses, hair blowing back with the Golden Gate bridge looming behind her. A stab of jealousy zinged through me. Absurd.

Down the hall, in the tiny kitchen I could hear James puttering around. I closed and locked the front door and headed toward the smell of food.

“I’m sorry I’ve got to eat,” he said over his shoulder. He was making scrambled eggs. Some sourdough toast popped out of the toaster. I started buttering them. The kitchen was so small he brushed up against me as he worked.

“You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

A few minutes later we were sitting at the small café table on his tiny balcony, eating toast, scrambled eggs with cheese, and drinking white wine. He lived over by the ballpark in an obnoxiously expensive studio apartment with a view of the stadium and Bay Bridge.

Finally, he pushed his empty plate back.

“Sorry, I was starting to go brain dead. Hadn’t eaten all day. I wasn’t sure I could have a coherent conversation until I had some food.”

“I get it.” My plate was clean, too. “What’s for dessert?”

He grinned, his dimple showing. “I’m glad to see that hasn’t changed.

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