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He wouldn’t be so blatant.
I don’t want to rip his couch apart, but I push the cushions off and find three quarters, a dime, and some kitty litter. I run my hands along the insides feeling for a catch in the cracks, but the couch doesn’t have a hideaway bed in it.
The whole place is carpeted, and nothing looks out of sorts on the floor. Loose floorboards are a popular place to hide things, but there’s nothing like that here.
Jackets, hats, scarves, and winter boots fill his front closet. Several pairs of dress shoes. I guess he went out a lot.
As far as apartments go, Max’s is a decent size, but I’m running out of places to look. Maybe it’s not here. McClennan didn’t say anything about Max storing the box at a bank, and there are a million in King’s Crossing. I might as well consider the lockbox good as gone if it’s sitting in a safety deposit box somewhere.
I finish the beer that’s growing warm. I’ll have to throw it away at my place. The task of packing up this apartment feels daunting, and even though I know it’s wrong, I consider putting it off again.
If I don’t pack up his things, maybe he’ll come back.
It’s stupid. I saw him at the memorial service. I watched Zarah cry over his body.
Yesterday I kissed her, and her berry lipstick stained my lips.
I’ve already wasted an hour searching Max’s apartment. I use another twenty minutes and go through his bookshelves, looking for anything that would need a key, but there’s nothing but books, books, and more books. Moleskin notebooks that are full of notes about his articles, facts about cases. I find a list of his snitches’ names I’ll need to...maybe I won’t destroy them. Maybe I’ll keep them and Pop and I can pull a few favors once in a while.
For now, I put them back, though I hide them better.
The Feds had no reason to search Max’s apartment, and besides our mother, I’m the only one who’s been here since his funeral.
I picture Zarah on the couch, Max leaning over her, a hand to her breast, his lips on hers.
I’m falling in love with my brother’s lover.
The lockbox isn’t here.
I push my boots onto my feet, tie up the laces, and yank on my jacket. I’m standing in the hallway locking his door when it hits me like a lightning bolt. Fumbling with the key, I unlock his door, and leaving the keyring dangling, rush into the kitchen. I open the oven and inside sits a roasting pan large enough to cook a turkey that could feed twenty people on Thanksgiving Day.
I slide the pan out of the oven, place it on the floor, and lift the lid. There, resting in a sea of crumpled up newspaper, is the lockbox. It was under my nose the entire time.
I open another beer and carry the lockbox into the living room. Sitting on the couch, my heart hammering a million miles a minute, I unlock it using the little silver key. For a second, I expect it not to fit, but it does, and the lid pops up.
My hands are shaking when I open it. Another Moleskin notebook lays on top, this one thicker than the others on his shelves, and several CD cases, the CDs sparkling in their clear plastic. None of them are labeled. I don’t have a laptop with me, and I’ll need to wait until I get back to my apartment before I can see what’s on them.
I flip through Max’s notebook and discover it’s a journal. I close the cover, pursing my lips. I don’t want to invade his privacy, but he left it to me. There must be something inside he wants me to read.
Choosing a random page, I skim the entry, but it doesn’t have anything to do with the Maddoxes.
I choose a page closer toward the middle.
I found Stella Mayfair and Richard Denton today and brought them to the apartment. Stella looks horrible—thin and sad. Richard keeps touching her, and though he said he’s not, I think he’s in love with her. He can’t take his eyes off her, but I don’t blame him. She’s beautiful, even after the attempts made on her life. They don’t trust me, but they aren’t going to have a choice, not if they want help proving Clayton Black was the one who killed Kagan and Lark Maddox. I put Stella to bed in my room and I’m going to sleep on the couch. I don’t want her to try to run away. Someone’s trying to kill her. I didn’t say anything earlier, but I think it’s Zane Maddox. He wants revenge, and he’ll do anything to get it.
That’s the end of that day’s entry. Zane thought Stella ran off to Italy with Sergio Cardello, but everyone in the world thought that when pictures started circulating online. Ashton Black planted the rumors to prevent anyone from looking for Stella while he held her captive right here in the city. I remember it, but it was six years ago and the Maddoxes weren’t on my radar.
I flip to another page.
Zane doesn’t think we’re safe at my apartment, and he moved us to the Crowne Royale, a sweet, empty hotel near the Renegade. He’s got a private investigator from LA working with us. Smart and no-nonsense, I like her. I met Zarah Maddox, and she took my breath away. Zane didn’t want her alone at their penthouse, and she and her nurse, Ingrid, are going to stay at the hotel. She’s like a ghost, blank behind her eyes. Too thin, and her skin is sallow, her hair brittle. She flinches at little things, like a voice too loud, a light too bright. Where Stella is sunshine, Zarah is night. Stella’s blonde hair, her bright blue eyes, they are perfect opposites to Zarah’s pitch black hair and dark eyes. It’s no wonder Ashton Black wanted both of them: perfect bookends.
I see that now, after reading Max’s observation. Never considered them to be opposites, only sisters in tragedy, but Max is right.
Ash Black wanted the light and the dark.
Max closes that day’s entry writing two lines I won’t ever forget.I met Zarah Maddox only a few hours ago, and I’m already in love with her. I have a feeling no matter how much Ashton Black hates her, I bet he loves her too.
That night, I call the prison where Ash and Clayton Black are serving time until the DA’s office can finally conclude their lengthy investigation. Ash is still there, a model prisoner, does everything that’s asked of him and reads a book a day.