Page 10 of Philly
After storing the cold items and stacking a few of the prepared meals in the tiny freezer, she found homes for the nonperishables, then grabbed two plates from the open-faced cabinets.
Lyda continued sorting through her art supplies, but Callie knew what she liked on her sandwich, so didn’t bother interrupting to ask. As she pulled together the vegetarian fillings, she inhaled. Familiar scents of lavender and desert sage soaked into her body and soul, soothing and warm.
The small house looked the same as it had the first time she visited ten years ago. Not that she expected it to be different. At over two hundred years old, the traditional adobe home hadn’t changed much in centuries. At some point, someone had added electricity and plumbing, but other than that, the structure, with its thick walls, wide-planked floors, and small square windows, was as original as the day it was built. A fireplace filled one corner of the rectangular central room that comprised the kitchen, dining, and sitting areas. Behind the kitchen, on the north side of the house, lay two bedrooms and one bathroom. Squat, square, and small, it was a far cry from the house Callie had grown up in, but with its colorful art decorating the walls, the handmade throw rugs scattered across the floor, shelves packed with books and sculptures, and well-worn, minimal furniture, it felt more like a home than hers ever had.
“Lunch is ready,” she said, cutting Lyda’s sandwich before doing the same to hers. Lyda looked up, blinked as if remembering what food was, then nodded.
“I’ll take these to the studio, then we can eat outside,” she said, gathering her things and disappearing through the back door.
While the house was original, Lyda’s brother had helped her build a new studio behind it, adding walls connecting the two structures, creating an enclosed courtyard. Like Lyda’s art, the desert garden she tended in that small space managed to be practical, evocative, and comforting all at the same time. Aside from being in front of the fire on a cold night, the garden was Callie’s favorite part of Lyda’s house.
Anu followed Callie out as she delivered the food to a small tile-topped table sitting under a paloverde tree. By the time she returned a second time carrying two glasses of water, Lyda was exiting her studio empty-handed. Callie smiled as she watched Liza’s mom walk across the garden. No one would guess that the woman dressed in paint-smeared baggy jeans and a well-worn red-and-gray flannel over a black cotton T-shirt torn at the collar was the renowned artist whose work was displayed in many of the most prestigious museums around the world.
“Oh, Cheetos,” Lyda said with a smile, taking the other seat at the table. “You always were my favorite of Elizabeth’s friends.”
Straddling the world between her Pueblo life and her dreams of being a federal agent, Elizabeth hadn’t had many friends, not true ones. During their time at the academy, she’d been a class favorite among their peers—her ability to lighten a mood, make a well-timed joke, and tease a smile out of people brought a welcome, and often much-needed, moment of levity to their work and studies. But as Elizabeth often told her, being able to make people laugh didn’t make them her friends. She also likedto point out that helping their peers study and pass exams—Callie’s “superpower”—didn’t either.
Maybe that’s why the two of them had become friends in the first place—real friends. They’d both been needed—Elizabeth for her humor and Callie for her brains—but not ever really wanted.
“What can I do to help?” Lyda asked before taking a bite of her sandwich.
Callie hesitated. She’d told Lyda she needed help, but not with what. Intuitive and smart, she would have figured out it had something to do with the thumb drive Elizabeth had left her, but that didn’t mean Callie wanted to talk about Elizabeth’s death.
“Calypso,” she said, making Callie smile. No one used her given name, not even her parents, who’d chosen it. Why they named her something they never intended to call her, she had no idea, although most likely, it had been some power play by her father. Regardless, both she and her sister were named after Greek nymphs—Daphne, a naiad nymph associated with wells, springs, and rivers, and Calypso, the sea nymph who hid Odysseus from the world for seven years.
Picking up a Cheeto, she exhaled and plunged in. “It’s the thumb drive you sent me that you found in Liza’s belongings. I’ve had it for more than three years, and the only thing I’ve managed to glean from it are the names Nolan and Quayle. Her files look to be written in code, but I can’t figure out what type of code, let alone a cipher for it.”
“You think I can help?” Lyda asked, sitting back in her chair, holding half a sandwich.
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “But if you could have a look, I’d appreciate it. Liza and I were close, but you two were closer. No one knew how her brain worked better than you.”
“Yes, of course, I will help. Why now, though? As you said, it’s been over three years.”
She shifted a Cheeto around on her plate, turning the tip of her finger an alarming red-orange. “A few weeks ago, while looking into another case, I discovered something interesting about the Nolan family. I followed the lead but it went nowhere. Not yet. I need more information to convince that lead to talk with me. Which brings me back to the drive.”
Lyda studied her, then nodded. “After lunch, then. And you will also tell me more about this lead.”
Callie grimaced but nodded. She’d known there’d be a price to pay for coming to Lyda.
Lyda inclined her head, as if acknowledging what she asked in return wasn’t a small thing. Then she smiled. “I hope you remembered I don’t have a computer.”
Callie grinned back. “Good thing I brought two.”
6
They moved inside after lunch, and Lyda tidied the kitchen as Callie brought her bags—and computers—in. Lyda might not be much of a cook, but she was a stickler for keeping things orderly, often telling Elizabeth, then Callie, that the mind couldn’t quiet itself when surrounded by chaos.
As someone who’d grown up in an impeccably clean home, the simple statement had hit Callie hard. She’d lived in a pristine environment, and yet her mind had never been quiet. She’d always been on alert for whatever might trigger her father’s, or her mother’s, next outburst. But rather than form a counterargument, Callie’s perspective shifted, like a gear sliding into place. Until then, she’d never known, or even considered, that her mindcouldbe quiet. Lyda’s words, as simple as they were, changed that. She opened a new world, one where Callie owned both things—her right to have a quiet mind and the responsibility for quieting it.
Now, she tended to be on the tidy side herself, but not out of fear. Or, like her parents, because she had an image she wanted to project. But because it worked for her. The mundane tasks of vacuuming and folding laundry and doing the dishes gaveher brain the downtime it needed while giving her body—which tended to restlessness—something to do. Running, her exercise of choice, did the same.
“Tell me about this lead. A man. Someone who makes you uneasy,” Lyda said as Callie walked back into the room and set the two computers on the dining table.
Callie didn’t bother beating around the bush, not with Lyda. Besides, the woman was about to dig through her deceased daughter’s files, read her words, be reminded of Liza’s exceptional mind. The least Callie could do was give her a distraction, as tiny as it might be.
“We grew up together. Sort of. His family had a small piece of land abutting the back end of my grandparents’ farm in Pennsylvania. We lived on the other side of town, but my sister and I spent as much time with our grandparents as we could, so we saw a lot of Gabriel and his brother Matthew,” she started as she booted up the computers. Lyda pulled up a seat beside her.
“You were friends?”
