Don't Go Stealing My Heart - Kelly Siskind Page 0,2

remainder around local charities and orphanages in developing countries fueled her drive to make a difference, to help those the system had let down, and make sure others didn’t suffer the way she had. What it didn’t do was keep her from picturing her apartment filled with friends, their laughter as lively as Jenny’s purple hair.

The few times she’d made an effort with strangers, she’d broken out in cold sweats. Asking others questions meant they reciprocated. What’s your name? What do you do? Where are you from? Lying on the job was one thing. Lying to potential friends made Clementine feel like a ghost. A non-person.

She stroked Lucy’s back. Her bearded dragon pancaked her belly on Clementine’s palm and closed her eyes. Her version of a cat’s purr. “What should we do tomorrow, girl?”

No answer, of course. That never stopped Clementine from talking to her pet just to use her vocal cords. At this rate, she’d be jabbering to herself on street corners by forty, or she’d become one of those women whose body was discovered weeks or months after time of death, wedged between stacks of newspapers, her leg half eaten by pet reptiles.

She glanced at her kitchen counter and eyed Jenny’s business card.

Maybe one night of socializing wouldn’t be so bad.

She could go over for a quick visit, after her supposed “plans.” Not linger too long. Drink wine and gossip about celebrities, or do whatever it was women did. They probably wouldn’t want to hear about her bearded dragon or the car engine she’d finished rebuilding, and she couldn’t talk about her illegal philanthropic work, but it could be fun to feel normal for a minute.

She returned Lucy to her terrarium and grabbed Jenny’s card. Before overthinking, she sent her a quick text.

Clementine: It’s your neighbor Amy. Thanks for the invite. I’ll stop by at ten.

Now she couldn’t back out. She’d force herself to be a non-ghost.

Hopefully the decision wouldn’t bite her in the ass.

2

Of course that stupid girls’ night had bitten Clementine in the ass. She should have known better than to try and make non-reptile friends. Socializing wasn’t in her DNA, especially when conversation veered to talk of foster care. If she’d known one of Jenny’s friends was a foster parent, she’d never have gone. Listening to the woman praise those government services had been excruciating. Everyone else had smiled and nodded along with her effusiveness. Not Clementine, who had intimate knowledge of how wrong foster care could go. Nope. She’d lashed out at the woman’s ignorance, revealing parts of herself she never shared, and had stormed from the apartment.

Four weeks later she still wanted to throat-punch herself for attending.

Tired of rehashing that horrible night, she focused on her current job and reread Lucien’s text.

Lucien: Find Elvis Presley.

The instruction sounded simple enough. Unfortunately, it wasn’t 1957, and she was en route to a town overrun with the deceased celebrity.

Clementine: You’re a real comedian.

She pocketed her phone and pumped gas into her rental car while scanning her beige surroundings. A single tree punctuated the flat landscape, bruised grasses staggering in the faint breeze. An old man sat on a nearby rocking chair, pipe in hand, sentry to a dilapidated convenience store. And was that an actual tumbleweed blowing down the dusty road?

Yep. An honest-to-God tumbleweed.

She stowed the pump and resumed texting Lucien, hoping he’d feel her steely-eyed stare.

Clementine: You’ve sent me to Lucifer’s playground.

Lucien: It’s not hell, Tangerine. It’s small town Nebraska. Breathe the fresh air. Make nice with the locals. And get us that painting.

Clementine smirked. Tangerine. Grapefruit. Kumquat. Yuzu. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d used her actual name.

Clementine: The fresh air of which you speak is stifling. Sweat is practically dripping from the sky.

Lucien: You hate New York winters. Quit bitching, enjoy it, and stop dragging your feet.

She gulped at his last comment.

Clementine: I’ll secure the painting in no time.

Lucien: But don’t rush. Rushing leads to mistakes.

Clementine: I won’t let you down.

Except she already had.

Without that awful girls’ night, Clementine would have flown here from New York as planned. A quick flight to prepare her character and analyze last minute details. Instead she’d spent the past few weeks distracted and down, and hiding in her apartment to avoid Jenny. When the walls had felt like they’d been closing in, she’d chosen to drive to Nebraska. A quicker escape from home, only a twenty hour drive. But she’d been on the road three days now. Three freaking days, delaying her arrival, her unease growing