“Hello?” I called out. “Becca?”
No one answered.
“Becca? Are you here?” I opened the door all the way, taking a tentative step into the room.
And froze.
The place was trashed. Sofa cushions tossed, tables upended, lamps knocked over, kitchen cupboard contents littered all over the floor.
Someone had clearly beaten us here.
Chapter Seven
“Becca?” I called out again, noting the panic edging into my voice.
I moved into the apartment, stepping over the mess as I heard Dana and Marco do the same behind me.
Marco whistled low. “Oh, honey, someone has done a number on this place.”
No kidding.
The living room was small, roughly the size of my closet, with an equally doll-house sized kitchen attached at one end. A stove, refrigerator and oven took up the entire kitchen, looking rusted and worse for the wear above more ripped linoleum to match the lobby. Beyond the living space sat a doorway leading to what I guessed was a bedroom. I gingerly stepped over a couple of broken picture frames and sofa cushions toward it.
“Becca?” I called out again. “Are you here?” Though, honestly, I didn’t expect an answer. If she was here, she clearly would have heard us in the shoebox apartment by now. But I found myself holding my breath anyway as I peeked my head around the doorframe.
As expected it was a bedroom, holding a twin bed and a scarred wooden dresser. Only the bed had been stripped of its linens, the contents left in a heap on the floor along with a couple of pillows that were molting down feathers from their busted seams. The dresser drawers were open, clothes spilling onto the floor.
“She in here?” Dana called, coming into the room behind me.
I shook my head. “No. It’s empty.” And so was, I noticed, her closet. The tiny cubby hole held a single wooden bar where only a couple of wire hangers sat. Someone had cleaned out Becca’s belongings in a hurry.
“The bathroom is empty,” Marco called, his head popping into the doorway. “And her make-up is gone, too.”
Which all added up to one thing, I realized with a sinking sensation in my stomach: our number one suspect was MIA.
I arrived home to a note on the kitchen table saying Ramirez would be out late (bummer), but that his mother had brought over some enchiladas that were in the fridge. (yay!) I immediately pulled out a casserole dish that smelled like chilies, cumin, and cilantro and popped it into the microwave to reheat. A little sour cream and a mashed up avocado later, and I was in heaven. I was just going into a food orgasm when the doorbell trilled.
I reluctantly left my feast and opened the door to find my mom and step-dad on the other side.
“How’s my grandbaby doing?” Mom asked my belly, immediately putting two hands on The Bump.
“I’m doing great. Thanks for asking.”
Mom’s eyes shot up to mine. “Oh. Sorry. I’m just so excited to meet him,” she said, making little cutsie faces at my belly.
“How’s our preggo princess feeling, dahling?” my step-dad asked from behind her. Ralph, or Faux Dad, as I’d affectingly dubbed him, was the owner of Fernando’s Salon, believed unwaveringly in the uses of spray tans and Botox, and had shocked the entire world when he’d married my mom, dispelling everyone’s beliefs that he was gay (mine included). While Faux Dad was what is generally referred to as a “character” in Beverly Hills, he was a sweet guy, made my mom happy, and gave me all the free pedicures I wanted. So I had to love the guy.
“I’m doing fine, Ralph, thanks,” I answered.
“I’m so glad she’s cooperating for you. Any morning sickness? How’s the nausea? The cravings getting bad yet?” he asked all in one breath.
“Some. Good. No. What are you guys doing here?” I asked as they pushed into the room.
“We brought you a pre-sent,” Mom said in a sing-songy voice, holding up a pastel yellow bag with little duckies printed on the side.
Well, presents weren’t all bad.
“What is it?” I asked, peeking in over the tissue paper.
“Open it.” She thrust it proudly toward me.
So, I did, tearing the tissue out and digging my hands inside.
I came out with a soft, vinyl doll in a little yellow onesie covered in more ducks.
I blinked. “What is this?”
“It’s Baby-So-Lifelike.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “You do know I’m having a real baby soon, right?”
Faux Dad nodded beside her. “Yes, and that’s why you need practice with Baby-So-Lifelike.”
Mental forehead smack. “Guys, I’m not twelve. I don’t need to play mommy with a doll.”
“
“I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”
“It’s my fault,” she continued, running right over me. “I should have given you a little sibling, someone to look after.”
“Mom, I think we’ll manage-”
“Or at least a dog! I’ve left you completely unprepared for parenthood.”
“No one is prepared for parenthood,” I told her, repeating the reassuring words of my Lamaze teacher.
“Oh, I know, honey,” Mom said. She cocked her head to the side and did a frown-slash-smile oozing with sympathy. “But you are particularly unprepared.”
I rolled my eyes. “Gee, thanks.”
“No, no, like I said, it’s not your fault. And I don’t mean to be unkind, but it’s just… well, remember your ficus?”
I put my hand on my recently-ample hips. “Yes, I had a plant. Yes, it died. Plants die. That’s not the same as a baby.”
“And remember the replacement ficus I brought you?”
I paused. “Yes.”
“And then remember the plastic ficus I brought you after the replacement ficus died?”
“Vaguely,” I mumbled.
“What happened to that one?” she prompted.
I threw my hands up. “Okay, fine. I left it too close to the stove, and the plastic one melted. I can’t even keep a plastic plant alive.”
Mom handed Baby-So-Lifelike to me. “Keep him away from the stove, honey.”
I looked down at its plastic blue eyes staring up at me, its chubby limbs outstretched.
God help me.
It was warm. So warm I was sweating, my clothes clinging to me like Saran Wrap. I wiggled, turning from one side to the other, sure I was melting from the inside out. But I couldn’t get out of the tight clothes. I was going to suffocate in my own outfit.
Then suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, cool breath on my neck.
“Let me help,” a soft male voice whispered in my ear. And he did, his hands on my arms, sliding the sleeves of
