She pulled aside the fake wainscoting on the lower part of the wall that concealed it and put her fingers on the dial.
Eleven and a turn left, then six, then two turns to the right, then forty-four. Pagan’s birthday. It was a stupid, sentimental number to use for a family safe, but her father had been that kind of man. How he and her hardheaded mother had ever fallen in love remained a mystery to Pagan.
The safe clicked open. She angled the desk lamp to shine into it and began piling file folders onto her lap. After the car crash, life had been too scary and hectic for Pagan to think about going through her father’s papers. Mister Shevitz had handled what needed to be done. But if there was anything to be found on Mama, Daddy would have put it in here.
Her hand hit the metal floor, and she stuck her head down to make sure she’d gotten everything. A lumpy rectangle threw a shadow near the back wall. She leaned in to pull it out.
There were two bundles. The first was wrapped in plastic and secured with rubber bands. Green glinted under the wrapping. A large stack of one hundred dollar bills.
Bless Daddy for keeping an emergency stash of cash.
The second bundle was an envelope full of folded paper, bound together with an older, nearly rotted rubber band. When she slid her index finger under it, the band snapped and flopped away like a dying fish.
The envelope was unsealed and yellowing at the corners. Pagan lifted the flap and carefully pulled out a stack of folded stationery on heavy white paper. Letters. She unfolded the first one with the care of an archaeologist unrolling an ancient papyrus.
Handwriting in black ink slanted across the paper in a jagged scrawl. She didn’t recognize it. Her breathing quickened as she read the first two words: Liebe Eva.
Her mother’s name, Eva, with a casual German greeting in front of it. Pagan understood enough German to know that Liebe was, at the very least, friendly. It didn’t have to be more than that.
But it could be.
Why in creation would her father have kept letters to her mother from someone in Germany? At the top the date was written: 30 Juni 1952. In European fashion, the day came first, then the month and year. June 30, 1952. Pagan had been seven years old. She’d turned eight that November.
She turned the expensive, textured paper over to see the signature. Hochachtungsvoll, Rolf von Albrecht.
Yours truly, Rolf von Albrecht?
Outside the office door, a floorboard creaked.
“Daddy?” she breathed, and caught herself.
Oh, God. For one wild moment she’d thought that sound was her father, coming home late. The urge to tear open the office door and throw her arms around him was almost overwhelming.
Steady, Pagan. No, it had to be Devin Black, patrolling her house in the middle of the night. He must be feeling as restless as she was. Thank goodness she had shut the office door when she came in.
Resentment of him and his control over her movements, her time, her life, bubbled up inside.
Damnable Devin might have all the power of a parent, but she’d sneaked out of the house on her actual parent, Daddy, plenty of times. Years of memorizing scripts had given her an ironclad memory for words on a page and the terms of the contract she’d signed were clear. The court-appointed guardian had to be on hand during the film shoot and thereafter at the court’s discretion.
Well, she wasn’t on the shoot, yet. She could give Devin Black a merry chase and still abide by the contract. She’d arrive in time for the movie, but on her own terms. Maybe by the time Devin caught up to her in Berlin, he’d realize he couldn’t treat her like a child.
Pagan grabbed her father’s empty briefcase, stuffed the files and the bundle of money inside, and closed it with two quiet clicks of the clasps. She’d finish reading the papers later.
She made her way carefully to the door and pressed her ear against the wood. Outside, wooden stairs squeaked. Devin was heading back up to his bedroom.
She let him get farther up before she silently opened the office door, listening. The faint footsteps continued above her, down the hall, back toward his room. His door rasped open. She waited for the soft thud of it closing before she tiptoed up after him. She was prepared to pick the dead bolt to get back into her own room, but there was no keyhole, just a latch she could flip. Moving in silence, she reentered her bedroom and began to pack.
* * *
At 5:00 a.m. she opened her door and looked back at the lilac bedroom. Pillows lay scattered all over the floor, except for the three she’d stuffed under the lacy white coverlet to look like her own sleeping body.
Devin Black would come to wake her up in a few hours. He’d be concerned when she didn’t respond and even more concerned when he saw the door wasn’t locked. He’d probably push his way into the room to throw back the coverlet. Then he’d see how she’d fooled him. He’d see her packed trunks still in the closet, waiting for transport to Berlin. He’d curse her when he saw that her smallest suitcase, the new Chanel purse, and the Dior suit dress were gone.
She was wearing that fabulous outfit now, her purse full of Daddy’s money, his papers in her bag. She was slick and chic and lighter than air. She floated downstairs and out the door. Through the clear air of the summer morning, she glimpsed the cab she had called waiting for her at the end of the drive. Let’s see Devin Black catch her now.
As the cab drove past the Episcopal Church on Hollywood and Gardner, Pagan swiveled her head to stare at the small group of people smoking outside. So they still had A.A. meetings there early in the morning.
Should she ask the driver to stop? She had promised Mercedes, after all. But then they were half a block, then a full block away and there was no point in turning around.
And she didn’t need a meeting. Dodging Devin Black had given her a high no glass of vodka could compete with, and she didn’t want to miss the early flight from LAX to New York.
Instead she made the driver pull over at a newsstand on Sunset, where she bought every silly tabloid magazine they had—Photoplay and Screenland, Modern Screen, the National Enquirer, and VIP. Plus Life, Time, Seventeen, Vogue, and anything else that looked juicy.
She’d read them on the plane, then mail them special delivery to Mercedes. She’d loved hearing Pagan’s insider stories about the celebrities on the magazine covers. Together they’d read every tattered copy of every old magazine in the reformatory.
The cab swept past the new War of the Worlds–looking Theme Building in front of the airport and up to the terminal by 6:00 a.m. Pagan carried her own bag to the ticket counter and asked about a flight to Berlin with a stopover in New York. Without Devin’s ticket in hand, she’d have to buy her own. Thanks to Daddy’s money stash, that wasn’t going to be a problem.
Devin had told her they were booked on TWA, so she went to the Pan Am counter. Better not to run into him on the plane. But Pan Am’s flight
