Free Everything Leads to You by Nina Lacour

she nods and switches over.
    A raspy voice says, “Oh, okay. I applied for a job there a while ago, so I thought . . . It doesn’t matter. So who are you?”
    “I’m Charlotte. My friend Emi is here, too.”
    “Hi,” I say.
    “This might sound strange, but we have something that was meant to belong to Caroline Maddox.”
    Ava is quiet on the other end, and I look down at the phone and see that it’s trembling in Charlotte’s hand.
    “Caroline?” Ava finally repeats, her voice breaking on the question.
    I say, “We got this letter for her, so we tried to find her but then found out that she died, so we’ve been just kind of connecting some dots, and eventually we found you—”
    “You have a letter for Caroline ?” Ava asks.
    Charlotte says, “It’s kind of a long story. It would be better to talk in person, if that works for you.”
    “What are you doing now?”
    “Now?” Charlotte asks. “We’re just hanging out at our apartment.”
    “In Venice,” I add.
    “I can be there in twenty minutes.”
    “Oh,” Charlotte says. “Okay.”
    I give her the address, and then we hang up.
    I stare at Charlotte. She stares at me.
    I scan the living room. Clyde Jones stuff is everywhere. Toby’s desktop computer screen is full of search windows for Caroline and Tracey and Ava, as is Charlotte’s laptop, resting open on the coffee table.
    “Shit,” I say, and we begin closing screens and putting away Clyde Jones DVDs because neither of us wants to look like we’ve been collecting all the information there is to have about the girl who is about to walk through our door and possibly hang out for a while.
    And somewhere in the frenzy of sweeping evidence and cleaning up our dinner dishes, the gravity of the moment captures me. I feel a camera panning across the room as if I’m watching us from a distance. A counter covered in garlic peels and cutting boards and bread crumbs. The door to the patio ajar. Two girls in a colorful, lived-in living room. They don’t know what’s coming, but one of them—the one with the faraway expression and the dark hair, the one whose eyes betray that she hasn’t been sleeping well—she has felt on the verge of something.
    And when they hear a knock at the door, it’s this girl who crosses the room to answer it. She turns the knob, and here it is—like Clyde appearing on the horizon or emerging from the tall grass—a redhead in the doorway of a Venice courtyard apartment. A curious gaze, a tentative step inside. The curve of her mouth when she smiles, the raspy timbre of her voice when she says hello.

Chapter Six
    As soon as I open the door I wish we’d had just a few more minutes, because Ava is standing in the doorway looking movie-star pretty, looking Clyde Jones pretty, and I am facing her in a shirt with a red tomato-sauce smear on the chest, my hair in a messy ponytail, realizing that in spite of all our planning I have no idea how to deliver the news we summoned her to hear.
    “Hey. Come in,” I say, but I’m fighting the urge to tell her never mind.
    Charlotte and I have involved ourselves in other people’s lives in a way that suddenly makes me uncomfortable. Like there was a NO TRESPASSING sign in front of a family’s driveway, and not only have we trespassed, but we’ve gone through their garage, opened all of their private boxes, rifled through their photo albums and diaries to discover dozens of secrets that were never meant to be revealed.
    Ava is here, though, in the middle of Toby’s cozy living room, thanks to luck and fate and our will to find her. Charlotte is offering her the last of our Ethiopian iced tea and she is saying yes. She’s slipping a worn brown leather purse from over her shoulder and apologizing.
    “What for?” Charlotte asks.
    “I must have been difficult to get ahold of,” she says. “You must have tried hard.”
    “It took us a while,” I say, pouring the tea into a little blue glass.
    “Yeah,” she says. “Well,