The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

She grins and shakes her head at me. “You want a ride?”
I nod gratefully as she reaches across to unlock the door. I pull at the handle, clambering inside with
a sigh of relief, my wet clothes squeaking on the worn, aged leather, my tote bag tumbling onto the
floor.
“Isn’t this your grandpa’s old truck?” I say, once I can finally see again. When my mom died, Blake’s
grandma and grandpa would pop over every now and then to see how we were doing, this truck
chuing noisily into our driveway, Mrs. Carter luing a giant casserole up our front steps. But Mr.
Carter died two winters ago, and I haven’t seen it since.
“Good eye,” Blake says, nodding as I manually roll up the window. “My grandma gave it to me a few
days ago to get around.”
“Johnny won’t let you borrow the Porsche?” I ask. She gives me an amused eye roll as I sit back in
the seat.
“I wouldn’t drive it even if he let me,” she says, the corner of her mouth ticking up into a smile.
“Way too flashy. He’s always been a fan of attention. I think it’s some pro-surfer residual.”
I pull my seat belt on and study her face as she shis the truck into drive, wondering if she knows
anything yet.
So far, things don’t seem awkward, and she’s the one who stopped, so that’s a good sign.
She peers in the rearview mirror for trac. True to Huckabee form, there isn’t any. “So, where are
we heading?”
“O’Reilly’s Used Books,” I say, nodding straight ahead as the seat belt I’m pulling on clicks noisily
into place. “It’s four blocks down on the right.”
“Are you working on the list?” she asks, her eyes wide with unfiltered excitement as she eases us
back out onto the road. “Wasn’t there a book-related thing on there?”
“ere might be.” I push my wet hair behind my ear and pull the tote bag onto the seat, diing
inside to find the folded list and the Albert Camus book, tucked safely in the rain-safe plastic of three
Ziploc bags I’d stolen from Nina’s.
Carefully, I pull out the book, holding it up to Blake as she slows to a stop at a stop sign. “I’m
looking for this. Page one fiy-seven and one fiy-eight are missing. Torn out. I think the quote my
mom’s tattoo is from is on one of those pages, and I think it can give me a bit of context. Backstory.
What set the list in motion. Like what you said on the phone.”
Blake nods, taking it all in. “You think he’ll have a copy?”
“I hope so,” I say as I point halfway down the block at the O’Reilly’s Used Books storefront, relieved
to see there’s a parking spot right out front. “Only problem is that if he does, it’s in French.” I peer at
the peeling gold lettering just above the door while Blake parallel parks the grumbling truck like a
champ. “I’m banking on Mr. O’Reilly maybe knowing enough to translate.”
I shiver, my soaked clothes making my teeth chatter in the AC. Blake’s dark eyes glance over at me
as she puts the gearshi in park, the sound of the motor dying away, the rain falling onto the metal of
the roof overtaking it.
“Here,” she says, unclicking her seat belt and pulling o her sweatshirt. I can’t help but notice the
toned lines of her lower stomach. She holds it out to me, her arms tan against the white of her
lifeguard tank top. “This’ll help.”