Not Here: Dina Ostica Series, #1

NOT HERE

A Dina Ostica Novel

Genevieve Nocovo

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Copyright © 2019 Genevieve Nocovo

Edition 1.0

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No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Begin Reading

Table of Contents

About Genevieve Nocovo

Connect with Genevieve Nocovo

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Begin Reading

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

About Genevieve Nocovo

Connect with Genevieve Nocovo

Chapter 1

Dina Ostica tried to scream, but her voice was trapped in her throat. Her shoulder blades pressed against the fence.

He grabbed her upper arm, pushing her back, as he lifted the knife to her neck.

Drop. Your. Bag. He shook her with each word, six-foot frame looming.

When he had approached her on that quiet street, she thought he was some overgrown high school kid, just asking to borrow a dollar. Then he took out the knife.

Give it to me.

She couldn’t. Her leather satchel had everything in it. She couldn’t afford to replace her microphone, her laptop, her podcasting gear...the twenty-dollar bill crammed into her phone case. This would be it. She’d have to give up. Surrender this attempt to re-start her life. Crawl back to her parents.

He squeezed her bicep, hard.

Fine, she whispered. Dina shook her arm loose, and feigned taking the bag off her shoulder. He loosened his grip and lowered the knife, reaching out for the prize.

But she wrenched away from his grasp, shoved him, and ran.

Dina bolted, legs pumping. She heard him behind her, long strides closing the distance between them. But she could see the corner of busy Valencia Street. She was almost there.

Stop! He yelled, lunging at her, grabbing her long chestnut hair. Her scalp prickled and stung, but she twisted away and turned onto Valencia.

Dina darted between cars stopped at a red light. She ran up the block, into a coffee shop, and slipped behind the line of customers waiting at the counter.

She stood motionless for a few moments, gathering herself. He hadn’t followed her in. He wasn’t on the street, either.

Dina took a deep breath and slowly began walking.

—

It was a crisp September Saturday, the light casting long shadows across the quiet courtyard of the soup kitchen in the Mission District. The scent of chili pinto bean stew still wafted from the twenty-gallon pots. Lunch service had ended twenty minutes prior.

Dina again thanked the fifty-something woman, a regular volunteer, who had chatted with her while scraping leftover salad into a compost bin. The attempted theft had shaken her up, and for the first few minutes of the interview, the woman had comforted Dina.

Despite the frightening ordeal, Dina was thrilled with her progress that afternoon. She had finally snagged an interview with a reliable source for her podcast and had to pause to jot down the thoughts that she dared not speak aloud during the conversation. She sat at a picnic bench and took out her notebook.

The soup kitchen volunteer had revealed what others had not yet said. Efforts to ‘clean up San Francisco’ meant the kitchen had to reduce their services for the poor. The nearby homeless camps had been threatened, too. It all related to rumors of new construction. Displacement is shitty and newsworthy, but, Dina thought cynically, considering her earlier encounter, maybe it’ll help with the crime problem.

She glanced up as her phone rang. Shit, she thought.

Jess, I am so sorry, she said as she answered the call.

What is it this time? Jess asked in a teasing tone. Dare I guess, work?

I suck, I know, Dina responded, running a hand across her face.

Well, are you coming or not? I’m gonna go into the restaurant for a couple of hours if you can’t make it.

I’m all the way in the Mission still. You should go in if you want. I’ll make it up to you! I’ll treat you to dinner tonight.

Alright, I’ll do dinner, girl.

I’m really sorry—I know, I know those Netflix episodes won’t watch themselves!

Jess chuckled at Dina’s joke.

I’ll see you tonight, Dina promised. I’ll text later.

See ya, Jess replied and hung up.

Dina slid the phone back in her bag, shaking her head. They had planned to binge watch their favorite show together and bake cookies that afternoon. But once again, she lost track of time and stood up her best friend, too immersed in her work.

Dina was one of the first with a truly local podcast, SF Bereft, an attempt at shining a light on the deprived in the city and the changes that had left the community wanting. Thousands of subscribers had listened to her three-part-series on San Francisco street art and its disenfranchised creators. The episodes had put her in the running for the coveted Stellar Start Prize, to be announced at an award ceremony in two weeks. She had also joined a podcast publishing group, the Podcast Corps, which provided her with a desk and shared studio space.

Dina was part way through her next series, an intimate exposé of the marijuana scene, starting in the fifties to its present legalization and its impact on the community. She could sense this too would be a success, her heart swelling with pride as she finished edits on part one. Next, she needed to investigate what the soup kitchen staff had told her: someone was encouraging them to reduce services for the poor.

She was convinced that she was onto something important with her work. This podcast would go beyond entertainment and would bring valuable attention to the marginalized groups in the city.

Besides, there was no alternative to success. After what had happened with Tom, she knew she could not survive another failure.

—

Dina gathered her things and began walking. On the street, twenty-somethings strolled by, going for a late lunch in the busy Mission District. A new Mexicali Tapas place had opened on a nearby corner, and the line was already halfway around the block. Across the road, a homeless man, weathered tan skin, torn dark clothing, picked through a trash can. Dina had become inured to the sight, these parallel worlds in the city of San Francisco: the young, vibrant youth, bolstered by tech company promises, rushing to the city in droves; the homeless, some without hope, waiting on the streets. For what, Dina did not know. But in a few short weeks, it was this tension that would put her life at risk.

Chapter 2

Still thrumming with nerves from the strange afternoon, Dina headed to Merriam Schil’s apartment nearby. She needed to see a friendly face after the attempted robbery. Merriam would help her make sense of the encounter and offer some hot tea. She exuded a maternal hippie-ish vibe, wore loose flannel pants and flowy blouses, the quintessential thrift-store shopper. Besides, Merriam would have insight on the rumors from the soup kitchen and might be willing to do her next interview for the marijuana-themed podcast series.

The long-gray-haired woman was Dina’s primary source for part two, already filling hours of tape with glorified stories of her years growing pot in the parks and selling it to other free-love folk. She had promised to talk about why she had given up that life when it became too ‘commercialized.’ It would be the perfect segue into the proliferation of medical and legal shops today.

Merriam had suggested Dina visit the nearby service providers and shelters to deepen her understanding of the community. She had scores of stories about her time as part of the homeless—nomadic, she liked to say—tribe. She was still close with friends from those years, many of whom remained on the street. She had even introduced Dina to some of them. Told her they were the true life-blood of the city, willing to do what was needed to keep things running. Dina marveled that Merriam had been able to maintain those relationships, despite the tension inherent in diverging life paths, when one friend had so much, the other so little.

Dina buzzed up to Merriam’s apartment on the third floor of the Terrace Heights building. The adobe-colored Spanish trim that decorated the façade glowed in the late afternoon sun.

Dina buzzed again. When a young man exited, she slipped inside and walked up the carpeted stairs, trailing her hand along the dark wood railing. She knocked at the door. When Merriam didn’t answer, she jiggled the doorknob and found it unlocked.

Dina paused at the threshold. Merriam was the type to leave the door open when she was expecting company. So Dina pushed inside.

Merriam? Dina called as she walked into the kitchen. A mug of cold tea sat on the counter, tea bag still steeping. An overflowing bag of recycling spilled onto the floor, a stack of newspapers next to it, the apartment messy as ever.

Merriam was not in the living room. Piles of books covered the coffee table. Nor was she on the small balcony hanging off the back room, multicolor glass wind chime tinkling in the ever-present breeze.

Dina checked the bedroom. Four-poster bed, the smell of lavender and ivory soap, a pile of novels on the bedside table. Clothes on the floor. She returned to the kitchen, the guilt of trespass washing over her, hairs raising on her arm.

On the yellowed pad of paper next to the old landline phone, Dina scrawled a note and, after a pause, jotted down both her phone number and address just in case, asking Merriam to call her or stop by when she got home.

She didn’t notice the fresh scuff marks by the door jamb.

—

Later that day, Dina pushed open the heavy door to her apartment. Flicking on a light, she set her bag on the dark hardwood floor and stepped into the bedroom to change.

She lived in the top-floor unit of an old two-story Victorian right off of Valencia Street with its own private entrance off a back set of stairs. A small kitchen with a gas stove was separated from the living room by a low countertop that functioned as a workstation, mail holder, and overall junk collector. A tiny kitchen table straddled the threshold between the rooms.

The queen-sized bed barely fit in the bedroom. The bathroom, window-less and accessible only through the bedroom, was lined with black and white checkered tiles, a pedestal sink, and a claw footed tub with a makeshift showerhead. Large windows in the bedroom and living area were the best feature of the apartment.

She slid the heavy canvas curtains closed as she changed into a dark green cut-out dress, black leggings, low gray boots, and a loose sweater.

When everything with Tom happened, Dina had been unspeakably grateful to her aunt who let her take over the lease. Dina had fled the East Coast. She had desperately needed a place of her own, a fresh start.

She met Tom in her junior year of college. Excelling in journalism coursework, she was offered an internship at media giant Orion. He wasn’t her boss, not exactly. But the way they had met in the supply room made her feel like he was in charge.

Pushing the memories from her mind, her fingers danced over the dime-sized scar on her ribcage.

Dina slipped her phone and keys into the pocket of her dress and left her apartment, heading towards La Linda.

She pulled her sweater tighter around herself as she walked through the thick layer of fog that blanketed the street.

Chapter 3

Hey hey! Jess yelled as Dina slid into the booth across from her at the chic restaurant. Dina knocked into an air plant hanging from the ceiling. Laughing, she reached over the small table to give Jess a hug.

Sorry about this afternoon! How are you? What’s new?

Just excited to have a girls’ night out. Jess tucked a strand of her short, bright blonde hair behind her ears, brown eyes glistening. She wore a tight-fitting checkered button-up.

The restaurant has been busy; somebody else quit last week, so I’ve been picking up shifts like crazy. But, Jess paused before continuing, I think they’re going to give me partial ownership!

That’s amazing, Dina replied. Jess had put so much of herself into the burgeoning Norwegian restaurant in the theatre district. She hosted, managed staff, and stepped up when the owners either couldn’t or wouldn’t. To Dina, the food of mostly fish, bone marrow, and potatoes was more odd than delicious. But it was a dream to Jess.

You’re going to have to come by again sometime soon. Maybe a quiet night when it’s just me and the bartender.

Yes! We should celebrate. Dina smiled. How’s Aubrey?

He’s good, he’s good. Same old thing; he’s still working for that start-up.

Dina swallowed the lump in her throat. Aubrey was a suave, impeccably manicured hipster. Kind enough in person. But something about his demeanor reminded her of Tom.

Nice, Dina stated. Well, have you looked at the menu— Jess cut her off.

I’ve already ordered two Moscow mules. I hope you don’t mind! Thought I’d get us started. A twinkle in her eye.

When the drinks arrived, they knocked together the two copper mugs and ordered a sampling of tapas, cheeses, olives, and calamari. The two women enjoyed their dinner, falling into the same routine as always, making quips about each other.

Oh damn, Dina! You’ve got food on your chin—it’s, it’s huge! It’s taking over your face! Jess said.

Dina laughed and wiped the salsa off.

—

When dinner was done, Dina suggested going to Zeitgeist bar for another drink. It was barely nine thirty.

Mmm, replied Jess as she looked at her phone for the sixth time that night and furiously responded to another text from Aubrey. I don’t know. I feel like I should get back to him.

Can’t go more than ninety minutes without seeing your boo? Dina teased. Can’t make your own plans without consulting him?

She spoke the words before realizing how much they would sting. Tom always guilted her into short visits with her friends, texting her things like ‘I’m worried about you’ and ‘Where are you?’ before things got really bad.

Jess shrugged. Okay, I guess, she said in a flat tone, turning back to her phone.

They walked north to the bar for another drink, weaving through a crowd of drunken punk teens hanging on each other.

Sitting at a communal table on the outdoor patio, they sipped at their whiskey and cokes. Jess was looking at her phone.

Alright, alright, let’s wrap this night up, Dina said quietly, biting her lip to stop herself from saying more.

Okay, said Jess, brightening a little. I’m pretty exhausted.

Outside the bar, smokers pulled on their cigarettes. The girls hugged and parted ways.

—

It was only ten blocks to her apartment, but in the night, the trip stretched out before her. Dina walked quickly, keeping one ear on the footsteps behind her. An odd feeling in the pit of her stomach, the drinks churning inside her.

When she got to her building, whoever had been behind her had taken another path. As she walked along the side of the house to the back stairs, she was relieved to see lights on in the first floor apartment. Glad to be home, she slid through the side gate and climbed the steps to her door.

As she slid the key into the lock, she realized her door was ajar.

Chapter 4

Her heart stopped. She looked behind her, down the unfinished wood steps. There was no one.

Maybe she had forgotten to lock up, and the wind opened the door. She was always worried about forgetting; sometimes she’d make it halfway to the street and rush back to double-check that her door was locked.

She turned on the flashlight on her phone and shone it carefully into her apartment, hesitant to turn on the overhead light. Long shadows danced across the kitchen, the light partially distorted through a glass wine bottle casting a milky green shadow on the far wall.

From the threshold, she could see her leather bag was tipped over from where it once sat, its contents spilling over the floor. Had she knocked it over on her way out earlier? Her laptop still sat on the small table.

Shaken, she backed out of the apartment. Could someone have been in—or be in—her home? It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

Dina hurried down the steps, feeling like a child running upstairs after shutting off the lights in the basement behind